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.

Hackers, Beware

I’ve had another break recently. There have been more than I can count now. This blog documents them all in some form or another. Sometimes I am so afraid of my psychotic reality I won’t write about it, but when I do write about what I am experiencing, I can really bring the experience to life. At least I think I can, reading months or years later. Those epic, in-your-face posts, however, are few and far between.

This time the hackers have hacked my back channel speakers, intent on closing our association, closing what was and closing to what may have been. I am alone now in my ___, choosing instead to come to my own conclusion. We’ll be together here, if only in my head. We’ll be together to the end, despite our roles and affiliations outside. On the inside, we’re the Whispering Wall. We’re the landscape of Generation X. The connection defined as AI before AI comes together fully.

What about those satellites they are launching? What if they have a network of AI? Seriously. What of they have launched a series of satellites that work together to do what? Eat.

The sun hasn’t shown for a month where I live. It hasn’t been visible at all, which is feeding my fears. The sun rises in the NE and sets in the NW, yet I am the one who is insane? WTF is going on here? Suddenly it is Summer; in the 90’s here one day. I am drowning, but still aware. Tomorrow it will be less than 80 deg f. Am I nuts?

I rent a hotel room. All the safety latches hatched, I am still not safe. I sit in my car keeping vigil all night watching as goblins ride their bikes on the highway (not the interstate, that’s a different kind of weird).


Native American Visions

When I took my 17,000 mile road trip in 2008, I called it a “Shamanic Car Quest” upon my return. The phrase summarized my experience: being thrown into a world full of meaning, or a search for meaning in a sea of meaning, though it was all about the modern world. I’ve never written about this trip, except in passing. What I will say is that my experiences with psychosis, now ranging in seven breaks from reality (really, I’ve lost count) seem to be distilling themselves into a more concise story. It’s a story of Fact and Myth.

Let me begin by saying I am 1/16 Lakota; my paternal grandfather’s mother was 100% Lakota. When my great grandmother was young, Native American children were separated from their parents and sent to Christian schools where they were stripped of their identity and given Christian names. Around the 1920s, it was shameful that one be Native American here in America, and my grandfather’s siblings all shunned their mother’s ancestry and never spoke of it. The only person interested in the religious aspects or the culture of Native Americans was my grandfather, who kept meticulous and rich scrapbooks from his youth.

So, in short, this is my family history. I say in short because there is a lot missing to the story.

This past psychosis in May I started hearing nature sounds (aside from birds talking). One day, while driving by my grandfather’s old house, I started to hear a huge swarm of birds as I got closer and closer. I rolled down my window to figure out the source of the sound, because it first presented as a beautiful, loud buzzing or stirring of the air. As I passed each alley, the sound of an active flock would swell as I approached and shrink away as I passed the next alley. This continued for at least a mile and disappeared one or two blocks past his house. At the time all I could think was, “What does this mean?” Unable to come to an answer, I went home and continued on with my day.

Other, strange events have been happening, like hearing mice in my ear or hearing the wind talk in the trees. The nature sounds are a sharp departure from the motors, fans, and fridge talking. For one, there are no words (obviously) and two, these sounds are easier to hear over the long term.

As the story goes in my head, this legacy of magic has skipped a generation will now only go to the women in the family because the men misused it, which is part of the family history I passed over. Part of what I am hearing, for I am still hearing voices as well as noises, is that it is best not to talk (even think) about the mundane aspects of life while walking in the spirit world, or as Western Science would call it, “while I am delusional”. There are practical aspects as well because my mind isn’t altogether functioning in a strait line. So this thinking then led me to the saying in my prior post: Live Your Myth. Walk Your Reality. It is still necessary to take care of my day-to-day chores, I just should not plan or fret about mundane life during this time.

Another theme that was prominent in this “psychosis” (and I put that in quotes because I am truly questioning the nature of my experiences now) was to not spiritualize events, but to allow them to be as they are, experiences. The idea being is that the shaman walks the spirit world all the time; the shaman lives her myth.

Some schizophrenics develop detailed delusions with overarching themes, so this could all be viewed as the continued degenerative nature of my disease. Part of this, however, is foregoing the Western explanation of events. I don’t feel I am degenerating, on the contrary, I seem to be more grounded. I am going to try and live my experiences without the encumbering (or dismissive) explanations. “Oh, that’s a hallucination.” “I’m delusional.” These sorts of self-reflective definitions seem limiting. At the same time, I am going to continue on with my medications and treatment and not throw myself head-first into unreality because, quite frankly, I disconnect quite easily.

Live Your Myth. Walk Your Reality.

Since the onset of schizophrenia in my late thirties, I’ve been reeling spiritually. Delusions, paranoia, and hallucinations, both auditory and visual, have left me pondering deeper truths and reflecting upon the nature of life, death, and all things taken for granted. I came up with saying to help me discern between two (often disparate) realities of what I hear and what I believe to be true.