Broken Record

Defining an individual as "crazy" in some ways depends on whether said person is operating in a way that is harmful to him or herself while being contrary to a society's accepted standards of normalcy and compliance.  For the 1947 radio play The Meadow, Ray Bradbury wrote:  "Insanity is relative.  It depends on who has who locked in what cage."  There are times when I question whether my disordered, obsessive-compulsive instincts and patterns are the "right" path to follow, leaving others to operate in the wrong.  To be deranged is to be strange, aberrant --a deviant from the consensus view.  I have followed atypical habits for years without feeling tremendously compromised, as my heart always felt robust and I never lacked the energy for exercise, even when perilously thin.  I trusted my body to rebound every time I came close to "bottoming-out."  But this year has been different.  I know I am crazy now because my OCD rituals are barring me from making progress as a participant of human life and continuing history.  These practices are ridiculous; most are based on walking to different "place markers" around the neighborhood in routines veiled as "errands" (traveling on foot to expend energy with the excuse of fulfilling a chore).  They prevent me from allotting the necessary time to make a living, to contribute something meaningful to the world.  (I yearn to create art, but, ridiculously, it does not fit into my schedule.)  What's more, endlessly stressing myself over the layers and levels of commands in my head, and coordinating them to physical movement, has left my physique wiry and ravaged, with emerging signs of disrepair.  The undeniable fact that my system has seen recent signs of collapse is proof enough that the aforementioned activities are indeed unhealthy, unbalanced, extreme, unwise, lunatic.  An oft-repeated quote employed by Narcotic Anonymous says that psychotic actions are when we repeat the same mistakes but expect different results.  

Today I made sure to curb the usual regimen I follow, resisting the daily operations that send me zigzagging around the town's asphalt banks and corridors.  My usual exercise goals have been either amended or cut completely.  I have eaten the maximum that I ever allow during the day; now, with the evening rapidly unfolding, I might challenge myself to drink a weight gain supplement with dinner (having had one already with lunch).  This would be a major move away from my identical nightly routine; I have never committed to a second Orgain, Boost, or Ensure bottle by my own volition.  (I should note that I sometimes consume an equally high caloric value when slipping into blind eleventh-hour "binges", which, unlike a smooth liquid shake, leave my stomach radically swollen, with lingering nausea overriding my body's designs for future meals.)  If my life has been a scratched record album stuck playing the same line of melody, caught within the frustrating hiccup of a glitch in the vinyl, this might be what is needed to release the needle to a new groove.