Paranoia

I will tell you straight out that my hold on reality is tenuous at best.  Now, perhaps, my clarity is at a peak, though that is only a guess.  I write while I can, before my world slips into fantasy, and I become too careful to create. 
I don't have any psychosis easily recognized.  I've been described as exhibiting symptoms of schizoprenia, bipolar disorder, autism, depression, ADHD.  Nothing fits right.  In periods of clarity, I'm too extroverted to be autistic, too social.  My moods don't swing, only my sanity.  My life is good; I'm not depressed.
I don't expect you to have a good idea of what I mean when I say I slip into fantasy.  It difficult to describe even for me.  Even as I call it fantasy, I don't truly believe it.  It seems so real.  What it really is is paranoia.  "fantasy" is just what I call it to seem less strange.  By no means do I believe "they" are out to get me.  The concept is silly nonsense thought up by scriptwriters in the fifties.  I enjoy conspiracy theories, but I have no delusions that they involve me.  it's so much more subtle.  It starts by locking my door to ward off robbers.  I'm not in a high-crime area, but this is America:  everyone locks their doors.  But my door is mostly glass.  anyone who really wanted anything would have no trouble with it.  I put some rocks at the edge of the door.  they scrape loudly when it is opened.  my cat sleeps on my chest at night, more alert than I to unwanted intruders.  should I fail to wake up, other doors in my house are wired to bells and alarms.  someone may come in the window next to my bed, and attack suddenly, attempting to knock me out.  for this, I keep a springfield XD-40 subcompact in my left hand, under my pillow.  this attacker may be armed with a blade, so a machete hangs from the side of my bed in easy reach for my right hand.  with my mind comfortably at ease, I step back and realize I have made a fortress out of a glass house.  in the future, I will second-guess myself and add more traps.  I always do.
There are questions, hard questions, that come with insanity.  Is this the price I pay for genius?  Am I a genius at all?  Is it really worth it to never touch someone esle for fear of poisons or hidden knives?  Could I even risk one touch?  What is it I risk?  Is my life so valuable to me?  what value does my life have?  Hard questions.  I never have good answers.  I can only ask them over and over again.