On a daily basis, or at least weekly, I’m diagnosing myself with some type of mental or physical disorder. Most of the time — okay, all the time, the disorder is in my head, but it’s really hard for someone to convince me that my issues are fictional.
Growing up, I remember my sister always calling me a hypochondriac. I didn’t know what it meant, or whether to be insulted or proud — and frankly it fell in line with her constant name calling regiment. Phrases like, “you’re such an actress, or you’re definitely gonna win an academy award” always grazed past my eardrums in the midst of an argument with my sister. So I guess though I didn’t really understand the real meaning as a youngin, as I grew older, I sort of fell into the role…and to me that was a compliment.
Now I hate to admit the reality, but I can be very dramatic. Just the other day, Bae called me by my government name, as he demanded that I stop being overly dramatic. I laughed as his words rang loudly, “Jahzara, stop being a drama queen.”
I’m sure behind closed doors, my family has a rating scale of how to determine if my issues can be categorized as Critical, Serious, or Mild. Suspecting this has yet to deter me from notifying them of my fluctuating issues. My mood can swing in between atmospheres like unpredictable weather, and even if the sun is shining bright, my state of being may be joyous one minute, and then sad the next.
Lately, my self diagnosis has been consistent with a mild depression that is often cured with a light cocktail or a nice chilled wine. Many things can trigger the state of emotions. In the past, the triggers used to be unstable weight, depleting finances, or my self diagnosed cupcake addiction. The onset of intermittent sadness and frustration would spiral from a conversation about money, the commute to the mandatory full-time job, or the distant love affair with a dream of self employment. Just recently, my unstable emotions were triggered by the recent unscheduled departure of my full time job, which has now sparked an awakening in my soul that is driven to write and produce — and of course my self prescribed antidepressant cocktails of vodka and cranberry or rum and coke mixtures get me through the days.
Even though my highs and lows are sustained by my faith, and I joke about my mental state of chaos, I still have moments when quick glances in the mirror and reflections of raggedy eyebrows, overgrown roots in my braids, or the rotation of the same jeans and t-shirts; can spark my dramatic meltdown. I’m human and experience self loathing episodes, especially after my family yells at me for being overly dramatic, but I’ve mastered the art of prescribing my own medication for my crazy, and then I write about it. But when the cocktails become a deterrent, I will whine for a while about how my writing is slurred like my speech — and then snap out of my fictional disorder just in time to bounce back onto a path of fictional healing. I’m smart enough to wise up before my family forces me into realistic treatment for my delusional drama.