A Most Terrifying Morning
During the extended Shadowrun session on Friday night, I began shivering. It was odd, since I wasn't particularly cold and hadn't started to feel bad. I was still shivering on the rather late drive home, and took some Ibuprofen before I went to sleep for good measure. Turns out my guess was dead-on, but what happened to me next was not something I expected.
As I said, it was late when I got to bed, so I was surprised when I woke up a mere two hours later when the morning was still grey. As awareness dawned, I realized that something else was wrong, but it was in my mind. Its not the first time illness has wreaked havoc with my already-unstable mental scales, but this was something new and dreadful.
The best analogy of what I felt is if you imagine yourself in the Matrix and then imagine that you are aware of it being the Matrix. You are in a completely believable, sensible world, but you know beyond a doubt that its not real. This is the feeling that bombarded me. It wasn't a passing thought, or a weird sensation, it was an alien, absolute certainty. And I didn't want it. It was like something was forcing this sense of things on me, and I was too weak to resist. I buried my head in pillows. Then my hands. I paced. I called to God for help. The terror I felt was something I hadn't experienced since I was in middle school. Not being able to trust your own mind is, perhaps, my greatest fear. And now, new ones arose in me. If I stayed like this, I couldn't be sure that I would allow myself to live out a normal life. Then, I began to suspect that my OCD was developing into something much worse. Something like Capras Syndrome, where a person believes everyone they know has been replaced by duplicates (and which I researched for a Deliria character).
So I did the only thing I could. I took more of the medicine I had plus some sleeping pills, put some Celtic music on headphones, and tried to go back to sleep. I hoped it was just illness and the strain of fatigue that was affecting my faculties. Again, I guessed right. I awoke without the terrible illusion, but still sick. The rest of Saturday was spent lethargic and in a quite substantial funk. One pleasant result of the mornings assault was the new detachment I felt from the world, like I was given a higher perspective on my life. It was nice.
Its strange, but part of me actually likes being moderately sick. Not Flu sick, but just sick enough that lying down with a blanket and wet washcloth on your forehead can make you feel oh so good. Note to Karma: I am not asking to get sick again. Just so we're clear.
At any rate, I was fully over it this morning. I went back to Radius Church, as I've come to think they might be a good choice for me, DCF heritage and all. I managed to get myself to talk to more people, and even got invited out to lunch with a group followed by watching the Masters with some of the fellows. One of the guys was even from Denmark. What's more, I got a business card from one of the guys who ran his own business and was interested in copywriting. Score!
Still, the whole time we were watching, I was filled with an unnatural but not uncommon anxiety. When I got back home, I took an extra anxiety pill. When that didn't help much, I took an extra pill for OCD. (Extra in relation to my own personally-prescribed dosage). Then, when that still didn't take my edge off, I took a Xanax, which is more powerful and immediate anxiety relief, but of shorter duration (and really good stuff, lemme tell ya).
I know, I know. Its dangerous to rely on pills so much. But sometimes positive thinking and bombarding oneself with distractions only does so much. I got quite fed up with it, actually. I screamed out to God (the house was empty), asking why I was given this burden and what He wanted from me. I don't know if it was part of an answer, but after my shouting, I looked to my side where sat "A Sense of the World." Its the book I borrowed from Jeromie and Liz that chronicles the life of James Holman, a British sailor in the 19th century who was inexplicably struck blind at a young age and became, as the subtitle says, "history's greatest traveler." It made me smile. Still, I hesitate to say things like, "And God told me...". After all, how can I be sure that it's not just my own mind prompting me with words that I need and want to hear? Would that not be idolatry?
Anyway, that's my weekend drama. It warranted a post, even if the terror of that Saturday morning is thankfully fading. On a more obscure note, there was an announcer in the Masters whom I thought to be Scottish (though after a while I couldn't say for sure if he wasn't Irish, instead). Every time I heard him speak, I thought of how it would sound if said by a Scottish woman, and it sent shivers down my spine. I have GOT to visit that country one day soon. And Ireland, too, for good measure.
