Schizophrenia- One Moment Of Many

Received Text Message:

"I want you to know, that you mean a ton to me. I love you very much and so does the entire family... never forget that!"


Internal Commentary and Reaction:

"NO! Not that... don't surrender. Venomous whore... not after what you have done! They'll never love you! I love you... WE love you! Just us... just me. It will never happen! WE should kill you for entertaining such drivel! YOU should kill yourself... this isn't for you! Do it... DO IT! Rip it out... rip it out! Stop it! Not now... not NOW! Taste the bleach... DO IT!"

The vibrations become so intense... like ribbons of flesh dancing in pale light. The plague is spreading throughout my chest... violent vibrations pushing bile into the back of my throat. Confusion. I want to believe this... I want to feel it. I need to feel it, just this once. The screams become louder... more haunting. Like the victory grunt of a rapist's orgasm... the final thrust cleaves me in two. I flinch at the touch that intended comfort... with teeth pinned tight against my inner check, I taste the warm, salty blood fill my mouth. I can't do this... I can't feel this. I must go... fading dark now, I step aside. Someone else must deal with this... not me, not now. Shhhh, I'm here... go to sleep. Go to sleep.

American Green Cross - Profit From Pain

I have held my tongue for far too long on this matter... the Tsunami that hit Japan. It has almost been forgotten here in the U.S. and no longer on our local news or major headlines. Perhaps you are asking yourself the same question I am... why? First off, I fucking love Japan and the Japanese people... richly filled with honor and culture, it would be my dream to go live there. So, here is the ugly truth about America... I still have limited free speech, so I am going to use it. This country was built on scandals and it continues to thrive on the suffering. Japan gets hit by a massive natural disaster... what better time to line the pockets of the bloated, hucksters of America? Let's take advantage, shall we? They ask everyone in America to donate to their fraudulent programs, such as the America Red Cross, and in turn we have helped these people in need. Wrong. Someone asked me, "Are you going to help out Japan and donate some money?". I said, "No fucking way am I giving America a penny to pocket over someone's suffering!". All of the money that was donated was pocketed, my friends. That's right. Our Messiah President and N.W.O. leaders pocketed every penny. The American Red Cross isn't even owned or operated by Americans... I'll give you a hint to whom it really belongs. Can you say, "mass media"? I dare not speak against that particular group of people... after all, my free speech rights don't quite go that far. I don't want people raiding my home, placing a black hood over my head and rushing me off to one of those F.E.M.A. death camps just yet. Sure, some might be thinking, "If you hate this country so much, then get the fuck out!". Please allow me to respond, "I happen to be part Native American. I was here first motherfucker, this is my land. It's the corrupt people fucking everyone over and stringing along the people with lies that should leave!". Don't even get me started on the shit this country did to the Native Americans and covered up. Back on point... you have been scammed once again, sheep of America. I weep for the people of Japan and I sincerely wish there was something I could do to help. But I refuse to let these monsters profit more from the suffering of others and my "donation". Perhaps my words will just be shrugged off and ignored... as a rant of some delusional fiend. My hope is that just one person will read this and open their eyes to truth of this "great nation". I am not discouraging people from aiding Japan... if you have a donation to send, give it to the right people- Japan, directly. If you are of able body and can afford to travel, go over there and help... if I had the means, I would sweat blood to help them. Just don't be blind to what is happening and how this government and the N.W.O. love to profit from pain.

Tea With Companions

Friendship... one of my remaining lessons in life. Most people figure out this complex situation at any early age in childhood... my first friend as a child was a puppy puppet that threatened to slit my throat at night while I slept. If anyone reading this post has visited previously, perhaps they can understand this comment easier. Settle down, Browser, you'll get no air-time today! Moving on. So how exactly does friendship work... are there certain rules or occasions that are mandatory? I have tried various "experiments", most of which failed by epic proportions. One problem I have noticed is my audience... I tend to reach out in friendship to women, rather then men... this is due to my illness and nature. As I have stated before, a male schizophrenic's mind works more like the mind of a healthy woman... chemical secretions, thought processes and interests. I am a man... there is the first problem. When a man approaches a woman in friendship, they tend to get the wrong idea... after all, 95% of men that approach women are looking for a sexual encounter. Truth be told, that type of encounter couldn't be further from my mind... standing around people is murderous and being touched by someone is frightening and a violent assault to my mind. Add in the fact that I don't understand positive emotions or love, on any level, and this confirms my previous statement. The other huge mistake is my tongue... I recently wrote about how I should really stop talking to people as a general rule. It is extremely difficult to describe emotions in which you are unfamiliar. Statements like, "I care for you" and "I enjoy our time together" become twisted and perverse... it appears to come across as some declaration of love and possession. That never ends well... none of the scenarios have. The other main problem would be interest... shouldn't friends be interested in getting to know eachother? This appears to be very one-sided. I make huge leaps in attempting to get to know the other person by writing to them and asking them questions about their life or day... showing an interest. If I am lucky enough to get a response, the communication highway breaks down until I write again... months could go by with nothing. It appears to be pointless... this continual experiment is extinguishing the little remaining hope I have inside.

