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| july 2004 |
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| Okay | 7:01am saturday, 31st july |
I think I'm okay again. And really, this time, I was never really that out of it. I don't even know if I'd classify this as another "episode" or not. I'm thinking not quite; like I said, I didn't do anything too stupid. So, let me try and leave this place again, and once again, if the madness rears its ugly haunches another time, then I will be back to let you know what's (been) going on. My life is pretty good right now, and I think if I stay on the medication (for at least a good while from now), all will be well. I guess that's the last little thing I will leave you with: don't be so overconfident, after the madness seems to have subsided, that you can do without the things that enable your sanity. Like your medication. There are other things, too, I am sure. I will chalk this up as a lesson in humility. Count it all joy, and all that. So, goodbye again.
For now.
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| Quieter | 8:10am wednesday, 28th july |
It’s quieted down, somewhat. I have gone through some harrowing fear this time, but I guess (in the grand scheme of things) it wasn’t that big a deal. I have found much comfort in the life of Philip K. Dick — one of the reasons for me not to believe that I am some sort of devilspawn, who will take over the world with all kinds of magical powers, is that Philip K. had a similar trip as I am having now, and he went on to live a relatively normal life. That’s all I really want, right now: a normal life. Since the last episode to now (I don’t think this really counts as a third episode, since I didn’t really do anything stupid this time), I had secretly wanted to be a prophet — I wanted to believe in a few, select parts of my madness. I don’t want that anymore. Going round a full circle as I have, though, back to the beginning, may not be a fruitless trip in the long run. The experience that turns you back to your roots: that can be priceless in itself. So, anyway, I’m still talking to Jesus Christ and His angels (mostly Micha-el, there), but it’s fine. Like my madness has mostly been, these good voices just want me to live a better life. No, not too bad; not too bad at all.
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| Back for a Little | 11:38pm sunday, 25th july |
I’m back for right now. I made the mistake of trying to cut out my meds (Zyprexa), when I was low, first cutting them into halves and quarters, then stopping taking them altogether. The results were not pleasant. Fortunately, I haven’t done anything stupid yet (though in my madness’ logic, that may not be the case), and I am back on my medication. The psychosis was an old one, that I was the Antichrist, and damned forevermore. The cartoon angels in my head got me believing that again, along with a mock-up of Satan. I still think a little that I may be the son of perdition. The only thing that’s getting me through this is my faith in Jesus Christ. I pray, and it helps to ease the suffering. Yes, it’s sometimes somewhat painful when these dark visions occur — on the inside. That truce I had with my mind didn’t last very long, although, to be honest, I wasn’t that far gone this time. Or should I say, not that far gone right now. It’s still live, in my head. Anyway, I think I might be posting sporadically with updates about how I’m doing.
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| This Is It | 3:45am saturday, 3rd july |
There will be no more posts here, I don't think. This was, this is, a blog of my madness, my schizophrenia and manic depression: this is what you expect, and I think I can't give you that anymore. I don't want to. Doubtless, it has been great therapy for me to get much of what I have written off my chest, but I feel I have done it enough. This patient is graduating. I alluded to this in yesterday's poem: I mean what I say in it, that there is a deeper voice within me that wants to speak, not one of madness, but one of experience, one of thought. This is not what you paid your admission for, so to speak, to hear me ramble about this philosophy and that (notice how they've been about that kind of thing lately?). I know, I always have had a philosophical bent, but this is a more serious calling in that regard, and that is all I want to do, more or less. No more stuff about psychosis. No more ditties on mental illness. Not that I will ever be 100% recovered, but I am secure enough, now, that I am close enough for all purposes concerned. I am moving on.
Along this long, strange road I have carved, some people have been kind enough to say that I, and this site, give them hope. Great thanks to you. If perhaps you came for such comfort, I think there is enough here, still, that may just accommodate you. Even this last post, here, is a message of hope. This is to tell you that I have recovered enough to think of myself as "sane", however vague that word may be. I have learned that I can, and have, affected this world. So, I want to do it in a meaningful way, and I think I need to do this elsewhere. This place was good to me, a sturdy home to grow up in, but I feel I am outgrowing it, now. No more wading in the shallow waters — I am ready to take the plunge into the outer sea.
Who knows? There may come a time when my madness overtakes me once again. I hope not, but it exists as a possibility. In that event, perhaps I shall return to write more of my therapeutic ciphers. But I really wouldn't count on it; I have made something of a truce with my mind. So, like the title says, this is it. Farewell, so long, and thanks for all the fish.
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| Voice | 5:33am friday, 2nd july |
There is a deeper voice in me,
it wants to speak: a low rumble that
has come of its age, that
has slowly been brewing in my belly.
It has taken years for this
to suddenly happen,
as if in my dreams I had secretly
been practicing my wings,
forgetting that the sky brushed my face
when I awakened back on earth.
The winds of my philosophy
begin to roil in steady
rumination, the threat
of my imagination is more than illusion.
I am small, like a teaspoonful
of stardust, a fleeting
shadow that you will not soon forget.
I take nothing with me.
Let me walk into the world
with only the fear of God
in my heart, and I shall cower
at no other thing; let me
serve my Lord as I have known
that someday I could.
This poem is my childhood's end.
This poem is a dream
touching down into the world.
My friends, I now walk
into the wilderness,
and I may not get far; but this fire
inside my breathing
wants to break free of
its habitual abbreviations, to
drive into the unlimited
expressions of the inner light,
and the outer dark. To break free.
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| See? | 7:11am thursday, 1st july |
I think, philosophy... perhaps, that there are no philosophical problems. Not really. Not like Wittgenstein's thinking, that there are just linguistic puzzles, but that all the important questions — that they all have answers. Really, I think so. I think the meaning of life is love, for instance. That this has always been so, that it will always be so. (Some crass souls may say no, that it's to perpetuate the species, but I say that animals are meant to procreate: we're here to love.) You get shoved in your face time and time again that love is the answer. So much so that you don't want to hear it anymore, and you brush it aside for the hundredth time without really considering that there might be something to it. That something so simple, that everybody knows about, could really be the meaning of life. Couldn't be, could it? Why is everyone still asking, then, if it's right in front of their nose? It is "We don't notice that miracles happen every day simply because they happen every day." It's so obvious no one takes it seriously.
People are still asking what they were asking thousands of years ago. They're just phrasing it in different ways, and this only sometimes. Then they either say that the question is faulty or give some answer that someone else always finds an exception to. And some of these questions are serious problems, and make one wonder how people go on, how they hold it together and get through life. But yet, they do. This leads me to believe that either the problems of philosophy are not as serious as they seem, or that somewhere in each of us — even as we're asking the question — we have some idea of its answer. And no, I'm not talking about Plato's amamnesis, that you're remembering what you learned before you were born, but that people have answered these questions at one point or another, especially in the case of what they mean for themselves. Sometimes, though, we can't believe that the answers could be so simple; so we pull and pull at it, until it ultimately unravels, and then say, "See?"
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