Hello, do you experience paranoia? The difference between imagining something and believing it, can be like the difference between my navy skirt and black skirt. I stand in the bedroom staring at the clothing trying to differentiate, clueless. I consider asking Ming, then decide it’s not that important, and wear it.
Yes, I can imagine agents are after me. It’s not a far stretch, to believe it. I can pop back and forth over the border between “imagine” and “believe.” I can believe it so hard, I feel like I’m going to pass our with fear. It hasn’t been agents in a long time–that’s just an example.
Paranoia is something most people experience, from time to time. That’s my guess. But I’ve had more than my fair share. I don’t find it funny–it can be life-rending. A real episode lasts around two weeks, for me. When I feel it starting, there are things I can try, to fend it off. But sometimes it just happens.
It used to happen once a year or so. Then it started happening way more often, and now it settled down again.
Someone who knows a lot about mental health and medication withdrawal told me she thinks it’s about immune systems. When our immune systems are not doing well, the body gets scared, and the fear comes out intensely as paranoia. Not sure her theory is correct, but at the very least, it could be helpful as a metaphor.
Paranoia is one of the hardest things to talk about. I normally enjoy telling the truth, and I love myself unconditionally. I can talk about being fat, queer, disabled, autistic. Trauma, abuse, domestic violence, medical harm. But to talk about my paranoia, I’m still filled with shame.
My ancestors handed me gifts and tasks. Telling the truth and doing it well is a thing I’m here on earth to do. But talking about paranoia is painful.
Paranoia is one of the things I have trouble being there for myself about. Over the years, I’ve learned to hold myself, like I’m my own baby. But paranoia is one of the few things that makes me want to abandon myself.
Too much–too crazy. Leave that baby on the church steps and hope someone picks her up and loves her in a way I can’t. Put her in a bullrushes basket and launch her on a river.
Well, I find myself and become my own wet nurse. Bullrushes always make me think of bulldykes. I have never tried being a bulldyke, and reserve that identity as a possible dessert identity.