Doom in the Plumbing

Hey, folks.

There's no picture this time, because our plumbing has been backed up all weekend, and no one wants a picture related to the mess that has ensued. It's my gift to you.

My landlords thought it would be nice to plant a tree on top of our main waterline. Last year when the plumbing was backed up, the tree was cut down, but the roots were never removed ... as they had fused themselves to the pipes. This sets up a glorious picture of its own, does it not?

So the plumbers were supposed to be here yesterday. They didn't come. Then today, "between 2pm and 4pm." No show (as of yet). It's 10 to 5pm as I write this, and our toilets are backed up into the bathtubs, we cannot do laundry or wash dishes, and the house smells ... not to mention the fact that we are unable to shower. (We smell, too.)

I will keep waiting and calling until someone shows up, but that's all I can do. Meanwhile, enjoy the fact that your toilet flushes, that your dishes and bodies are clean, and Bryan and I will suffer.

4 a.m. Adventure

Pastel in progress, 2011

I might have an art show coming up in Spring. I've been racking my brain, trying to come up with pictures that hold a narrative in some way. Or at least have interesting images.

I have a friend with magenta-pink and snow white hair. She's a botanist. Someone took a lovely photo of her, surrounded by flowers as tall as she, which were the exact same colour as her hair. It's a striking photo. So I thought I'd add it to my list of projects to do for my possible show, hoping someone would be imaginative enough to find a story behind it of their own and take it home with them.

The search began for a pastel pencil that could capture the radiant beauty in the flowers and her hair. I was halfway done with the face when I realised my carmine red just didn't cut it. It was 4 a.m. What else is open, but Wal*Mart?

Bravely fighting his fatigue, Bryan trudged with me in full winter attire, 2 hours before dawn this morning, to the local behemoth of chain stores across town. The only drivers out were police, so I mindfully watched my speed while I dreamed of finding that exact pink at the exact time I needed it.

I wondered as we strolled the empty aisles how fun it might be to work the extreme night-shift at one of these stores. Observation revealed it would be no fun at all - all the employees were stocking shelves and buffing the floors with giant, whirring machines. I couldn't imagine staying interested in such tasks for long.

Finally, we arrived at the crafts section, which was disappointingly small. In some pre-holiday frenzy, the art supplies were stripped down to ONE 8 pack of chalk pastels. None of the eight colours was even approximate, much less close, to what I needed. Frustrated, exhausted, and cold, we left for home.

At 8 this morning, I was up again, ready to scour the local art supply shop with the friendly manager and playful dog. They always carry everything an artist could possibly need ...

And there it was. Red Violet. The colour of dreams.

Journals!

I admit it, I am a paper whore.

I have stacks of both used and blank journals. Some are in various stages of use, and I always have at least 3 separate journals going for different projects. One for a log, one for dreams, one for poetry, and well, you get the idea. My journals go on and on.

Today I was spurred on by a spontaneous rediscovery of that mistress of journals and honesty, that master of language, Anais Nin. There is a small and very brief record of my recent adventures with the ideas of journaling here. It was a nonsensical, playful distraction for one night of insomnia, but shall go no further than that. (If you're worried you'll have to check it for updates, thank you, but it won't be necessary.)

*waits*
So you read that? Great!

On to my new project. I need space on my bookshelves. I would like an old, beat-up looking journal. I want a thick, hardbacked, evil thing, so ... THE DESTRUCTION OF BOOKS IS IMMINENT. I am a book-lover, and just in case you are too, I won't even mention which poor volume met its fate under the acrylic brush you see above. All I can say is this: those poor Russians!

And while on the topic of projects, I finally got to register for that drawing class today. I will soon be up to my elbows in pencils as well as journals! For me, the happy hero of this story is the paper involved.

If you can't create something new, see an old thing in a new way. And then draw it. Or write it. Or be it.

Little Things

            The house has been filled with anxiety. It wraps around the doors and windows like holiday lights; it is bright enough to read by.

Crossword Doodle 2011

Time creeps up on Bryan with padded feet. He is afraid his everyday will creep on the same, noiseless tread. The stealth with which his middle age has reached him undoes him. It unravels his projects and lists of things to do. Despite my protests that life is an uphill tread to a finish where the journey is everything, he remains goal oriented. He is always working toward an achievement. I admire his tenacity.

But the smallest things disturb his peace of mind. A flutter in the heart makes him fearful that the shadows of death are waiting behind him always, just to the left of his vision. This peripheral phantom haunts his days and nights, until he begins to make lists that never come to fruition. He obsesses over all the Little Things that bring on the assailants of depression.

He is scared to die.

I’ve noticed that he focuses on the small stuff that turn fixation into a complex ballet on the edge of neurosis. I am no less faulty, but most of the time I am skewed into spazz attacks for entirely different reasons. Perhaps since, in my body, I hold all the mechanics of life, I am less likely to shun the vehicles of death. Perhaps because I’ve already dived my death and I am still standing, it makes me more likely to celebrate the tiny diversities of living in this world, rather than becoming immersed in their potential dangers. To me, death is just another glib remark from my accidental existence. Whatever my reason, I still watch my lover struggle with his mortality in all the small ways.

It’s always the Little Things.

So I have been pulling on my support hats, and wearing them as best I can while he frets and worries. I bite my tongue and watch my tone of voice. I make suggestions when he says he needs a project. I try to make living easy.

It is not so much a burden when I am stable and my meds are holding me up in their firm hands. I have floaties in this deep water, but it still hurts to watch Bryan tread tirelessly through it. All I can do is offer a hand.

And pay attention to the Little Things. 

Fishes and Friendships

I've recently come back to the world from a foray into my unconscious.

I was swallowed by that great fish from the depths. I am so enormous in my delusional grandeur that it took a week to suck me all in. Being admitted to the hospital was like being spit out, being born again from the awful death I dived in my own deep water.

One of the things that calms me greatly is reading and drawing. I like the meditative quality paper has. I am allowed in its embrace to remain still while travelling the corridors of fancy and dream. Unable to cling to the moment (here, now) that I craved after discharge, I found refuge in my awesome friend's blog.

The link is here: http://aquietweek.com/

A Quiet Week in the House is exactly what it promises for me. If I am reading Lori's genius blog, you can be sure things are going well for me mentally. It means there is a small respite in the corner of my confused and overwhelmed grey matter. So I revisited the blog this week. I found peace and serenity in her arty collages and inspiration in the calm way she expresses her own frenetic flights. I am pleased to say she is my friend.

I give her some credit for the neurotic drawings that have spilled from my pen these last few days.

