Seriously, I'm fine. Like, 98% sure. Maybe 94%.

I'm crazy. No, I'm not.

I am worried, at least, that I might. What if undiagnosed mental illness runs in my family? Maybe it's too late! Maybe I'm just being paranoid. Maybe I'm becoming paranoid schizophrenic! Probably not. But I certainly worry a lot. If you can't tell.

I was already worried about going insane before my wife died. I figured I was always the quiet one they were saying to watch out for. The fact that I still think I can probably say that I'm most likely not insane, is, well, a miracle. There are days, though, that try my sanity. Basically, I feel like I'm on borrowed time. When I look back at all the stuff I've been through, I think I'm overdue for a little lunacy.

Maybe constantly worrying that I'm going crazy is helping me stay sane. Maybe constantly worrying that I'm going crazy is making it worse. I wish I knew how people who were sure of themselves, you know, did that. It's like walking up stairs with no handrails: I know how to use my feet, and to operate stairs. Is it really any more dangerous? Maybe if there'd never been a handrail at all, I'd be more certain of my steps. OK, I've completely lost what this metaphor is getting at. I hate falling down stairs, I guess. And I assume I'll hate being crazy. Although, getting tossed in the loony bin might simplify some other aspects of my life...

OK, let's not start that kind of talk now. If I do lose my grip, please tell everyone I went "batty." I think that's my favorite term for going wacky-nutso-cuckoo.