“I’m scared of going crazy,” she said.
I try to ignore her while I carefully take a bite out of my sandwich. I pretend that my desperate need for it to be perfect doesn’t show my own fears of the same thing. I try to pretend that the mere sliding of the tomato off the bread isn’t causing me me inner turmoil. But it is.
“You’re not going crazy. You will though,” I say. “You know, if you keep thinking like that.”
I’m a con artist. I don’t believe what I say. There goes a piece of lettuce. Dear God, I’m gonna lose it.
“My mother is crazy. Your mother is crazy. This shit gets passed down. We’re kind of doomed.”
“But they don’t know they’re crazy, so don’t worry,” I say. “When you get there you’ll be too crazy to think about it.”
I laugh. I want to believe what I say. But who am I kidding. I’m slowly going crazy every day. A desperate need for perfection where I know there can never be any. Pulling my hair back every morning and watching slowly as the curls pop up. Slowly falling apart with each one. I act like its OK because it’s not what I think is full out crazy. I’m not casually screaming out to people who don’t exist. I’m not repeating everything in patterns of threes. No. I’m just harmlessly falling apart over the things I can’t control. That’s just life right.