After a series of crazy events left me in an undeniably Schizophrenic condition, I surrendered. The first thing I did, after promising my family that I’d make the best of their help, was research. I read relevant materials on aspects of Schizoaffective Bipolar Type that would explain the mystery for me. It was a mystery of overlapping persuasive bodily symptoms and occurrences that made it hard to do anything at all. It was hard to get from one place to another, to talk normally with people, to handle the depressing reality I was left with, etc. And mind you, I was a highly competent individual before all this. Very social, talented, and funny.
I was looking for solutions. I had some theories of my own and I wanted them to be right because then there would be a way I could solve the problem. Not that I’d ever know everything about it, but I’d know enough to be able to try to solve the problem and become high-functioning again. Nobody in my family or family’s history has Schizophrenia. This made me feel like I have this personal disease and that I’m a weakling who can’t handle life. But Schizophrenia is . . . what is it?
There was one book about Schizophrenia that opened with a simple statement: “Schizophrenia is Hell.” I put that book aside right away knowing I don’t agree with the writer’s choices. Why settle like that? It doesn’t have to be. For the next months I worked on a way Schizophrenics don’t have to be disembodied (It’s very good, by the way.) From there–embodiment–creativity, pleasure, and play is possible. And the “center [can] hold”
But I was suffering a helluva lot. More than I could handle, honestly. Every other night was spent needing to defeat the Enemy enough to keep him at bay. Otherwise he would grab on to me inside and cause me pain and hindrances. I had to use my personal strength to its fullest. I also tried to “solve the problem” and defeat the Enemy once and for all. At long last, that proved to be futile. But my determination to defeat him gave rise to yet another way Schizophrenics don’t have to be disembodied.
It was another of my Dance(s) out of Darkness. You can use your muscles to make the light and life IN you transcend the pain and warfare. I used rap music. I also used rap music to overcome the mental torture the Enemy put me through. He was living in me. And not only trying, but trying very very hard to torment me as much as possible. It was his only reason for existing. To make life suck for me.
I’ll never forget the single tear that rolled down my mother’s face when she held me after yet another long episode where I had to fight with the Enemy. She looked at my face and saw that it had all been going on in my body. She said it looked like I’d been severely traumatized. Her tear was slightly discolored because her worrying had made her sick. This was a disease my whole family was going through.
Hell isn’t a cave with fire and witches and red creatures with sharp pronged sticks. It is constant suffering. I said it a few times and then I said it a lot, shaking: “Every waking hour”. Because James went to bed with me, also did things to me in my sleep (yes, he was able to enter and manipulate my dreams somehow), and I woke up to James starting some hindrance or difficulty in my body—something for me to have to struggle with all day including the moment I get out of bed.
“It’s every waking hour.” And even when I’m asleep. Because many nights I was tortured every time I drifted off to sleep, and had to jerk myself hard out of a terrifying nightmare I was experiencing with my whole body. Sometimes James would blast me with real shocks every time I fell asleep. It would go on and on because I was so exhausted I’d still try to sleep. There were about 1,000 jackass pranks James created, to keep me from basic comforts like sleep, living life with friends and lovers, work. I hated his mother&#%@ing guts.
All the while my peers and all people were out my window enjoying the simple and also bigger pleasures in life. They had no idea how lucky they were to be living in society, with each other. I prayed ceaselessly and meditated upon the bible, topic by topic, every morning. Oh how I wanted to be there, with everyone.
I stood at the edge of my bedroom looking for it. Looking for the taste and color and sound of the song that would work this time. To make magic happen—me and the humanitarian songbirds blowing in the wind. Something I truly could never give up on. Trying to turn it to music. Pain- beauty. Something beautiful and inspiring to share with the world. That kept me company and kept me joyful the whole year I had to suffer this warfare. I will have something good to give to my people! And they will be proud of me.
I never stayed still. I never settled. The songbirds, Heaven, God and His Divine Angels sent to take care of my life. I prayed and tried to coordinate all my efforts. To make a story. A narrative. Understanding what’s correct and what’s the better sound. What goes to Heaven and takes me along. Life is . . . music. And Schizophrenia is now a part of life.
Christine – [email protected]