I want a friend, a real friend, that isn't interested in harming or exploiting me and my illness. I want a friend, that wants to know the real me without judgment or reservations. Someone that will ask how my day is going or about my life without having to be prodded or asked first... someone that would write to me just because they wanted to do so. A friend... like the storybooks claim- honest, open, sincere, caring, supportive. Perhaps I am asking too much... maybe I don't understand the meaning of friendship. Is it me... what does it really mean to have a friendship?

T.O.D. - Five To One

I'll be the first to admit that my understandings and perceptions are often times askew... then again, people misunderstand my contorted speech more often than not. People with their silver, split tongues weave insults inside of embraces... the same manner in which I flirt with mystery and uncertainty in my phrases. May the Heavens embrace your wounded heart and your quiet offer you solace... find your peace elsewhere and shut the fuck up! It's an Eloquent Dismissal... how poetic one's venom can taste. I have shown many sides of my tongue here... various writings and rants inspired by passion, rage, insanity, love, loss, society and violence. They are all parts of whom I really am... my filter is broken and I have nothing left to lose. Indeed, I can be vulgar and offensive, but that isn't my mission... I am here to bellow my silent scream to the void. Everything that I have written, everything, has a hidden layer and message to someone... nothing is as simple as it appears. Looking through the "dusty box", I found another poem that was removed from the original draft of T.O.D. ... it just show's another side of myself, another ripple in the water. Long ago, someone asked me to write them a poem pertaining to a sexual encounter. It was an unusual request from a stranger... typed into a chat room conversation, simply to prove I was capable.


"Last Night"

Last night you touched me, but not the first time;
Experiences and pleasures... birthing my rhyme.
You held me close, as you welcomed me in;
Sparked my passions... from the depths within.
As we touched, our bodies merged into one;
Wet lips and fingertips, oh the web we spun.
Pulses arose, staggered gasps, then a soft moan;
Your hands and tongue- the things I was shown.
You pulled me out, then back in again;
Raising my climax, to taste my within.
As I lay there, so milky soft on your skin;
Eruptions of tingles, how long it had been.
Shakes and sighs, as our hands clasp tight;
Minutes slipping- I was in you all night.
Your wetness and flavor, still over me;
Not just my body, but my soul you did see.

Violent Vibrations

Rewind. Stop the tape... rewind! Words spew from mouth... bubbling sewage, rotting the impressionable minds. I need to cease my communications with people in a direct fashion... no letters, no conversation, no smiles. My thoughts come out as violent assaults to the senses... I feel the vibrations but they all translate into irrational mumblings. I think differently, I speak differently... layers of thought blended into simple phrases. I mean what I say, but the ears aren't listening... the eyes are scratched out and bleeding with nothing to see. Love, life, decay. They are not words of endearment... I am not capable of understanding such a sensation. Emotions are curious insects... eating, toiling, spoiling. If I speak softly, then I am ignored. If I speak bluntly, then wounds appear. If I speak with eloquence, then I am a sexual deviant. My tongue has become the plague upon this house... I should cut it out, replacing it with slate and chalk. Pictures deemed the appropriate form of speech. Love would be a heart, thoughts would be bubbles and fucking would be an erect penis inside a candy counter. I can't bear the constant rejection from the people I try to communicate with. I have a legion of voices casting judgment in my mind... your chastising is fodder; stop vibrating. It becomes a violent mass in my stomach... I need to rip it out of me and smash it against their faces. I need someone that can listen with their eyes and speak with their minds... it's not black, white and gray. I need a response to fulfill the communication highway... colored thoughts and controlled vibrations.

