high

I am so high.

Sometimes I take too many pills and my heart races and I pray that none of my vital organs explode. My thoughts race and it's all I can do not to rip off every stitch of clothing and start reciting lines from Cape Fear.

Labels are a powerful thing. When I was younger, my parents swore I was manic-depressive. But I've wrongly learned over the years that, as long as "it" doesn't have a name, it can't hurt you. It's perfectly okay to be a bulemic rapid-cycling manic depressive just as long as nobody calls you that to your face.

My therapist in high school taught me that it was okay to name whatever I was feeling. Of course, I named it "Eric", which solved absolutely nothing. She was fine with it, though. As long as my "Eric" was acting up, things were fine. If my eating disorder was raging, that meant more paperwork for her. I don't blame her. I've misdiagnosed many a client on account of a fast-approaching lunch break. When backed against a wall, my mother would admit that I was "sick".

Not looking for pity or advice, mind. I just feel the need to confess. See, when I take the pills, I feel smart, productive, beautiful and radiant. I frequent the gym, am a stellar employee. On the outside and on paper, I'm incredible. It's my inside that's rotten. Thank God I've got great friends and husband to make my life here on Earth bearable until the inevitable moment when my soul is sent straight to hell.