by Jane Johansen

Created on: January 27, 2009

My search for sanity is an activity I reserve for those days I feel I'm beginning to unravel like I'm a poorly knitted scarf and someone's dropped a stitch in my pattern. For me, signs of unravelling are forgetting people's names; entering a room for a set purpose only to forget what it is I'm looking for; pouring coffee on my cereal or dusting my dinner with the cat's liver sprinkles. By far the most noteworthy sign my sanity has gone south is when I start muddling words when I talk. Such as "Can I have a penis of cake please". I do this in public. A lot. With admirable confidence.

One evening, totally sanity-less, and meeting our neighbours for the first time, I entered their house saying "Hi, shall I take off my pants?". What I meant to ask was, did they want me to take off my shoes. Luckily, our new neighbour had a sense of humour and simply replied "this should be a good night!". A sense of humour should never come between neighbours. Only fences should create boundaries. Humour, incidentally, is the second thing that elopes with my sanity.

While 'sanity and humour' are having a fling in some mysterious destination, I feel unprotected. Humour is like armour to me. Without it, it seems that every conversation I have is loaded with words that feel like arrows piercing my buttocks. Then I begin to wonder if this wounded feeling is a sign of early paranoia. That's when I know I'd better find 'sanity and humour' fast before they go 'Thelma and Louise' on me and drive all of us off a cliff.

This is when the true search for my sanity begins. First of all I start with self affirmation. I do this on the train ride home. It's a somewhat home-made system, but it's still simple and effective. This is what I do : I look at fellow passengers and think of why I'm more fortunate than they are. I know, I know. I'm terrible! But remember, at this stage both 'sanity and humour' have left the building. So, I begin to make a mental list. The items stack up easily and quickly like I'm writing a grocery list to fill an empty cupboard. If you were a fly clinging to the wall of my one brain cell you would over hear this kind of thing: girl next to me REALLY should bleach her upper lip; at least my left breast is the same size as the right; quickly followed by - at least I have breasts. You get the picture. If I tire of this I start creating nick names for my un-suspecting travellers. Again a catalogue of titles gather effortlessly in my mind. Not aloud. (That would be unkind). Names

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