Pogo The Clown

Happy Birthday, John Wayne Gacy. The hypocrites all sing together, cursing you for your deeds and thoughts... murder is committed everyday in their hearts and minds. It is so easy for the sheep to stand together in judgment... we all have secrets under the floorboards.

John Wayne Gacy, Jr. (March 17, 1942 – May 10, 1994)

T.O.D. - More Ramblings Of Yesterday

Here is another poem I wrote from the original T.O.D.. Nothing deranged... simplistic. Of course nothing is never as simple as it appears to be... you must turn the earth. It's all I have for the day... my mind is spinning webs and my mouth is dry.


"Sunflower"

Sunflower, my sunflower-
Wilted, weeping power.
It is you crumbling hour...
Right before Her shower.

Sunflower, my sunflower-
Drinking, Raising power.
No longer your arms cower...
The earth no longer sour.

Sunflower, my sunflower-
Graceful, brilliant power.
It is your finest hour...
A beautiful, yellow tower.


00.13.8

Me And My Head

From time to time, I like to write down a quote from something that I find to be brilliant. Whether or not it really is, could always be debated... nonetheless, I still find it fascinating. Here is a quote from my favorite movie, The Tenant, by Roman Polanski. It is based off of the book, Le Locataire (The Tenant), by Roland Topor. It is a masterful piece of work, both the book and the movie... no matter how many times you read/watch it, you will never truly know what really happened. Was Trelkovsky really Madame Choule? Was there ever even a Trelkovsky? The questions go on and on and many have theorized the truth behind those questions... but the true answer is long gone, rotting in the grave of Roland Topor. Fucking brilliant.


"Tell me- At what precise moment does an individual stop being who he thinks he is? You cut off my arm, right? I say me and my arm. You cut off my other arm. I say me and my two arms. Take out my stomach, my kidneys- assuming that were possible. And I say me and my intestines. Follow me? And now, if you cut off my head... would I say, me and my head or me and my body? What right has my head to call itself "me"?"

-Trelkovsky, The Tenant

Synchromesh

After speaking with my therapist and much thought, I decided to go ahead and give this whole "book" thing another shot. The choir isn't pleased and I am under continual scrutiny... nonetheless, the gears are spinning and in motion. I asked him to "take the gloves off" and "give it to me straight"... is this even anything someone would want to read? Does it make for an interesting story? He told me yes and that he thought not only would people love to read it, but it could also do me a lot of good in writing it all down. I was a bit confused about his answer and asked he if he was feeding some delusional, grandiose thought... again, the answer was supportive. So I decided I should ignore the cat for awhile and attempt to filter out the voices... easier said than done to be sure, but I think it might be possible for a time. This week, I will begin an outline and start sifting through the debris. The whole point behind the book is to perhaps reach out to someone that is struggling with the same illness and situation... perhaps I could be of some use after all. As for a tool to heal from the decades of abuse... I am not really all that interested. Sure, life has sucked at times... but honestly, I don't fret over the events of my life as a victim. Now it would be used as a potential tool to clear my conscience for the things I have done to others and the destruction that was birthed by my own hand... guilt has tormented me for years and I need some release from this cage. Things are looking up to be sure. On an interesting side note, I was approached by someone and asked if I would participate in an interview about the mentally ill / artist persona. Seeing how lots of the worlds greatest artists were suffering from a mental illness, they thought it might be interesting to interview me. I was shocked by the offer... more so flattered by being called an artist. After a little thought, I decided I would do it and responded via email to the unusual request. I am uncertain if it is still going to happen, because I am so extremely talented at shitting all over good things... time will tell if my ramblings have robbed me of this experience. All in all, there is a small glimmer of light up ahead... medication time, medication time.

The Smiling Compulsion

I know I am not the only one... although many would shy away from the subject, acting repulsed or disgusted. What am I talking about... serial killers. I absolutely love reading about them and thinking about the thoughts that went through their minds. I will admit, my fascination goes a bit to the extreme in some cases, but I doubt I am the only one smiling when they read about them... at least I will admit my arousal. Some people just like to read about them, others have their favorite... personally, I have a rating system. What makes a five star serial killer? It's not the body count... no, no, no. It's the details... stepping outside of the box. What went on in those cozy little rooms? So who makes the cut, or incision perhaps, on my rating system? People like John Wayne Gacy, Jeffery Dahmer, Albert Fish, