Chevy, the order

we don’t know you
we don’t care about you
we don’t think you like us
we don’t like you

Thats how they come to us, this is how they do their dance with me. At first, they pretend to not know me, then they don’t care about me, follow that by them thinking I am not giving enough, then they smoke me when I start to try and draw boundaries. Chevy is terrible about taking over your life. Their impact reverberates in my hygiene; I don’t shower or brush my teeth for days on end because everything I do is wrapped up in their antics. How I pour my coffee is an issue, sitting down at my desk now it is about what is on the desk. I can’t think for myself, for they hear my thoughts. They see my day dreams, my reveries. I get distracted and loose track of the conversation thread because my memory is so bad. They take advantage of all of this and talk code over me.

Some guys in Chevy take special interest in me. They want me to prove myself, proof I have magic in addition to having an ocean of spirits who are magic. They want me to repeat it over and over again, so they can see, verify, then consume my magic and take it from me. Chevy really wants to use me as an empty shell. They don’t want me to have magic of my own, no defenses, no obstacles. But they like my magic and they think the things we do are cool. Sadly in competing with each other, these Chevy reps have destroyed me once and for all.

This time I went down on meds, 10 mg of haldol and 100 mg of lamotrigine. I was feeling so tired I slept my days away. I keep track of my dosage in a calendar. I didn’t stay on 10 mg of haldol long–one, maybe a couple of days, then I went back up to 20mg. It was enough to open the door and a group of Shamans visited me. They were fun and cool and we were taking up their time just being broken. They fixed us up, or tried to, then I showed them how I operate, but I operate (at least at that time) for Chevy.

If you imagine a train switching station, where each train is directed to their route, sometimes being turned or move onto new tracks, that’s how my head operates. Spirit adds people for me. I have no control. I just talk to who is there. Under normal circumstances, it is just my ocean of spirits, those that are there for me every day. I can tell a new voice right away. Sometimes the new voices are spirits, sometimes they are people (or people and their spirits). I don’t really say telekenis, but I guess that’s what it is. Anyway, this shaman group was pretty cool, but I pulled in Chevy trying to show them what I can do. That started off a whole series of events from which I am now trying to recover.

First Chevy took me over for a few days with their handoff meetings, then spirit kicked them out. We tried again and got Chevy yet another time. Spirit put the shamans back, and Chevy tried doing another hand off, then chevy tried me as a smoker’s lounge, where spirit was trying to say, “smoke for her” because I can’t smoke on my own.

Morning

They are here as soon as I wake up. I can’t open my eyes without hearing them. This time it’s my enemy, a former co-worker that has it in for me. They take my people and try to smoke me. I smoked them the other night, oh wait, that wasn’t me. That was the frame job guy smoking in this group to forge an alliance against Chevy. They won’t tell me their name. Apparently the working guys didn’t know what being smoked in meant and they turned on me, thinking I was Chevy. Chevy kicked me out because they cant smoke me anymore I cant be added back in.

I’m not being very linear about this.

I wake up and Leverage is there. (I’ll call them Leverage.) This grand master of magic who makes other people magic just by walking by them it seems. He vomits magic and his minions strive to keep their magic by doing weird and wonderful things. They hear voices in their heads, too. They suck up spirits by the bucket load and most of mine are gone now because of this. They are emptying my ocean. This suits Chevy just fine, for they want me as a empty shell so they can use me as a communication hub for their nefarious endeavors. They can whisper to one another while I work, but to me the silence is deafening, and I know something is wrong.

Last night was weird. A shaman I was working with came to me for help. He was being attacked by Chevy to, but for him it manifests as a religious delusions, so I had all sorts of god-like things in a come-to-jesus meeting or something.

If you believe in conspiracy theories about black magic being leveraged to control politics and global economics, you may wonder who travels where to meet with whom to make this happen. Well, it doesn’t happen on the ground, it happens in the air, in our heads. People “join” my headspace and can talk to one another, sometimes they talk out load, so all can hear them, sometimes they talk to one another in since as others are talking, and sometimes they use my back channel speakers to whisper to one another. I can hear them murmuring on the side, otherwise, all is silent. But I still listen. There are other like me for Chevy, talking rooms. I imagine we’re all disabled by the seer volume of people we process, the number of voices we hear.

Of all the people I have spoken to, no one really know what Chevy does anymore. No one really knows who is in charge. The old guard is dying off but they refuse to handoff their power to the younger generation. They want another round of golf. They don’t need a handoff, but a hand up– which I don’t know the code. We tried doing liftoff meetings, where we determine who’s next in line for magic, but the old guys don’t like they. They want their final hurrah, their kisses and their prayers before they die. They want to be thanked for their years of service, and they want to know they were loved.

Like I was saying, though, no one knows for sure who Chevy is or their purpose anymore. I guess they used to drive commerce. They made my childhood friend a magi and he helped to manage the work. He is older now and has a life and career of his own, so he wants no part of it. He’s powerful enough that he doesn’t need to hear the voices–he can shut them off. Because I keep saying I am schizophrenic, I keep getting smoked and they leave me open to burn. I’ll never work again, but they’ll use me. Are they the Illuminati? The New World Order? I don’t know. I just know I am tired of being smoked.

