I scribble a note on the back of my hand, then jam the felt-tipped pen into my pocket next to my cell phone. I toss my tiny laptop into my worn, olive drab army surplus bag and shrug it onto my shoulder. I lean against the wall when I get into the hallway, the fog descending as my Early World History professor’s voice fades. I shake my head, rub my temples.

I can’t be alone tonight.

The fog pervades my every thought, making it hard for me to think. Does that make me crazy? I struggle to do my homework, working upstream just to read and take notes. If one day blurs into the next, why bother sleeping? My daily medications, vitamins, they all fall into the background in my world where days don’t exist.

I sit in my empty bathtub, fully clothed, with my laptop on a low table next to me while I cry. I must be crazy, it’s the only explanation. I remember then, people who are insane don’t realize it. I must be ok. I grow even more confused.

If I think I’m ok, does that make me crazy? My fog thickens.