I didn't sit down to write a play.
I certainly didn't sit down to write a solo-play.
And I double-certainly didn't sit down to write a solo-playthat I, myself, would perform.
I sat down to write... something. I didn'tknow what, exactly.
My friend, Helen, had said a few times that she thought Ihad some good stories and she encouraged me to write some of them down.(Sometimes I wondered... Did she really think that? Or was she tired of mebusting into her office with brain-to-mouthstream-of-consciousness tirades about zombie parasites and ChristianClown Camp? Was this a brilliant executive leadership tactic to get me outof her office? 'Fascinating, Steven. Why don't you go write that down?' She hadwork to do after all.")
But!!! I had been a semi-regular on a Denver-and-SanDiego-based-"Moth"-inspired storytelling podcast called "TheNarrators." A few of my stories had even been selected to be featured ontheir national platforms. So, I thought, "Yeah, okay! Helen is prettysmart. If she DOES think I have something interesting to say, maybe Ido."
So after megalomaniacal theater leader, Helen R. Murray satme down in her backyard - while shewrote some play that was a compelling exploration of humanity, learning, andselflessness, I wrote about... being a crazy drunk...then having a seismicmental break during the COVID.
Here's the thing... I wanna puke because... honestly? Ifigured that whatever I was writing... a gay drunk having a mental breakdownduring the COVID... it would be an irrelevant period piece six yearslater.
Instead...? Minus the germ, it feels like"Unhinged" could have been written this week.
Six years ago there were demonstrations for social justicein the streets. Distrust of medicine and science. Communities being brokenapart by politics. General socio-emotional chaos.
Today... there are demonstrations for social justice in thestreets. Distrust of medicine and science. (There are active measles cases inmy sleepy little suburban town.) I live in a community broken apart bypolitics. And before writing this brain dump, I was having an emergency meetingwith my therapist about the socio-emotional chaos, generally affecting me. Andalso affecting, seemingly, everyone.
I want to puke because... in six years... it feels like notmuch has changed for the better. In fact it might be worse.
We are ...coping? At best, we are coping?
How can that be???
And yet, we are doing all of that, together. Like it ornot... we're in this together.
Here's something -- I'm treated mostly throughDialectical Behavior Therapy. It's a form of therapy that features as oneof its core skill modules understanding, naming, and changing unhelpfulthoughts / emotions.
True story: Two days ago, I got hit by a car.
My body.
Got hit.
By a car.
BUT!!! I wasn't seriously injured. In fact, I wasn't injured(physically) at all! Emotionally / psychologically... I experienced a moment ofdepersonalization and anxiety. But I was physically fine.
I couldn't stop thinking, though... "A person hit mewith her car. And didn't even acknowledge it. I'm invisible. I don't matter.And so on and so forth.
I started to spiral. "I wish she would have hit meharder and killed me." And then... without being prompted by my therapistto do so... I thought, "These are unhelpful thoughts / emotions. I willnow change them."
And I shifted the thought - "I just got hit by acar" to - "I just got love-tapped by God."
It was sort of tongue-in-cheeky. Sort of spiritually snarky.But also sort of authentic.
I thought, "Boy that could have been a lot worse.Nothing bad really happened to me. It's like God reached down. Tapped me withthis lady's Subaru. And said 'Things could be worse. Right now. Focus on yourblessings. Like the fact that this car didn't just crush you like a stinkbug.Go forth and think positive, my Fruity Son.'"
Why am I telling you this?
Because therapy is working for me. Because I got hit bya car two days ago and successfully stopped an emotional spiral that would havebeen 1000% justified.
Because the skills I'm learning are starting to becomesecond nature. Finally.
Because in Sept. of 2025, the World Health Organizationreported that more than 1 billion-with-a-B people are now living with mentalhealth conditions. There have been crisis level increases in mental health careproviders, as people all over the world... so yes, even in Florida... navigatethe reality that we are all going a little bit crazy. (Some more thanothers.) And if you're one of those people, you are not alone. You are part ofa community of more than 1 billion people.
And still there is stigma attached to seeking help.
I want to puke because the world is making us crazy. And atthe same time, making us ashamed to seek help for being crazy. (Also... Iacknowledge that some people are uncomfortable with the word "crazy."But I can say that word... "crazy..." because I, myself, am kindof crazy.)
I want to puke because by sharing my story, I do so with anauthentic hope that someone might hear something that resonates forthem... makes them feel seen... makes them feel not alone... makes them feellike, "If that whack job up there in the clown nose can be okay, maybethere's hope for me, too!"
But what if that doesn't happen? What if Iget up there and blather on and make the stigma worse? What if, as a gay, Iturn off the Christian attendees who might be struggling? What if, as aChristian, I turn off the gay attendees who might be struggling? What if Ican't help?
When 1 billion people need help... what if I can'thelp?
That makes me want to puke.
So I guess I need to deep dive into my Dialectical BehaviorToolbox. And change that thinking before I get to Florida in November.Because... What if I can help? What if people cancome listen to my unhinged stories? And laugh. (You're allowed to laugh. You'reencouraged to laugh. Please laugh.) And feel... hope?
I don't know.
But I'm gonna do my best.