In which I try to find what has been troubling me lately

I don't know what I'm going to write about so I'll just sort of... let go and write.

I haven't been able to pay attention recently. Like more so than I'm known for. Like I don't know what it is but something has taken up a lot of space in my brain and I can't figure out what it is. I've been extra spacey, especially at work. I've misread like three names a day and that NEVER happens to me. Respondents usually like me because I always say names correctly but I've been saying Mike instead of Mark, Bill instead of Will... and while they are close to the original name the point is that this never used to happen to me.
I'm actually feeling a bit unsafe because my driving tonight was really outrageously dangerous and not on purpose. I just wasn't noticing the things I should be. I want to figure out what is going on and get it to stop.
I feel like I'm paralyzed and unable to do anything productive and it's making me even more distracted by being stressed over being so distracted. I hate the fact that my attention span never stays no matter how much I want it to. I don't like the fact that I space out so much all the time (and now I'm talking about my normal space cadetting and not my superspacing that I've taken to recently).

I want to be able to sit in a room with my friend and not have my mind wander while they're talking. I hate that it takes so much energy for me to concentrate on anything at all. I... I want to be able to focus. I think I know why it's going on but I still just wish it would stop.

I mean... yeah, I do have this huge fear of being insane because it's possible and that terrifies me. I don't want my capability to make good judgement calls to be impaired. I don't want to not have the ability to make the right choice when it comes down to it and I know I've been stressing more and more recently that there is a possibility that I might be schizophrenic, however remote it may be.
It's just... I know the symptoms and I know the signs and I know that I'm about that age when it makes its first showing but at the same time I am sort of terrified that it will happen. I've become so hyper aware of the symptoms of it that I sit there and worry every day what if this means it's going to happen what if that means it? But at the same time I'm going: Tesk, don't be daft. You don't have it. You're fine; safe. Everything will be all right. But I can't stop being afraid.

I am consumed by a fear of losing my mind. But at the same time I am terrified of finding out there is something wrong with me and I can't conquer this fear. I am too afraid of finding out I am, in fact, crazy, than I want relief in a clear bill of mental health that a therapist could give.

At the end of the day the only thing that is of any comfort is the fact that I am completely terrified of being insane and that I can say to myself: Self, you're over-reacting. There is nothing wrong with your brain.

Because that scares me. I could live with arthritis, asthma, anemia, diabetes, or one of the other multitudes of illnesses that are possible but I am paralyzed by a fear of something being wrong with my brain. My body is my vehicle but the brain is who I am and I don't want to lose who I am. Especially not to my brain. I don't want to be the thing that destroys me.

Sharing Is Daring.

SOmetimes my biggest fear isn't sharable because that is what the fear is about. Not that I can't share something but that the burden of knowing my fears or bad memories or nightmares is too much for the person I entrust them to. I know it's ridiculous and I know it's stupid but I can't help it. I don't mind sharing things when people ask questions. I don't mind sharing the facts of my life with people but it's the things that make me press my lips together against my front teeth, it's the things that ball up tight and acidic in the middle of my spine, it's the things that make me feel breathless and empty that I don't like to share.

I don't mind telling people that my mother was a prostitute. I don't mind telling that my father has been hooked on speed and other various drugs my entire life. I don't like sharing my fear of becoming an addict. I don't like sharing what my mother being a prostitute makes me feel deep in the back of my head where sometimes a pressure builds and is painful to even think about. I don't like sharing these things because it means that the person I tell them to now has to hold them up to and they're so heavy and thick that it just seems like too much to ask someone.

I don't think I'll ever get a psychiatrist. Not because I'm uncomfortable with the thought of talking to one but because I don't want them to make my experiences into excuses. Because they're just not. My dysfunction is something I own. My weirdness, my quirks, and eccentricities make up who I am. They are part of me just as much as my experiences are and I don't want someone going: Oh well, you know, she was molested as a child and that's why she's obsessed with sex. Because it's just not fucking good enough to think that. I was molested as a kid. I do have a preoccupation with sex. The two may be linked but that doesn't mean I have an event to blame, an excuse for how I act. I act the way I do because I so choose. The end.

Sure, I could blame my parents, blame my siblings, blame my relatives for how I act but that makes my actions not my own and I just won't fucking hear that. Because my actions are my own and I won't let anyone else have them. If I blame something then it just means that that part of me is no longer mine and that is unacceptable.