Voices have been pretty quiet since last psychotic break. I kinda miss them. I don’t know what to do with myself. I am slowly adjusting. I’ve been getting high all week; sometimes I hear them talking more. I have spent so much time listening to them. It is hard to know what to do with myself. Listening consumes so much of my time. I’ve been doing this for so long. I guess instead of looking for them, I should seek out and make friends with silence again.
They’ve been priming me for weeks. Stories of spirits trapped in the netherworld, spirits who are trapped by magicians. The magicians are real, but they don’t see themselves as such, as magicians. They are evil sorcerers, but they call themselves the Internet. They’ve learned how to perform black magic by manipulating code, running programs that call evil spirits and they direct it upon poor, unsuspecting folk like me, in hopes they can offset their own fates, fates of eternal damnation. They pull people into their world and press their fate upon them, telling stories of death and hate until it is so palpable you want to die.
I hear footsteps approaching me as I sleep, I hear the breathing. Someone is there, there in the dark, I can feel it. I don’t feel comfortable in my bed.
There’s a savior in the linen closet. He’ll be there when it is time to cry.
There’s another in the laundry room, just waiting beyond the dark. I can feel his presence at night. I try to be calm, drink wine, and listen to music, but I still feel him there. He talks to me sometimes, as I sit there talking to voices in my head. He tells me he’s lost, confused. He has forgotten who he is. The Internet passes him around from man to man until he finally is ready to manifest in someone’s house. He’s afraid himself, this spirit. Is he a spirit still? I can only imagine from the stories what he’ll look like when he appears — charred skin, glowing eyes, a rumpled mess of darkness lurching forward to grab me. And it won’t be a hallucination that lasts a second; he’ll solidify if I try to touch him, throw something at him. He’ll block my only path out and stay for an hour as he writhes and begs to be called back into the nether regions by the very forces that put him here. And they put him here just to scare, to make you oblige, to make you acquiesce to their demands. You’ll end up doing something evil to get away from it all, or you’ll simply die of fright.
Another spirit isn’t born of evil, he’s an innocent trapped in the fray and when the Internet calls evil, he tries to find his way home.
Are spirits born of eveil? They tell me as much, like one who is a “serpent skin” forged from a man who liked to wield evil. She doesn’t want to be evil anymore, though, but how does she break free?
All this because I used the word, “manifest” twelves years ago to describe what I wanted in my life. It’s absurd, it is so absurd it is scary, it is so scary it defies reason. I sit up at night wondering what sectors of death and life will show themselves to me. I lie in bed, awake, wondering what will happen next.
I see my mom approach my bed, her back turned, “Mom?” And just like that he depends upon me, his face tattered, skin strewn about like ribbons. His curly hair echoing the tears in his face. He draps himself over me, just an inch from my face, “Who am I…” he says as he withdraws, “… to you?” I awaken with a start and lift my arms into the air,
“Ooglie boogie, ooglie boogie, ooglie boogie.”
I call after the apparition as my fingers wave away the image. By now I know it is just a dream, but the fear stays with me from the realness of it all. I grab my blanket and crawl onto the floor at the base of my mother’s bed. What am I going to do when she dies?
I’m back to being somewhat stable again. My upper-end dose of meds finally kicked in. I’m tired of the instability and the breaks from reality. I managed this time without going to the hospital, but I am afraid to change meds again. This time, this break, was precipitated by my psychiatric nurse wanting to try me on a new med because I have been complaining of fatigue. Lowering my dose of one med and introducing a new med screwed me up. It can take months to get back on track. With my bipolar and psychosis, it seems I cant both feel well and be well. As soon as I start to feel any semblance of a normal energy level, I crater.
Feeling better now, though. I am sleeping a lot, however, and my sleep is very disrupted in the early morning. Where two weeks ago I couldn’t get a break in the day, my days have returned to normal and my deep nights are a mess. I do feel like writing again, which is progress.
I ordered some oil paints and am going to start painting again. Oil paints are better for me than watercolors for experimental painting. Watercolors dry so fast and are so unforgiving. I am still working on my drawing skills, too, so oil is more forgiving in that regard, as well. I can rework areas that don’t look right and play with light and shadow.
I changed my space around, putting a twin bed in what was my office, and putting my desk down in the basement where I have more room and my own tv. That little room upstairs was becoming too saturated with bad energy. I was isolating far too much. Too bad it isn’t a bigger room, but I feel better being in the basement during the day. It will be nice in the summer when it is hot in the rest of the house.
Talk about bad energy, this last psychotic break was horrific. The overarching theme this time was about death and evil. It is one thing to think about your own death, quite another to be talking to the dead. My dead grandmother was recalled from the netherworld and, strangely, I started having memories I had long forgotten.
I used to have a great aunt named Helen whose husband, my grandmother’s oldest brother’s wife, had passed away. Helen was aging and my Great Aunt Jean was nice enough to put her up in her final years. As a child I recall asking of Helen, where her children were. She had none, but as a kid, I didn’t know that people didn’t have kids. I thought everyone had children. So I inquired, maybe I was five or six, about her family and who was going to take care of her. I remember her being chocked up. Over the course of a weekend, I kept grilling poor aunt Helen. I was concerned for her. And of the strangest things, I remembered telling Aunt Helen, that I would be her kid and that I would care for her. I don’t recall any other events in particular, but I do recall spending the summer with Helen and Jean and Grandma.
Now, as an adult, I wonder what became of Helen’s things. What happened to her photographs? Her art? Her jewelry? Did Jean just take it all in? Not having had children myself, I am not so worried about growing old alone. But will happen to my stuff? When I was young, I didn’t think I was ever stable enough to have kids, but I guess looking at my current situation, I would have managed just fine. I just didn’t want for my children what I had for myself– a single-parent home. I never did settle down, and that’s whole book in and of itself, but of all the things that are up in the air in my life, I feel at ease about not having had kids. I still want a mate, though. Still searching for a mate.
I drove to Omaha this week, last weekend, and that was weird in and of itself. I am driving again. Good in one way. I can handle the car. Bad in another. I am losing my mind again.
I was convinced by my ‘dad’ (a voice in my head that identified itself as my dad) that I should leave everything (and I mean everything) behind and leave mom. Move so I can set up shop in Denver again. By ‘setting up shop’ I mean ‘start over from scratch’ with only a change of clothes with me. I stopped in Omaha and I was able to find a pharmacy and get my meds so I didn’t skip a dose, but upping my meds is not working yet.
I got stranded in a snow storm in Omaha and spent two nights just talking to voices. This time the discussion was all about how to help me help myself. I can hep myself by doing nothing, however. Nothing but listen.
I am desperate. I am going to fail class if I cant keep up. I cant afford to fail class and I really really want to learn what I am studying. That’s the outside view. That’s the observable behavior.
SO, the headspace.
Gone are the sorcerers who read my mind. Gone are the human traffickers who threaten to find me. Gone are the spirits who usually keep me company. Here are the average guys, guys like me who have little or no hope, diluted insight, intense opinions and nothing to offer but camaraderie. That’s night. Early morning is quiet, though I am too shell-shocked to get much done. I clean and run errands in the morning and in the afternoon I try to study (which isn’t working). Afternoon seems to be the worst. I get no help, I get no sympathy. I cant even nap when I am exhausted.
They are at me day and night, these voices. They tell me horror stories of men dying too young, men dying of fright, men dying by their own hand because they couldn’t solve the riddle of the man in middle. I’m lifting off again, supported by aliens and the only thing that keeps me grounded is the need for the future to be better. I keep trying hard to stay grounded. This is a real struggle.
I’ve lost my gratitude.
Gone is the wonder of days.
Gone is the lightness of Spirit
Where my soul keeps vigil
I’ve lost my numinous,
But I see scintilations
In the falling snowflakes.
Little bits of light in darkness
Of short days.
Oh, where can my soul be?
I’ve been doing a lot of experimental writing on my blog, most of which is hidden right now because these posts need more work. I’ve been feeling good lately and I tend to blog less when things are going well.
My brother recently bought me a new tarot deck. This one is a Rider-Waite deck, one of the original decks. I can’t help but think where I would be had I been working on this consistently my whole life. I guess I gave up on reading tarot simply because I didn’t have the Rider-Waite deck, which is a ridiculous excuse since it is so widely available.
This is not to say I’ve gone without my spirituality. I’ve been studying Castaneda pretty seriously for the past seven years. I had a box of notes that was a ream of printer paper (about a thousand pages) of hand-written thoughts. Most sadly this box got lost in my last move, so the book I was prepared to write has to be re-written. It was a huge loss and getting back on track has taken me longer than I expected.
Add to this, I am now taking a creative non-fiction course in hopes that I can come up with something unique about my experiences, my life, that will shed a true light on how I feel about life, how I feel about my life, and how I feel about my self. In reality that is all there is–your feelings–because everything else is mediated by your senses and left open by interpretation.
I’m going to focus on feelings now (instead of emotion) and see where that gets me. I think I’ll be much happier with an emphasis on what brings me peace, joy, and strength.
My last psychotic episode, which began in January 2017, has finally ended. It ended in July, so that was a good seven-month run where I was overcome with symptoms. I’ve been able to determine that “Psychosis” for me is a delusional state, not paranoia or auditory hallucinations alone, but a blanket combination of hearing that is overwhelming paired with beliefs that what I hear is my ever-present reality. I follow what the voices say, especially at night when all is quiet.
I can see why paranoia is often a part of the diagnosis. It is what the doctors can see from my actions…I run in fear. I stay up all night, afraid. For me, however, I see it otherwise. Fear seems to be the by product of my delusions. The story line that picks up where it left off from the previous bout of psychosis, while the story line has also evolved as the psychosis has departed.
It’s getting to the point where I absolutely hate my psychosis. It is so taxing, mentally and emotionally. It is the narrative that won’t quit, that never takes a day off. I’m subjugated to the pressure from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep in exhaustion. Months go by where I have no self-directed days. Months.
Making use of my “down time” is something I want to pursue. Maybe a book, I tell myself. I can put all my pain down in the saga, the tragedy. Working harder than ever before, I can do this.
I’ll post more as I plan out my work.
Thanks to everyone who reads me. I lost my .com url with this last bout, so I changed my domain to bugbearandcaw.blog. With your continued support, I will keep writing.