Big Decisions

The inside of my head

I'll be buggered if I've noticed something oddball about my recovery from a breakdown: I haven't a bloody clue whether my judgement is sound. In fact, my ability to judge situations is now such a moveable feast that I'm about as bewildered as Katie Price after marrying a Muslim.
Now, I'm known for being loudly opinionated. And I continued to display this delightful quality throughout my mental decline and subsequent floundering. Problem is that during this stage of derangement my judgement of various situations didn't so much change as violently mutate. I'd utter stuff which, to me, sounded like distilled common sense while, to the rest of the listening world, sounded like the blabberings of a nutbag. For example, I was so convinced that I'd be locked away that I did all but stock up on postcards. And I was so absolute in my belief that I wasn't Kraken Junior's mater that I announced this to just about everyone who cooed over her.
Course, now that the clouds of doom are floating away I can see that these were the thoughts of someone who was keeping her right mind in a bucket in the shed. Yet when I make judgements now, I'm still not entirely sure what they are fuelled by: barkingness or crystal clarity. So every time I do make a decision about something, I dunno, whether to buy soup or go lion taming, I have to ask myself where my fevered decision is derived from.   
If it sounds exhausting, that's because it fucking well is. You know those people who analyse things to death? I think I've become one of them. Christ help me if I was expected to move house or take up a wildly different career. I'd think it into submission and then book myself into Broadmoor.
Course, this is getting easier. Seeing as no one, so far, has stumbled backwards, bug eyed, because I decided to plant lupins or wear purple eyeliner I'll assume that I'm not indulging in major lifestyle fuck-ups. I'll rely on social disquiet to alert me when my judgement becomes so alarmingly skewiff that I'm found casually barking messages in Klingon into a stolen policeman's helmet.
Until then, all I can do is practice. Practice at refining my judgements, that is, not speaking Klingon. I like to think I'll get better with time and then, God help the lot of you. I'll be back to my loudly opinionated self and that's when the social disquiet will really kick in.