Carnival Glosolalia

I don’t have the best reputation with working. Or that's to say, it wasn't always bad. I’ve never had a capital J “job” but what work I have done has been tough. Especially with my ever so unstable mental health. Anxiety can make work impossible, or, at least, a million times worse.

You may have heard of dog shows, but its opposite exists as well; cat shows. During that show, cat owners bring their purebred cats to be judged along side other cats of the same breed. There are usually ten “rings” with ten cages where all the cats are rotated out to be judged. When a cat leaves a cage, a steward cleans it, and that's what I did.

Rewind to about September of last year, unsuspecting me was going to a cat show with my family. I thought it was going to be just another cat show; be bored and wash cages for seven hours each day and get fifty bucks. I was listening to a new song called “Star of the Show” on repeat. I was enjoying the circus-y atmosphere of it as we arrived at the show.

Everything was fine at first, but then I got sleepy. As I was nodding off there was a thought that kept lapping at my feet, I can't let anyone down. If I didn't get to the cage the clerk (the person who writes down and organize the judges results) would have to clean it. That's bad. It's bad it echoed, its bad its bad I can't let that happen it's bad. The thought that was lapping at my feet was now drowning me and I went into a delusional overdrive. Anxiety tends to do that.

Suddenly I was an acrobat in a circus who couldn’t disappoint the audience. I kept mouthing words that weren't even words but speaking in tongues. A carnival glossolalia. Disjointed phrases about popcorn and lion tamers. My body was buzzing, my head was waterlogged, and my eyes were darting. All to appease some imagined audience.

I somehow managed to get myself to the bathroom and attempt to calm down. I still couldn't shake the delusion. It was stuck to me like some insanity inducing love bug. I knew what was wrong, and I knew I needed to fix it, but my mind remained on the tightrope. I kept repeating over and over that I needed to get out of the circus. I tried breathing exercises. In… and then out, in… and then out. In with the air, out with the circus. In with the oxygen, out with the delusion.

Still buzzing but a bit more stable, I made my way to the show manager and said I needed to stop stewarding. She understood. I made my way back to where my parents were stationed and cried. I let them down. I shoved work onto other that should have been done my me. But at least I was out of the circus.

So, now you’ve had a glimpse into my reality. I haven’t stewarded since for fear of a similar episode. I hope any capital J “job” I eventually get won't be as bad. It might be impossible, or at least a million times worse, but I hope it's neither.