Sometimes I feel like I'm trapped in a Philip K. Dick book.
Characteristically, I'm solely aware that it's all fiction. There's the dilemma of warning the other characters: On one hand, to do so is to get labeled as the crazy, unstable personality; on the other, I'm the dark-haired and dark-eyed but fair-skinned female, so in PKD lore, that automatically and predictably makes me the catalyst (and prone to sunburn). At some point, I'm going to meet the main character. At first, the encounter will seem like simple coincidence, but in the grand scheme of reality it will be much deeper. He will have plenty of things wrong with him and on the whole has no business being in charge of an entire story. Somehow, we'll save the world by the end of the book -- mostly by his doing, although I'll have a key moment in there somewhere.
Until that point, however, I'll creep ever-closer to the edges of the pages. Each time I do, a shock will be issued, and I'll be thrown back. I'll catch my breath, pull myself back up, and try again. And again. And again. Someday, I'll get word out -- a message in a bottle -- that I'm real, that I'm trapped, and that I need help.
Sometimes, to think of my existence in this way instead of what it actually is, seems more comforting, or at the very least, makes more sense. I came home from work on Friday in a state of seizure and haven't been right since. For the most part, I can't really remember what has gone on for the past few days, or that they even existed in the first place. There have been moments of clarity and normalcy, sure. But mostly they bled into states in which I was dimly aware of my own being, staring out from behind a sense of sand and marbled glass, mouth slack and open, eyes straight and staring, limbs twitching, repeating "I'm fine." in a voice garbled by static emanating from a creature that was several fathoms deep.
My legs hurt, and I feel like a part of my brain never switched back on. Maybe that's why I'm writing something now -- to see if I still can. To see if words still work, to see if rhythm still works, all of it. It's taken me a very long time to type this out. Commas keep showing up in the middle of words and my hands are shaking. But what I want to say is still there, so I'm not too worried. And normally, I wouldn't even be worried. I've just never had it last this long before.
I don't want to go to the hospital because they can't do anything for me there. Really, they can't. It's a pointless endeavor. I've been to the ER several times for my epilepsy, and nothing really happens. I'm better off at home.
If I can't even write about it, then I've got nothing.