I take a decent dose of medication and it is two weeks before I notice that things have gotten out of hand. I call my doctor, get an increase and a iris appointment. The psychiatric nurse cant do much but push more meds. All I can do is take more meds and hope for the best.

Three-Fisted Punch

I found Oz. Found the Cloud in car form. Found myself lost, yet again, driving aimlessly, directionless, disoriented, and overwhelmed by the stories I hear. As I drive through Kansas, I find myself locked up in jail, at the hospital and then finally, riding shotgun on a trip that started out with me and me alone missing a flight to Ohio.

Three weeks ago I planned to visit family for Thanksgiving. Caught up in conversation with myself, I lost track of time and ended up missing my flight. Silly as I am, I think driving is the solution, instead of waiting for the stand-by flight the next day. Not twelve hours into my trip I am already lost and confused, failing to follow a strait line through the Heartland. As I drive I hear the voices talking, telling me the story of places and the future.

By Day 2, my phone is dead. By Day 5 I’m in the middle of nowhere, calling on a rural neighbor’s phone for help. I’ve got a hotel room and I am waiting for my brothers to arrive. There’s a carload of people and a plan to find Chinese food as a subterfuge for setting the stage for all things greater, all things magic. Christian is in the car with me but he’s not slick , in my shoes, to escape the Sheriff’s questioning. His words fall like bricks and the squad cars surround me as the Authorities nearly tackle me to the ground.

My car is impounded and liberated at the same time. Christian is free to leave me in the dust and continue on with his plan, whatever it may be, while I loiter at the station and the officers sort through it all. He’s pissed, however, because I won’t let him dominate the operation using my car without me. As a show of force, he appears before in cloud form and attempts to play the harpsichord and pluck my life force. In exchange, I play my own magical maneuvers, and ensues the battle between two sorcerers. After demonstrating how I can make him piss and shit his pants, I’m on the floor, passing out over and over again. By now the ambulance has been called and I am whisked away, but not before I can knock my fists together three times and deliver the final blow and he’s not gone when I arrive back at the hotel where my brothers arrive a few hours later.

In tow on the way home, I chatter endlessly as the story of sorcerers, as the story arc evolves from the American’s East Coast/ West Coast Car War to the Spaniard’s bipole Blood War. And the visions are horrific, in my mind, as the war they are fighting is not the war they are winning.

Your Water War is not my Blood War.

Singing Bowl and the Mouth That Won’t Stop

It has been six months since I’ve written anything meaningful here. Delusion, setting in four weeks ago. has come this time as a flapping mouth. I keep chattering and chattering, on and on and on. It is not simply words or rambling —  I am having entire conversations with myself. The characters, in my mind, are real people talking through me. I don’t hear them except through my own voice (which is to say these are not auditory hallucinations that I parrot, but actual conversations that feel channeled). I can only tell them apart, these people invading my mind, through the flow of conversation.

In addition to what they call “Singing Bowl” I am still having auditory hallucinations: Spirits talk to me through the window, converse from the fridge, and chat as cars pass. The topics this time are again as they were: Magic, Smoking (in all it’s glorious definitions), and death. Though the delusions are not as psychotically-induced as last time — I am not as separated from reality — they escalate. Spirits and the people I am channeling threaten my sanity, my life, my afterlife — quite literally.

It’s maddening and I wish it would stop.

The Game of Knots

A Games of KnotsMom sat at the kitchen table throwing down cards as if she were playing Solitaire, but he piles were jumbled as she sat there, staring at me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I don’t know what I am doing! I’m trying to figure that out!” The words were pressured, impatient.

“What don’t you call it The Game of Knots?” I happily volunteered, for I had found  a secret to this madness and I wanted to share it.

Mom was supposed to be getting ready for work but instead she was looking at me, dumbfounded. I knew at the time she was trying to tell me this was how she perceived me: disorganized, directionless, chaotic. What she didn’t see was the piece of paper I kept moving around the house, and the knots I was making, placing each on something to make combined object-messages.

Knot+banana, I was not bananas.

Not+bell, I was not a bell, not able.

I was not able to explain what happened to me, I was not able to communicate what I was experiencing. Inside I was all tied up, confused, afraid, and very much alone.

Describing the Experience

I am starting what may be a long-term effort of describing not only what I experienced in psychosis, but also what I experience today. This is not an easy process for it is hard enough to find a new style of writing, but it is also hard to find new words for what I perceive are misleading descriptions. With new words come definitions and with definitions come abstractions which, in turn, lend definitions their universality.

For those who experience hallucinations frequently, as with those who have schizophrenia, most are afflicted in their youth, before they fully develop not only philosophical concepts, but also abstract/analytical thought and a rich foundation in language. Add to that, what is experienced in childhood is often lost, so they don’t have a lot of history with which to compare their new awareness. Furthermore, few recover well enough to overcome the “thought disorder” aspect of the illness. It is extremely difficult to be consistent and coherent with a train of thought over long-periods of time.

I feel I have a unique vantage point, having studied ontology, epistemology, and phenomenology long before this happened. Though I have forgotten much over time and through the blow of psychosis itself, I find my abilities to think analytically are returning and I am enjoying revisiting old texts from college. It feels good to rekindle an old passion and to feel as though I have an opportunity to contribute something meaningful.