Oh, and check out Jeromie's Blog for the rather impressive stop-animation movie he made with Liz.
Twlight out.
As I said, it was late when I got to bed, so I was surprised when I woke up a mere two hours later when the morning was still grey. As awareness dawned, I realized that something else was wrong, but it was in my mind. Its not the first time illness has wreaked havoc with my already-unstable mental scales, but this was something new and dreadful.
The best analogy of what I felt is if you imagine yourself in the Matrix and then imagine that you are aware of it being the Matrix. You are in a completely believable, sensible world, but you know beyond a doubt that its not real. This is the feeling that bombarded me. It wasn't a passing thought, or a weird sensation, it was an alien, absolute certainty. And I didn't want it. It was like something was forcing this sense of things on me, and I was too weak to resist. I buried my head in pillows. Then my hands. I paced. I called to God for help. The terror I felt was something I hadn't experienced since I was in middle school. Not being able to trust your own mind is, perhaps, my greatest fear. And now, new ones arose in me. If I stayed like this, I couldn't be sure that I would allow myself to live out a normal life. Then, I began to suspect that my OCD was developing into something much worse. Something like Capras Syndrome, where a person believes everyone they know has been replaced by duplicates (and which I researched for a Deliria character).
So I did the only thing I could. I took more of the medicine I had plus some sleeping pills, put some Celtic music on headphones, and tried to go back to sleep. I hoped it was just illness and the strain of fatigue that was affecting my faculties. Again, I guessed right. I awoke without the terrible illusion, but still sick. The rest of Saturday was spent lethargic and in a quite substantial funk. One pleasant result of the mornings assault was the new detachment I felt from the world, like I was given a higher perspective on my life. It was nice.
Its strange, but part of me actually likes being moderately sick. Not Flu sick, but just sick enough that lying down with a blanket and wet washcloth on your forehead can make you feel oh so good. Note to Karma: I am not asking to get sick again. Just so we're clear.
At any rate, I was fully over it this morning. I went back to Radius Church, as I've come to think they might be a good choice for me, DCF heritage and all. I managed to get myself to talk to more people, and even got invited out to lunch with a group followed by watching the Masters with some of the fellows. One of the guys was even from Denmark. What's more, I got a business card from one of the guys who ran his own business and was interested in copywriting. Score!
Still, the whole time we were watching, I was filled with an unnatural but not uncommon anxiety. When I got back home, I took an extra anxiety pill. When that didn't help much, I took an extra pill for OCD. (Extra in relation to my own personally-prescribed dosage). Then, when that still didn't take my edge off, I took a Xanax, which is more powerful and immediate anxiety relief, but of shorter duration (and really good stuff, lemme tell ya).
I know, I know. Its dangerous to rely on pills so much. But sometimes positive thinking and bombarding oneself with distractions only does so much. I got quite fed up with it, actually. I screamed out to God (the house was empty), asking why I was given this burden and what He wanted from me. I don't know if it was part of an answer, but after my shouting, I looked to my side where sat "A Sense of the World." Its the book I borrowed from Jeromie and Liz that chronicles the life of James Holman, a British sailor in the 19th century who was inexplicably struck blind at a young age and became, as the subtitle says, "history's greatest traveler." It made me smile. Still, I hesitate to say things like, "And God told me...". After all, how can I be sure that it's not just my own mind prompting me with words that I need and want to hear? Would that not be idolatry?
Anyway, that's my weekend drama. It warranted a post, even if the terror of that Saturday morning is thankfully fading. On a more obscure note, there was an announcer in the Masters whom I thought to be Scottish (though after a while I couldn't say for sure if he wasn't Irish, instead). Every time I heard him speak, I thought of how it would sound if said by a Scottish woman, and it sent shivers down my spine. I have GOT to visit that country one day soon. And Ireland, too, for good measure.
Oh, and check out Jeromie's Blog for the rather impressive stop-animation movie he made with Liz.
Twlight out.
posted by Aisyrn | 9:53 PM
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