I have been advised to keep my hands busy, and so I have.

With a little help from Da Vinci

Leonardo's Hands Sketch (with my text)

Wednesday night.

5 PM.

Psych ward.

I'm finally home.
After a rough week in which I was in and out of reality, I went into the hospital voluntarily. My mom stayed with me until I was settled in bed and had eaten dinner. Bryan stayed home with the dog, and was ever present in my thoughts. He handled the night alone, playing the game of distraction. Distressed, the dog slept in bed with him.

But these things were the farthest from my mind as I chatted with apparitions only I could see. I giggled to myself and tried hard to ignore the fact that the cameras I believed to be in every room of the hospital ward were unbelievably REAL.

By the next day, I discovered they were.



I worried about nothing but myself and felt no remorse for my egocentric absorption. I was in a hospital to be taken care of, to declare a full time out from the rigorous stresses of the real world. The planet stopped on its axis and took no notice of my small hands and worried mind.

Alas, one of my medications was too new to be on the hospital formulary, so I was taken off of it. I was given a higher dose of another medication instead. It did the trick. Well, that and a break in perspective and a distance from the delusional. I slept nearly 11 hours, and by lunch I was ready to leave. It warmed my heart to know my psychiatrist trusted my judgment enough to discharge me within an hour.

Mom brought me home, and I am a new person. From now on, I plan to channel my emotional stress into art and words. I frequently write and draw, but not the frustrated murals I've been doing the past few days in my crossword puzzle book/doodle pad. Some things shouldn't be kept under the skin, but drawn out like an infection with all the creativity I can muster.

The universe is real again, and I remember why it's interesting and worth it again.

It's a good life honey ...

"Now is the time on Sprockets when we dance ...."

Touch my monkey!

Okay, so he's missing the monkey, but I swear I can hear the techno music already!

This is Bryan about to blink, but I know I ruined the effect of the joke by telling you that. Bryan moves in officially on December 1st ... in just a few weeks.  Things have been peaceful.

When in hiatus from drawing portraits, I have been working on my novel. Well, my short story. I've already hinted at the climax of the piece and I'm just 8 pages in. It is a story inspired by my life experience, and my beautiful nephew's imagination. I dedicate it to anyone who dreams in colour.

Home life has been normal and boring, with minimal drama and long pauses of silence. It has been time to take a breath. The past months' frustration has dissipated and dissolved like vapor. Life has been a warm grey and a solid, calming pearl white. The world turns on its axis and forgets about me. 

I like it that way.

Colours

This week I've done nothing but draw and experiment with colours.

Twiggy:

pastel, 2011

And a cool friend:

pastel, 2011

I have decided to take my first art class since high school in January, at the local community center. Hopefully there will be lots of inspiration. All this is just an exercise in colours.

Thinking in colour is different than thinking in black and white. It's not just lines and shapes, it's pencil pressure and blending. Understood, I'm not an expert, but I hope to be one day!

Frustrated Much?

coloured pencil experiment 2011

I've been in a weird place lately.
I have neglected everything except my little projects. Somehow, this blog got left by the wayside.
As I was looking over the previous blog posts and journal entries, I noticed the word "frustrated" came up a lot. It's been going on for months. The stars in my mind have gone supernova.
I remember writing here that I couldn't wait to see what would come about when and if all that built up energy came bursting through my hands and eyes.
It has happened.
I started writing a novel.
I was somehow inspired to buy a huge packet of coloured pencils and draw all day. (This above was the first experiment with them. Before you say, "Get back to your life and stop loving on yourself so much," I must explain that the best thing for one to draw is themselves. You are your own best model. You will stay in place as long as you need yourself to, and the angle is always easy to return to after a break.)
I have started a writing/critique group out of various friends, and have been editing and writing and constructively criticizing.
Phew!
It's been a long road out of dissatisfaction and malaise. But I am feeling better and more awake, more alive.
So this is just a note to let you all know I am still alive and kicking and screaming.
If it awhile between posts, it is only because nothing is happening worth mention.
My life's just not that exciting, folks!

Communication

There is a war. It is disconnected and dysfunctional.

sketch by me, 2008

I seem to only be able to communicate in metaphor and allegory. I CAN talk simply, but when I do, I am lost and lose words and fall apart. Mostly I remain quiet, thinking nothing I add to the conversation will be worthwhile. So I stitch my own mouth shut. I am better at writing things out than speaking them. Sometimes I am very very quiet, sometimes very very loud.

It depends on whether you are talking to me about one of my passions or not.

A lot of my frustration comes from this miscommunication. I can't seem to speak normally. Even Bryan has had to learn to adjust, and often tells me, "It's hard to have a conversation with you when you're this way." Problem is, I am "this way" most of the time. Oh, I put on a good performance and can seem eloquent for doctors or teachers, or other people I've rehearsed for. But if you really want to talk to me and see my face light up, ask me what I'm obsessed with. If you're not interested in that one, I've got plenty more.

Am I the only one who can't make small talk?

Aspies?

I've been frustrated lately. Really, really frustrated. I drew this image, as it popped into my head while Bryan was discussing his novel. I've been distracted by my own thoughts and moods, and can't seem to get outside of them. I can't poke my head through the tiny hole I've made for reality. I always seem to make my outlets much too large and real life way too small.

So I took a break. My best friend flew in from California, and we had two weeks of just sitting next to each other (sometimes quietly talking), while each was absorbed in her own tasks. This is where the interesting hair on this picture came from. I've had bursts of creativity, and more and more of a foul mood when dealing with the world around me. It was nice just having someone sit with me, even if we said nothing. I even began the arduous task of crocheting my first pair of socks!

But everything else suffered.

I discovered that tension displays itself in my jaw. I clench up into near teeth-grinding over things. And then come the headaches. And then I wonder where the heck my real self is gone, lost as it is in a miasma of phantasy and refracted reality.

When I came back to the world from my self-imposed sabbatical, I discovered a nice article by a blogger named "Bad Cripple" had been pinned to my social networking wall ... by my awesome friend Lori, who must be psychic. (P.S. You should read his blogs!) The article was on disability and identity. Down by the corner at the end of his wonderful little rant was an online quiz for Asperger's Syndrome. Being the naturally curious type, I took it. My scores in the Asperger spectrum were quite high, but what if it was a simple problem of the  internet not being able to factor in severe schizophrenia? Here is my score sheet:

Noted, this test also showed me as "gifted" in the explanatory pages that followed. Always when I get a gifted score, my faith in said test is undermined. I feel utterly out-of-sync and unable to do the smallest things. But is my frustration part of a deeper neurological disorder?

