Once there was optimism to see silver laced clouds till the world shook on its axis and decidedly bowed. Psychosis (they say) is to go quite insane, lose touch with reality, but they never mention the pain. When all that is true breaks at the seams, life becomes survival, desperation and screams. Mistrusting your judgement since all you see is false, no more gut feelings to rely on, you’ve got to just halt. Buried beneath the weight of taunting monsters and more, the theories roll, there is no staunching it despite how you implore. Eventually, the doctor will finally take note, through terror laced tears you sought out help and hope. The medicine works! That’s great, saves the day, the 50lb weight gain, well at least you’re not in a grave. Time will return that the world is no longer asunder, blessed peace will come back, beautiful and quiet as thunder. There isn’t much that the mind cannot do, it a remarkable system when it runs smooth. So if you find yourself in that darkest of nights, keep hold of your love and never stop searching for light. Psychosis is agony, there’s no hiding it, vulnerability is the solution though surrendering seems amiss. Give trust to those that care about you, seeing through their eyes might keep you from the thorazine zoo. Recognize, none of us perfection incarnate, schizo or not we all have a life to live well and stories to make.
Hesitation on the edge of perfection while the wind whips back past the lips of despair and a trajectory that ends splatted on the rocks below. A momentary pause for God knows what reason, soliloquy rattling like unquenched armor inside a skull aching for reasons and meaning.
No jovial tone to be found other than the laughing hysteria that comes choked off with a seemingly endless parade of tears. Coughing, bawling, howling, begging, giggling into the yawning darkness and discontent of a reality set to dissolve beneath the weight of a mind misfiring badly.
The beautiful tableau awash in sunlight and a fucking million possibilities all riots against that creeping sensation that “all is not what it seems”. A centipede who can no longer walk because he thought about how he did it. Natural instinct sold out into chained slavery inside the boundaries of nothing and infinity. Conjured by poisons and released by fears it’s set loose as a hungry behemoth on the landscape of mind, the carvings of soul, the sculpture of heart.
Hesitation on the edge of perfection with the barest sliver of hope overcoming resignation. Nothing is ever as it seems, and the worst of the world today may become the most redeemed beauties of tomorrow. Shake off the terror and walk into the fire to be forged anew.
The edge of perfection recedes against hope. Time slips forward into the next scene.
So often I would sit and wail about "why"? The frustration unending, the obsession ongoing, a gut wrenching demand to understand that in itself kept me from the knowledge, the peace I sought.
Sick in the head druggie, psychopath, crazy as a shit house rat, lunatic, insane, addict, "something's wrong with that kid" -
I tried to own those labels make them something to be proud of. I tried doing that, by doing all the things I imagined people with those labels would do. I followed that up, by demanding that I not be persecuted, not be judged, not be looked at differently, though I had just behaved in a way that demanded all those things happen.
Now I come to terms, sit with the idea of peace, find pride not in my actions but in the understanding that awareness and acceptance bring. To know that I am not an actor playing out roles, that I lost myself, but I am a survivor, no longer needing to play the role of victim or perpetrator anymore.
It's a small thing, Which means so much to me. To be able to introduce myself, engage in a conversation, with confidence. Know that I accept who I am as a being, that I no longer let labels define who I choose to see myself as, act as a script for my identity, or be my scapegoats when I screw up.
That like so many others, I am the hero and the villain, of my own story. That my abnormal mental states, my addictions, all the resulting experiences, are gifts to allow me opportunities, to shine my brightest against the backdrop of adversity, and decide just how much of it there would be.
To know that there are others out there gleaming, and if we encounter each other it could be in the form of respect and love, admiration for the battles fought, no matter whether they were felt won or lost, an opportunity to compare notes and grow.
I'm not ashamed of who I am, or where I am today, I am disappointed in many of my choices but they have been mine to make, and they were made. I used to have a vision of the perfect person, someone that I would measure myself to and inevitably fall short.
Today I am me, released on the world perfectly defective, beautifully abnormal, gifted with challenge and capacity for growth.
All of it, so that I have a chance to become an oh so slowly evolving, human being.
Despite every frothing nuanced prayer that initializes my psyche, the distorted grimace of broken promises and lost understanding, perched atop a wistful hallucination, a misted and cloaked recollection of the past run doggedly down by the present pretense.
If ever there was something akin more to the listless and forgiving welcome end of the fight with the embittered arrogance of senses beguiled by a world at odds with the wasted conviction that drives each of us to draw determined store each day.
I don’t want to see that shit.
It’s going to remain a figment of some darker god’s plaything.
Poor darlings chained up until the scent of dread and hate and playful desperation and longing and weakness and fear cum resignation. Soaks the fingers loose from greased clasp on steel.
Fucking breaking would be the sweetest of releases.
To find forgiveness in deceit , blunder through fields of denial, laden and swollen deep with the putrid rage at self and world.
Just take one more day beautiful.
I’m begging through this weakness and shame of my indignant mistrust.
Please show me I’m crazy enough that I won’t die in my hate lust that these fears have spawned.
I’ll be your puppy faced joker.
Your sterile cat of misapprehension.
Feed me your sin to mirror mine and kiss these wounds to sew them shut against a clot of your mercy. The sheen was lost so long ago and hasn’t been a clean reflection since you woke me to a world of normalcy bathed in the crackled genius of the wounded.