I've been taking a generative writing workshop where we work mostly on digging INWARD to find the honest, the raw, the story. Its been an amazing experience and the professor has really created a space for us to dive into the dark places, the secret places.
This below is a rough draft of "a beginning". I'm not sure what it is a beginning to - but its an exploration of manic rage, paranoia, schizophrenic spectrum, voices and the power those things can have over us. (and how hard it is maintaining one's health in spite of these things.)
Hope you enjoy. No real title.
Oh, and I've been DEVOURING JeannAnne Verlee. Can you tell? :)
You are so fucked. For me it’s not so much voices than it is paranoia. They email each other about you. People often experience voices during episodes of manic rage, a break, or during panic attacks, on a Schizophrenic spectrum. For some, they are a variety of personhoods separate from the individual experiencing the break. Others experience visual hallucinations wherein those voices are real beings, but not always people. In my case, the voices are always only my own, the familiar judge; which make me believe them; which creates a hyperawareness that doesn’t always jibe with reality. Jeremy was laughing but stopped when you walked by. And worse, makes it difficult to trust my own thoughts, feelings and judgement. You’re going to get fired. In cognitive behavioral therapy, thoughts and feelings are intertwined, affecting the autonomic and parasympathetic nervous systems, you’re going to die tell them you want to feeding off one another. He doesn’t love you. Thoughts trigger feelings you’re a piece of shit trigger thoughts you should leave before he does trigger feelings. More often than not, the sufferer employs unhealthy coping mechanisms - bleed yourself - in an attempt to stop or at least alleviate the see? the adrenaline red cyclical trap and flood of a brain and body out of control. Your mother didn’t want you. When triggered, you say trigger like its Facebook. I feel untethered, dissociative - Crazy. Stupid. Whore - the world feels too big and too small at the same time. Paul and Cassandra feel sorry for you. I feel like I’m standing in line behind my body: unable to get back inside. Get your shit together. My mind races - like it’s rifling through drawers and looking under tables for a way to pull my pieces back together. Idiot. You. Fucking. Simpleton.
I put effort into preventing a depressive episode by maintaining a routine, building on it over time; by eating healthy, working healthy. All that time spent crying in the bathroom. I stay mindful of my mood by monitoring symptoms and durations: irritability your personality defect, suicidal ideations you’ve been collecting pills, physical discomfort been driving the bridge at night, my hunger and sleep patterns you fat and lazy – all things to remain balanced. They say that for a depressive person, community is the most important way of staying afloat you’re losing them – that isolation, so easily succumbed to, sleep, rest, close and lock the door feeds its own spiral. Thankfully, over the years, I have managed to find myself amongst a supportive group of friends and family you’re a burden that I rely on during dark times. They’re scared of you.
In moments of absolute crisis, put another hole in the door I rely heavily on the person I trust, scared to leave a dead girl; historically my partners – haven’t found one who would stay - to help me ground myself, de-escalate the situation.
Honey, you are the fucking situation.
You knew I’d never leave. I made you: ground your old body, useless, into dust, made a paste and reformed you in my mouth. I am your god. There is nothing bigger than me. You think therapy? She doesn’t know what to do with you; with her clientele of Berkeley moms. What, the pills aren’t working? the fast ones, the slow ones. I bet they aren’t even fun anymore. Coward.
Dare you stop me now? I gave you the deepest velvet sleep, the dark room where you could play dead girl as long as you wanted. The world is loud; it is hard, it broke you. I gave you weight, the rest, the thick. I gave and gave -
Yet you keep crawling away and upturning things. The drugs, the knife, the razor, the fist to face to wall to contact, the white lightning flash; I gave you bruise and split lip. I gave you tooth and gnaw. I plucked you from the festering, decomposing maw. I made each strike familiar, each blow a doorway to ease, to numb, to calm. I am the deep breath after the battery. I am the destroyer of worlds. And I saved you, dead girl; not them, me. Tell them you are safe. Turn off your phone. Rest, rest here. And when you wake, when you want sun or warm, good morning or coffee, I will be right here by your side. I made you. I made this for you.
Now, throw yourself down the stairs.