*Deep thanks to the folks who created this "Final Version 2" quiz, and to Lorifishes, who always knows just what to say.

A Hasty Post

Sorry, folks, no pictures this time, as my scanner is disabled for the moment in another room.

All last week, I was irritable and agitated.

Last night, I neglected to take my sleeping pill.

Now the world is bright, full of energy, and lovable. I am not groggy, angry, or confused. I woke early, but in good spirits. I think it's time to stop taking the sleeping pills.

That's all. :)

BLAH-G

I read somewhen, somewhere, that schizophrenics who are locked in dysphoria or psychosis tend to recreate mandalas to recover some sort of psychic center. Whether this is manifested as artwork (like my doodle), or just pacing in agitated circles, the desire to claim stability leaks out as a pattern that is, for the moment, holy.

The last few days of rain have been difficult. While Dad rests easy and does therapy in Tuscon (everything went well), I am home without parents who are a large part of my support system. I've been listless and down. Everything in the universe seems to be wrapped in protective bubble. Life seems plastic and unreal.

Part of it is the rain. It is monsoon season, and the beginnings of autumn blossom from thunderstorms. As much as I really enjoy daily deluges and cooler nights, my mood is affected by the gloom. The malaise of the sky mirrors my own general disinterest in everything around me. This is why I haven't blogged in almost a week. I sit and stare, but my pen remains still, and my mind remains empty.

To ease the ennui, I doodle and colour. I work on a scrapbook for my best friend. I contemplate all the things I'd do with this building, pent-up energy when it finally spurts out as volcanic creativity. I read other blogs and wish I could pull together this energy and button it over my chest.

Note To Self

You are Alive. Why sleep when you could be awake, wild, and wondrous? When the stink of sulfur surrounds you with its artificial opulence, you are always welcome to straddle the high fences of your miniscule, Mandelbrot dimensions and join the vibrant, laughing party as woman and not as ghost. The world that waits drips sweet oxygen, is laughably clean. You are half drowned in umbilical bliss, but if you reach from the swelling tides of your chemical misfortune you will not wither in the sunlit dazzle of conscious insight. Breathe with your old eyes; these new, optical prostheses are a waste of good plastic. They obscure everything worthwhile in the universe. They hide the sky like a thick blanket. You are wearing a black hood that knows about grief and shadow, but which completely obfuscates an entire cosmos of fabulous clarity. You have become a wretch, a shade of ineffectual chaos. I’m sorry you lost yourself in the quake of necessities, but you are still breathing. Here is the dynamic of peace, that world without illusion: the grave. Ignore it and wake up.

Friendly Fire

Whew! Today was LONG, but brilliant. The picture above was drawn last night, and the original title was "The Rigors of House Hunting." Bryan and I were both pretty stressed out by this morning.

UNTIL ...

The landlords called and said they wanted me to keep renting the house I'm in, but for a lower price if it would help me. And starting in November, we are constructing a new lease for 2 years with Bryan and me on it both. I cannot tell you what a relief this is! Not only is this house in our price range, but I'm a collector of books, and everything would have been a pain to move. No worries! No hassle!

BUT ...

Bryan and I had saved some money for the move. What to do? We disagreed on how the money should be spent. I wanted a new sofa, he wanted picture frames for all the cool photos he has. Mind you, there was never any real argument. We're soft, boring people, and there was no raising of voice .... but maybe there was a sharpening of tone once or twice as we explained to each other the advantages and disadvantages of each of our plots and devices.

My sofas are 5 or 6 years old, I argued. And they happen to be &#@!-Me Red. I'd prefer a mellower, Bite-My-@$$ Brown. He explained his need to decorate his office space where he is writing a novel, to "set the mood." His way was certainly cheaper.

So we went to the Sofa Extravaganza Mega-Store in town, and we picked out one we could both agree on. We came away with a sectional sofa in brown, a recliner chair, and a coffee table-ottoman.
What did I win, besides the furniture?

You guessed it! A trip to the Frame Outlet for picture frames. See? I can bend when negotiated with. *grin*

Doodles

It's been an empty day. I learned a few things.
1) Dad's having TWO surgeries; heart bypass and valve replacement on Tuesday.
2) Mom reads my blog. (General happyfaces!)
3) Bryan can sleep all day like a champ.
4) When left to my own designs, crosswords are ruined.

Occasionally Things Fall Apart

My landlord has decided to sell this house. Bryan's lease on his little apartment runs out on November 1st. This conundrum has brought up many discussions about combining our efforts into one lease, somewhere else. The problem is finding "somewhere else." 

Poor Bryan is terribly sick. There's just been too much activity around him for comfort.
So what do I do? I take him house hunting, and pack it on top of his doctor's appointment and the turmoil surrounding Dad. All in one day.

Yesterday was stressful and irritable for everyone except me. I stumbled around in oblivious bouts of good-natured happiness. I danced around, sang along to the car radio, and drove Bryan crazy. He complied sullenly with everything I wanted to do, which included:
Checking out two houses for prospective renting.
Discussions about money.
Driving all over town to show him areas where we might find a nice place.
Cooing over him with a little girl voice with lots of "I'm sorry"s about his bronchitis.
And
Reminding him that Steph will visit in just 2 weeks, and stay for about 12 days.

Oh and I forgot ... trying to convince him that we were going to move all our stuff in one day, as we can't afford to prorate for any substantial amount of time.

Really, our main worry is finding a place we can afford that will allow me to have my dog in tow. She's been my companion for a little more than a decade, and I can't leave her in her last few years without "Mommy". So, as my mind is all over the place and generating ideas -- as it tends to do -- Bryan has been silently suffering and adapting to life with crazy little me. All he asked today was that I do the dishes and let him sleep in.
Easy.
But his mercurial depression and pesky bronchitis have been slowing eroding my good mood. I guess the problem is that I let it. It's difficult to be present with someone, to be there for them, without empathy sneaking in like a thief. I feel for him. When he's down, I'm more than concerned; I take it all on myself. One worry for another. (And the voice of my Zen teacher slips into my thoughts here, and asks, "For the sake of what?" Stealthy little old man!)

So I sat zazen today. I let him sleep in. I'm on my way into the kitchen to finish the dishes from last night. It's the best I can do.

No Rewards

In Soto Zen Buddhism, "practice" refers both to sitting in meditation and then taking that stability and serenity off of the cushion into general life. At least I can say for me that sitting is almost always stable and serene, but it is not always so. Nor should it be...

