In the past week, my grandmother died, a friend of mine tried to commit suicide, I haven’t been sleeping, and eating is something forced upon me by my lovely husband. My neighbors already have Christmas decorations up, and radio stations are playing “Silver Bells” seemingly on repeat. I haven’t … no, I can’t write fiction. I’ve tried. I’m constantly on the verge of complete panic, and I’m beyond crying, the necessary water and salt expunged each night during my cold sweats. What does this mean?

I’m obviously going quite mad.

Madness is when even watching Doctor Who doesn’t make me happy. Madness is watching The IT Crowd on repeat. Madness is caring about nothing, not my work, not my housecleaning, not makeup or clean clothes. Madness is the inability to write and anger at books as a whole because books … I don’t even know! Books are even making me mad. MAD-NESS.

So what do we do, folks, what do we do?

Step 1: Admit you have a problem.
Step 2: Turn off the TV.
Step 3: Brush your teeth.
Step 4: That’s as far as I’ve gotten.

I feel like there are tiny gremlins in my stomach. They’re clawing to get out. I can see them: little green critters with fangs and wings who will eventually break free and go flitting about my house, their flapping wings casting blood spatter all over our rental property and everyone knows: blood is impossible to get out!

My dogs seem to sense something, because whenever I sit down, they sit on top of me, and my dogs each weigh about sixty pounds. They curl into little balls on my lap and lick my face, perhaps using doggie powers to exorcise the madness? They’re too close, suffocating if they weren’t so cute.

Jake, poor Jake, just holds me and makes sure I eat and tells me he loves me, he loves me, he loves me. I imagine, to him, my state of bonkers looks sort of like that scene in Pulp Fiction (“You shot Marvin in the face!”) which leaves my poor husband wondering how he’s going to get all the brain matter out of the upholstery.

Crazy. Looped. Nutso. Think Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

If I look closely at the past week, I realize I have a pass. I can understand that a little madness is totally acceptable, especially since I don’t think I’ve even grieved the loss of my grandmother yet, so busy am I trying to keep my brain inside my skull. Grieving will come, when I’m back home, back in Ohio for the funeral in December. Until then, I’ve got to find a way to keep myself together and keep my jobs, because I LOVE MY WORK so why the hell have I been sucking so badly?

Says the Cheshire Cat: “We’re all mad here.” I should get a sign that says that to hang on my front door, some kind of warning for the wayward traveler like words on old sea maps: “There be monsters.”

Fact is I’m losing my damn mind (and/or it was lost a long time ago, depending on who you ask). This is the worst time of year to do so, with Thanksgiving and then the commercial explosion of Christmas. Even sane people go crazy this time of year. You gotta start December with your shit together! So what do we do, folks? WHAT DO WE DO?

Step 1: Admit you have a problem.
Step 2: Turn off the TV.
Step 3: Brush your teeth.
Step 4: Step out of the woods and desperately try to retrace your steps back to the path your life was on before this week so you don’t become the unwashed, stinky girl on the corner screaming about how the end is near while waving rubber chickens.