Quote from The Heart of Wisdom Sutra

Abundantly obsessed with worry over Dad and The People who intrude on my peace of mind, when I sat at the temple yesterday morning, I was having terrible trouble being present in the moment. After sitting on Tuesdays, I have dokusan (which is basically a meeting with my teacher who asks, "How is your practice?").

My practice has gone from sporadic to utterly non-existent. While I was doing my zazen (seated meditation), I chastised myself for everything from my posture on the cushion to thinking too much, to how open my eyes should be to not being present. Basically I was making up issues to fret over that would keep from worrying about what needed to be worried about: me. And for the sake of what?

My teacher has a habit of asking good questions like that. He let me talk it over, asking gentle - and sometimes harsh - questions to help me figure it for myself. And it came down to this: I was worrying about everything in sight because I had this notion that worrying was actually productive. I thought maybe if I wasn't worrying about Dad (or whatever), I wasn't devoting my attention to it and was therefore not helping. The answer I came up with for myself was that probably all Dad has really wanted from me since my birth is for me to take care of myself. To not be troubled, to not worry. All this worry and fretting and brooding helped absolutely nobody ... and for the sake of what?

I am not a drama queen. I get no secondary gain from suffering or stress. By the end of dokusan, I had a lighter step and a freer heart. How to help Mom and Dad and Bryan and everyone else? Take care of myself. Be dedicated to my practice. Honour my commitments to myself. Quit the counter-productive. Be proactive, not reactive.

Do not reward myself for worrying.

~unblogginess~

It has been a Labor Day free from labors.

No one has come to visit; no one has called. Bryan and I had sweet respite all day to ourselves. I read to him from a book we started together. For me, it was a mad escape to the stars in all its science fiction glory. For him, it was a chance to lie on the couch and close his eyes, to let someone else think for him, to just listen. After a few chapters, we ate breakfast. I napped. He played on his computer. He napped. I played on my computer.

Nothing happened.

It was glorious.

What I'm Reading

2009, taken by my sister

I found an awesome book yesterday while browsing Barnes & Noble. When I got home, I thought over it. I wondered if the local used bookstore had it, as I was unwilling to pay too much for it. Especially since new books might look pretty, but there is nothing like a book that has been loved, cover to cover, by the careful hands and eyes of a reader.

No luck.

Being a "Nook" owner, I caved and downloaded it. Apparently, this book has been around awhile, but as I rarely enter bookstores (my impulse to buy out entire shelves is overwhelming), I missed it somehow. It's a book by Philip Zimbardo called The Lucifer Effect. It is a psychology book that explores why so-called "good" people do "bad" things, and vice versa. It got me thinking about schizophrenia.

If, as Zimbardo asserts, there are no real "bad apples", but there probably is something systemic wrong with the barrel made by the power elite, then perhaps - and I've been thinking about this for a long while - my illness might contain a genetic predisposition, but something, somewhere triggered it into effect. What drives a person into madness so profound they can't even calculate what day it is or remember to eat? It's not necessarily that horrible things may or may not have happened to me. This is not a self-obsessive, introverted angle I'm taking. What, I want to know, is contained in the society that shaped me that caused me to close in on Crazy Town? Why was this my "option"? Marilyn Manson noted that he had the same advantages and disadvantages as any of the kids he grew up with. He too wondered what had made him "different". His answer was much the same as Zimbardo's: "You made me, America."

I don't really believe anyone chooses to be schizophrenic. And it's not a choice I would have made, had there been one. Still, I would like some comments on this post (if you can conjure any), no matter how far-fetched, that may enlighten me. This is obviously a germ of profundity I'll have to work on.

P.S. Thank goodness for books.

More Heartaches

Anatomy of the heart by Leonardo Da Vinci

Dad is still in a lot of pain. His aortic valves won't close all the way, and his heart is working too hard. 3 days after his cardioangiogram, he was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. That stubborn man! He even tried to walk to the ambulance. The EMTs were concerned, and finally convinced him to sit on the gurney after he spent all day in pain and collapsing. Mom and I are certain he suffers from "Marine-ism." Except this Marine is in his 70's with a bad heart. Semper Fi, Dad.

The doctors at the hospital did blood work to make sure he wasn't having a heart attack (he wasn't). Then he was told that all the surgeons were on vacation for Labor Day, and the thoratic surgeon is out of town for a week. Not only would Dad have to wait through that week being monitored at the hospital, he would then suffer another week at the mercy of scheduling until his valve replacement was in place. Fed up, Mom made the hospital fax all of his records to the heart institute in Tuscon, and made an appointment with one of their doctors for Dad on Wednesday. His open heart surgery will take place next week, if all goes well. We are just tired of waiting. This all could've been over and done by now, but the doctors here keep dragging their feet, adding to my dad's stress. And mine.

Unable to sleep while all of this is happening, my psychoses and depression have worsened. My pshrink decided to prescribe me a second sleeping pill with the warning that if I couldn't sleep, he would put me in the hospital. Poor Bryan has bronchitis, but still stands steadfastly by. He makes sure I know he will always be here and passes no judgment when I begin smiling at the air, or talking loudly in the other room. He's been amazing. I couldn't ask for a better companion. Still, the illness has taken a downturn. I feel myself shifting down on the uphill climb. One activity a day is too much for me right now. All I seem to be able to do is sit and stare. Painting is a tiny diversion, but my book has sat untouched for a week. All I can think about is my poor dad.

In anticipation for whatever result of the heart surgery, my very best buddy, Steph, will be flying in from California later this month. If Dad does well, he should be recovering and ready for visitors by then. If he dies on the table (even Mom has admitted this might happen), Steph will be here for the family to help take care of things while Mom becomes a disconsolate mess. Hopefully I can stay out of trouble until then.

With Bryan around, I just might make it.

Heartaches

My Heart, pencil and ink, 2005

My father is scheduled for a procedure this morning. His aortic valve is deteriorating rapidly, and he needs a replacement valve. In my dream last night, all that was needed was a simple cut that involved a pig heart. In my dream, it was over in seconds. In real time, the night and morning have dragged on with lead feet. I slept fitfully and woke up every hour to check the clock. Was it time for his surgery yet?

Today is minor. It's only a cardioangiogram.  They want to check the extent of the damage. The major catastrophe will be when his thoratic surgeon gets off his ... intentions ... and does the hard part: The Replacement. But Dad is in such bad shape, we were afraid they might decide to do the surgery today, based on the results of the angiogram. As far as I know, that is still a possibility. And of course there's always the possibility he'll have a heart attack during one or both surgeries.

Everywhere I go in my head, the psychoses speak of great loss. I get into a delusional state where I lose it all. Everything. Then I cry until there's nothing left of me but a sack of skin and a pervasive sense of worry. When two and two go together, they make a picture that is typical of schizophrenia. Stress breeds psychosis.

Sigh.

UPDATE: Dad did well during his angiogram and is now at home, relaxing. The doctors said he has some time before he needs to schedule his valve replacement, which means Mom will have time to get him to Tuscon, where they have a heart institute. Phew!

Hippo Birdie!!

It's my Birthday! I'M A PRINCESS TODAY! (kinda)

Whew! What a day!
My mother and sister surprised me today with carrot cake and presents. They came under the guise of "having coffee." To top off all the surprises, my nephew launched into the disturbing.

Gifts! Yay!

Because of my exhaustion and constant state of mental confusion, I don't remember all the details. But part of my nephew's gift to me was worry. He loved and pet the dog as he excitedly told me a long story about a pyramid he built with people inside it, and a secret potion he made that he takes at night while everyone is sleeping that makes the whole thing the size of a house. While this sounds like a typical, little-kid imagination, I should point out that my nephew is ten years old. He gave this story to all of us with a straight face, insisting it was all real. My sister asked if this all happens in his imagination a few times during his pauses for breath, and by the fourth question, he snapped.
"It's true!" He said with exasperation. Then his eyes widened and he told us he saw a shadow go across my living room wall, that looked "dark, like really dark." He compared this "shadow" to the devil, though in his young fear, he can't bring himself to say the word "devil." Instead, he said "Mr. Pickles." (I was quietly informed that "Mr. Pickles" was the only way my nephew can refer to the much-talked-about devil of his childhood imagination.)
A long silence followed.
My sister and I exchanged looks. How could I give her the "uh-oh, this is what we've feared" signal without scaring the kid?
I said to him, "Sometimes you remind me of me." He beamed his bright smile, and my sister's eyes became haunted. I could only guess at what memories of me as a child she was conjuring behind her hazel irises.

Later, a talk with my mother revealed my nephew is being scheduled for a psychological assessment in September. Apparently, these sudden bursts of outlandish imaginings are becoming more frequent, and are the source of relentless bullying at school. Everyone left with hugs and a silent acceptance. And so with a sigh, I tally up the day:

Birthday Gifts:
From Mom: a camera.
From Sister: a Yoda alarm clock.
From Niece: a card.
From Nephew: regrets, reminders, worry and love.

Unedited

Ahhhh.
The end of the day, at last! Finally, when all the world around me goes to sleep, I am left to my own vices and devices. This is the time for quiet contemplation, rest, and writing.

I've been agitated today. I woke up at 6.30am, as per usual, and found that, while it was sweet that Bryan wanted to paint with me last night, it was a stressor waiting to happen. As I stumbled into the library hoping to see my first watercolour of Tyoma with new enough eyes to fix whatever might have gone wrong last night, I saw:
Bryan had left his (my) watercolour brushes in the water overnight. And, the cap of my pointilism pen was off, thus rendering it useless for more than trash. I sat about in silent consternation for most of the day. I usually don't give much attention to material things; for me, form follows function. But for some odd reason, it is a different matter with my art supplies. They are more valuable to me than a thousand perfect emeralds ... more even than that Orb of Henry VIII's I saw when I visited the Crown Jewels in London. Replaceable? Yes. But still I felt a burr in my side whenever Bryan asked me for anything today.
I was out of it most of the day. I silently warred with The People (as I often do when upset), and doodled angrily while Bryan did his best to be accommodating and giving.
He did the dishes.
He vacuumed.
He burned incense.
He let me blast my music while I took on yet another portrait.
And still it has been a long day.

I guess I need to remember that, for those of us with mental illnesses, even doing nothing all day can invite stress. Even having the most wonderful boyfriend ever (like I do) can wig us out. At least in my delusions, I can predict how I'm going to react.

Part Two

This is another picture of an amazing little boy named Tyoma.

Tyoma #2, watercolour 2011

Here's hoping that world shows him wonder and light.

For Lori (or: A Good Part of the Evening Spent)

Gorgeous Tyoma, watercolour 2011

From My Perspective

Poetry Collage, 2011

Society is trauma. It is a consensus of ethical disfigurements. In order to become a part of it, I've been told to remove my shoes at the airport and take my medication at a certain time. This leaves out the miles of neurons that contraindicate the process of my inclusion. The caliber of arrogance required to normalize a dissident population is enormous. I didn't believe in God until I met a CEO of pharmaceuticals. I didn't believe in religion until I bowed to a chemical reaction that slowed my movements to those of prayer. I've spent a lifetime trying to evade these labels, these arguments on boundaries, these road maps that exclude all others. I didn't want to write down a particular worldview as my vision is not omniscient and therefore blemishes some deeds, rewarding others. There is no sphere that contains me raw, uncooked, fat bristling at my edges, and pumping pure blood through a tapestry of vein. The meat of me is unequivocal. I make no auditions for a master in my sleep. I am boundless and uncontainable.

Treatment Resistant

were the words that came out of my pshrink's mouth two weeks ago.

Artwork by Erskin L. Cherry/ erskin@eldrich.org

 He is the third in a string of doctors who have used this phrase to describe me. So, in contravention to what is usually called "good practice", I have been placed on three anti-psychotics all at once. The good news: they are working well together. The world is quiet, content, and hopeful. The People In My Head are so worn out and faded they seem to be a pair of old jeans that no longer fit (though I still try them on every once in awhile). But, in this circle of mindfulness they are much too big. My universe has contracted to include only me, and a pocketful of reality. Against all predictions and doubts, it is enough.

There is no flat affect. There is no boredom without The Great Circus. There is only reading, writing, watching movies, and keeping house. Well, there is also Bryan, but he is so amazingly supportive and caring that I couldn't possibly shove him out of this small space I've created for my life. It is now a very happy place. I've come to question the phrase "treatment resistant."

By the way, a huge thank you to Erskin L. Cherry for his wonderful depiction of what it feels like inside my brain. All credits and kudos go to him for his incredible piece of art. 

I am not confident

I am not confident about this execution, but my desire to give history back to its own curvature has grown exponentially, and has therefore superceded any need for silence. A friend once told me to keep the good things in my life close to me, and I used to toast my drinks to keeping what I know to myself. This though, this rag doll of what will be me someday, this is what I want as far from me as possible. So in my mind I have created a future and a past in which she will live. I didn't always know that every moment exists outside of time. Linear constructs used to be my religion, and the numeric rituals of math and history were my best subjects in school. That was before she came and set me straight with the - then mystical - suggestion that eternity didn't know graphs or lines; that when all things were considered, all anybody has is right here, right now. This was how I came to absorb the idea, in a visceral way, that forever was never a long time. Like her, forever had nothing to do with the endless ticking of minutes we all imagine. None of forever has anything at all to do with time. It simply is - unconcernedly, unobtrusively, and mostly unnoticed. And before you can think it or grasp it, it's gone. That's how I met her, when my naive uncertainty of forever collapsed. "You are not who you think you are," she informed me with that quirky arrangement of eyebrows we both possessed. I was struck by this, as much as I was surprised someone almost identical to me could be so separate. It was obvious who she was, but less obvious who she might think she was. She was my equal in height, with the same haunted brown eyes and turned down mouth. It was almost exactly like looking into a mirror, except that the mirror was tinted by age, wrinkled around the eyes, slightly stooped over, and gone slightly to fat. I asked the inevitable: "Are you who I will become?" Time had turned over in its sleep and folded its arms to touch its toes. Benignly she smiled. Seeing my own smile in third person was disarming. She nodded, accusing me of the wreck she was in front of me. There was a grief then, hers for me and mine for myself. I knew immediately, with that same grim certainty with which a thief eyes the gallows that I was doomed to follow the scarred footprints in her Salvation Army shoes. I would go with what I'd always imagined was my own design, but would end a ruin, a regret, a ghost. I would walk behind her in the eternal moment, making decisions I will believe are choices and end my forever being alone, misunderstood, and different.  

Truce?

            I’ve been labouring under the impression that life with medication is dull and flat, like a butter knife. I’ve come to see it as grey and unappealing. My separation from schizophrenia (we are divided by small gelatin capsules at this point) has made me perceive it not as dark chaos, but as a swirling land of light and life. In my mind, colours dive and reflect from its surface. On one end, bland tea after cleaning the house and the rigors of stepping into shoes or showers or bus stops – the hopelessly mundane. On the flipside I see a veritable disco ball of busyness, a bright, swirling world of wonder where I own and am the world.

I have a psychiatrist who says I need medication for my broken, hapless brain. He has seen too many wayfarers slip into the bottomless pit of egocentric depression. He has known too many souls who are lost in schizophrenia’s miasmic, quicksand arms. And I have a Jungian psychotherapist who insists that when schizophrenia is seen as a positive attribute that should be celebrated, and not as a negative abnormality that must be “corrected”, the downward spiral of worry and self-destruction following an episode is slowed considerably, and in some cases wiped out. He says societies that allow for such a thing to be accepted and embraced have a much lower rate of suicide as well.

Which to choose? If only there were some kind of truce, some kind of breaking the walls down between these two worlds, someway I could have both.

Every day I wake and choose my mind-numbing medication. I choose reality and now-ness. But I am tired. I am tired of living as a patient, a half-awake cripple. Some part of me wants desperately to cast off the shackles of my gelatin Safety Floats and swim away, go to the deep end where the archetypes are, frolic in the water of living (and not just surviving). I miss the cool, frantic shadows of my naked brain. I miss painting and writing on and on for half a day, thinking only a few minutes have gone by. I miss the output I achieved.

Sadly, my life story goes like this: “One time, when I was 14, I got sick and then stayed in my room for 20 years. The end.”

And in more depressing news, it shall remain this way. I will continue to gobble up Medicare and medication. But I am putting this in my blog anyway. It is a missive from me to the vacuous world of ether that says simply, I wish I were alive. 

Observations From Underneath the Multitudes

One of my sketches, 2006

IF...

I fold up my inability into a circle, my knees will touch my forehead; my toes will curl under; my eyes will close and I will be numb from the inside out. The world is an egg and I struggle inside it. Sometimes I feel like a stowaway on a sinking ship, hoping for the languid bottom to finally cork my lungs, swell my belly, and hide me forever. In a sea of people, I swim toward the whirlpool of Nobody, eddying down until I am dissolved.  People are like horses to me; they thunder over my quiet voice and my lowered eyes.  I am trampled at the start of everyday with these ignoble masses bearing down on me.  What they don’t know is they feed me secrets here at the bottom. The rubbish in the center of their hearts is pushed and repressed to my eye level, where I can see plainly the stones they hide from their glass houses.  The floor of their mental trash bins is slick with refuse and my feet gingerly step like amphibians in the cool of their doubts and questions.  It’s like drool from the seat of the soul.  I waiver in my obstinacy to join these swirling herds, packs, gaggles, murders, and groups of the lifeless.  I’m tired of noses turned down at me, as though my fingers form their sanitation crews, as though the muck in their emotional crypts were mine to bury.  Somehow they believe I’ll cover their ruinous cycles with my very body – as though my existence were mourning veil for the results of a failed polygraph, or the desire for the explicit embarrassments too soon revealed.  I want to enter into the universe, cracking my embryo of stagnation that smoothes over the rough and tumble of others’ imaginations.  I am – so far – putrid within the rotting nucleus of doldrums and decadence.  I live among the cigarette butts of the rich, the stupid, the fake, and the cruel.  Inwardly I would burn up in the regress of human history, and languish like a pulsar that quietly thumps a reminder of impermanence.

Imperfect

One of my own sketches, 2005

            Last night my boyfriend and I had a troubling conversation over Existentialism versus Nihilism. He with his stomach ache, me having forgotten my medicine, we circled each other like fighting dogs and got nowhere. I apologized for my annoyance and irritability. I have a tendency to lean towards Devil’s Advocate when I am unsure of what I really think, and I felt I had broken this bond we’ve been steadily building over the past few months. He replied in his usual kind generosity, “It’s alright. You don’t have to apologize. We both had a bad night.”

            But my heart has caved in.

            This morning I woke to a dysphoria that broke the bones of my jaw and the joints of my knees; today there is no speech or movement that isn’t painful. I keep very silent at times like these, agonizing over the small things that make life a deep suffering, but which are utterly meaningless. I bury my head in pillows and wish I was anywhere else but here: on Mars maybe, or in the deserts of Iraq where silly things like lives are ruined everyday. I would welcome a suicide bomber today. We would both get what we’ve wanted. Heaven, Heaven. 

My boyfriend hangs around like laundry. He is unsure what to do in the shifting wind of my illness. He moves this way and that, either trying to keep up or caught in an eddy – I can’t tell which. And I love him for his steadfast stewardship of my imperfect heart. I want to hold him tight right at this moment, but he is resting from the tightly strung air of left-over conversations, in the middle of the bed as usual.

So not all ground is level and even heaven has cracks in it.

He is still gentleness defined, and I am still broken and edged with sharp angles.

But it is life.

We are still breathing.

Madness

is an uncomfortable syllable on my tongue, as though fighting for its life.  The welling of words that doctors surround it with drowns its simplicity, as though it were more than what it is.  Loud and loutish I spark and sizzle within its grasp.  Crazy can fall into any category as smooth as baby’s skin.  It eats chaos.  It is alive and unlovable.  It seethes under my epidermal layer with the fluid lucidity of a fish in water.  I want to enter into it and drown in its motherly suffocation.  I need great gulp of a fascist lunacy to subsist.  It comes as natural to me as breathing.  In repression I take no food and stop paying attention to mirrors.  I am both partial and unused, a wreck of wasted breath.  I resign from the world, straining toward coherency.  I remember bits and pieces, selective adjectives, and discordant diaries.  The world slides away in shards, sorrowful and lost without its purpose.  I find myself recycling memories, recalling fractures of conversations, and reusing phrases from old poetry.  Nothing seems to fit.  My eyes glaze over with age and still I am unable to process or comprehend the intimate, visceral loss of conscious direction.  But the world tilts on its axis and moves by dispassionately.  I am no longer stable on its revolution.  Its consistency muddles the mess of my mind.  As a wound, my delirium sucks in all it encounters, bleeding out the people who brush it with their distractions.  I walk about like a braggart, stuffed into my oversized clothes, eating nothing, touching nothing, saying nothing, knowing everything.  Images scatter when I touch them, like reflections in water.  What is there to do with this contagion hanging over me?  What indeed is left to say?  It has seen my unbelievable conceit and has taken my vocabulary like a surgeon would take a tumor.  It has left me wholly crippled down the right side of my imagination … a censure of sorts.  Delusion has a conscientious objection to my arrogance and bites my language in two.  Now with a forked tongue I turn my collar up and stride off into a world of massive silence.

Bad Medicine!

            For legal and ethical reasons, I don’t feel I can name the medications I’ve been on, for a few of them I would never endorse to a single soul. Let’s just say the one that worked the best (we’ll call it M for shorthand, and it stands for Medication), had the worst side effects a person could imagine for me. Even starving myself and doing TaeKwonDo several times a week as exercise, I continued to gain until little, 5’2” me weighed 226 lbs. I could barely breathe, or climb stairs. I certainly couldn’t run. My father has Type II Diabetes (adult onset at that), and I was deathly afraid I was going to die from M. I begged and begged to get off of it, and finally the doctors acquiesced. Within just a few months, I lost over half of the weight I had gained on M. That is not to say that I weigh less than 113 lbs! Far from it, but half of the weight I had gained while on M is gone. I can breathe, I can run, and I can turn over in my sleep comfortably. I can shop in normal clothing stores. I am a person again. But I have been left with some crippling, long-term side effects, such as an anxiety disorder that began with M and some others.

I guess the lesson here is to say quite loudly that if you feel your medication is not working for you, and the side effects outweigh the benefits (pun intended), talk to your doctor about alternatives. Remember, doctors are there to help you, and it is your life. In my humble opinion the docs work for me, not the other way around. Stand up and be heard! Your voice is valuable.

From Half-Way Around the World

Bec in my library, 2011

                My friend Bec came from Australia to spend a month with me (excluding her lark to the wonderland of Harry Potter-ness in Florida). I wanted to include a post about her, because she is one of the most important friends in my life. Like me, she suffers from mental illness. Like me, she writes embarrassingly emo stuff about that tug-of-war that goes on in her mind. Like me, she finds stress relief and therapy in words, art, and song lyrics.
                I met Bec about 4 years ago in a poetry chat room online. Our words fell in step together like soldiers in the war for self-confidence. It was immediately apparent that she also hid behind the beauty of metaphor and imagery and we became sisters in the online years that followed. She has overcome the hardships of a family that does not understand mental illness, the stigma against homosexuality, and homelessness. Now, armed with her words and her political activism against oppression of any kind, she has resewn the bond with her mother, become a speaker and activist for gay rights, and attends university full time while holding down a job. My struggle with mental illness has been far less stressful, and she reminds me every time we talk that everyone has something to teach.
                This post today is a blog tribute to her.
                Thank you, Bec. You are an inspiration.
                You are my friend.

Upon Request:

These are a few of my watercolours. (The first is of my Aussie friend, Bec. Forthcoming are pictures of the culprit ...)

Paintings of Bec by ME!
(The bottom right is impressionistic)

Watercolour of Tim Lincecum by ME

(Sideways) watercolour of Mary Manson by Me

It should be pointed out, by the way, that I own the originals, and if you or anyone you know claims they painted these ... expect the plagiarism police.

All in one day?

Okay, I suck at multi-tasking.

I don’t have a bajillion things to do today, but I have 3 or 4 – and that’s enough to make me mental (well, okay, a little more mental).

My friend from Australia arrived yesterday, and despite not sleeping the night before from excitement and the fact that we were too excited to see each other to go to bed last night until at least 1am, today I had therapy and a meeting with a Zen master, plus some shopping to do. I’m freaking exhausted and worn. But there are guests here now (the boyfriend, and the Aussie pal), dinner needs taken care of, and my mind is blank blank blank.

If the blog suffers for my suckage at handling more than one thing at once, I apologize.

Almost there ...

Public Domain image

            He stands up as straight as the finger I want to show him. He comes to me with cameras, with excuses, and venom. As soon as his appearance registers in my brain – there is a shift in my mind that slides into an unknown slot – I am filled with dread. He hates me. I hate myself vicariously. Suddenly my life is all in 3^rd person. I see him seeing me; I see me seeing him. I feel him hating me, wanting to beat me and belittle me and abuse me. He has been watching for a long time with recording devices. He’s everywhere. I rub my eyes to exorcise him from them. The skin around the lids becomes red and sore and nothing results. As always, he’s only almost there.

If you hadn’t noticed, I am not always “there.” My mind warps and weaves itself away from reality. I drown in what is at best a daydream and at worst a full-blown psychosis. On any given day I exist somewhere between the two. But wait, you say. Psychosis? Are you saying you’re psychotic? (Or at least you are saying this if you remember those word root exercises from the 3^rd grade.) And yes, I am.

For those of you who need a distinction between what I go through and all those distasteful things that are lumped under the word “psychotic,” this: There is indeed a difference between psychotic and psychopathic. Psychopathic means that one’s brain has been hardwired without a conscience, rendering that person capable of brutal and heinous acts which they perceive as having little or no emotional consequence. All that psychotic means is that I am hallucinating and delusional enough to believe the hallucinations are real, thus warranting some kind of response.

To sum up the differentiation: Psychopathic = climbing onto a clock tower and taking people out indiscriminately with your deer rifle and not feeling any need to apologize. Psychotic = talking to the voices in your head in all alone in a room you are too paranoid to leave. Yes, both can be dangerous, but only 2% of people in prison for a violent offense is considered psychotic. If you’re into math, it is deducible easily that this leaves a whopping 98% of folks incarcerated for violence who are discerned certifiably sane. Think about that.

So, the first paragraph today is a small taste of what it’s like to have these annoying People inside your head. I know they aren’t real, but somehow it still feels like they are. This makes it difficult to keep it together in public, especially if the situation is stressful. “They” are all around me, anonymous and ubiquitous. It’s like I have an entourage everywhere I go. Honestly, it makes me feel bad for the numerous celebrities who really do have people following them everywhere with cameras.

Myself, I have never been violent, and believe me my case of schizophrenia is pretty severe. My main problem is being able to tell between reality and fantasy. But I take medicine like a religion. I try to sleep enough. I practice Zen meditation to still my thoughts. I take care of myself and keep in touch with my support system. I see a psychotherapist along side my medication doctor. I still have bad days, but I’m getting well.

And I’m almost there.

The Poetry of Madness

If I were to say anything about my poetry, it would include a sense of freedom. Its cryptic language can seem like a barrier at first, a verbal barb to keep intruders out, but if one peers carefully between the bars of type they will see a soul. It is mine. Under its weave of metaphor I create myself, remember myself, understand myself.

I have thought a lot about whether I will post any poems in this blog. I understand that works created after 1977 need no official copyright to be protected under the law, but how many others do? I know it’s legally my property as soon as it rolls off my pen. The disparaging fact is that there are still some who don’t know this. And yes, I am afraid my hard work will be taken from me by some inconsiderate plagiarizer. You, gentle reader, will no doubt understand. Maybe my poems don’t garner me any money, or food, or even respect, but they are still fruits of my labour. So I have reservations.

Yet, this blog is in itself an act of bravery and good faith. I am rolling out my corpse for the masses, throwing rot and glitter on it to see if it is truly quelled by its mortality. To see if anyone can understand, or even relate. Also, the title of this blog itself came from one of my earlier poems, one that I wrote for my mother just fresh from a diagnosis. So, after much consideration, I am posting a piece that I feel expresses my frustration with this insidious madness and the insult of medication that comes with it. Who knows? Maybe someone who has my diagnosis in whatever form will see that there is a place for understanding, for love, and for freedom in words? Here goes!

Infirmity

Recovery is made complicated

by a collapsing of will, by a folding of fingers,

by the coughing mechanism in my brain

that subdues all thought.

There is synchronicity in failures,

as though their coming together makes the universe

sane or digestible.

I am difficult these days:

a nesting doll of insufficiencies,

one hidden under the other like layers of protective skin,

each one thickening my lucidity.

I am impervious to the cutting edge of reason.

I go nowhere; my bubble is perfect.

Reflections pass through me, distortions

of the places or people I’ve been.

A layer of film thin as fingernails

shimmers its rainbow at me and I blink,

dazed by its fabulous promise.

I can’t get to it without breaking

the skin, without bursting through walls

of blunted stupidity.

I am blank.

The slug of my mind regresses to regularity and

mediocrity takes the place of art or hope.

Brokenly I walk on rheumatoid limbs,

the chop-chop of the clean sidewalk impedes me

with its consistency.

I am so centerless and crooked

that brute force is required to counter the injury of boredom.

Grey and listless, there are no true circles –

only twisting, toddler approximations.

My bedside table is littered

with vapid letters, stunted pencils, and crude lines.

I lean forward to it in expectation, but nothing results;

I am the white blindness of meditation.

My pen has no edgy nerves.

My hands are filled in with concrete, dry and heavy.

My fingers flake off like chalk,

dust drops from my sagging eyelids.

I am unable

unable

unable.

What it feels like to be nobody

Public Domain image from the internet.

            I am always tired these days, yet I hardly sleep. When I am alone in bed, when my consciousness drops, I am filled to overflowing with self-derision and hopelessness. The voices in my head clang and clamor for notice. They become accusatory and critical, shouting at me about my weight, my looks, and anything I can do nothing about. Sometimes they become silent watchers, looming over me like an impatient crowd. Have you ever tried to sleep with the feeling that someone was watching you? It’s gotten so that even the bathtub is scary. Lying naked and prone and helpless does invite stress, and when stress is involved, so are The People (that’s what I call them). I doubt they’d be scared of the washcloth or my leg razor, which is all I’d have to fight them with.

            I have various strategies for dealing with these kinds of invasions. Usually, I turn The People into giant milk cartons and imagine running them over with my car. The SPLAT  they make is incredibly satisfying. Sometimes I just repeat to myself, “No, there’s nobody there. No, there’s nobody there.” My mind is excellent at searching out holes in logic, or gaps in plans, though. As soon as I can think of a defense against these phantasms, they’re on to it. Attack and counter-attack. Point and counter-point. An endless war no one can see.

The problem is I can feel them there, watching. And I can hear them there, commenting. That feeling you get when there’s someone standing behind you is the same feeling of a presence I get when The People are nearby. And they are never far away from me.

When I was younger, I thought they were ghosts. I thought I was special. I thought the gift of seeing all of these apparitions was for me alone. Everything had to do with me, and I ran round and round in my egocentric circles. That billboard? A special sign for me. 3 stones in a row? An augury of great importance for me. A double-take on the street, or a penny on the ground? You guessed it. That must be why there’s a “me” in “meaning”. Everything I thought had a circular logic that brought it back to me.

On medication, this all changed. The fabulous circus exploding in my head was gone, wiped clean and fresh as new milk. Except that it came back. Small at first, and unnoticed, it crept in like a burglar. It took the things I valued most: privacy, serenity, silence. The difference is I’ve learned that chance happenings in the world or random glances from others have nothing to do with me. Indeed the planet requires no observation to do its boogey-woogey thing. Still, The People haunt me.

Here’s the thing that makes me human, the thing that keeps everyone guessing what the difference is between them and a madman: in my head it’s still all about me. Everything I see or touch is filtered by my cognizance of it. And the contradiction strikes me flat every time I think of it. Inside is this “I” that has a sense that it is valuable and rare. Outside is proof that millions and billions of I’s exist all at once, each pushing and pulling according to their own little introverted desires. Welcome to humanity, I say. This is what it’s like to be nobody.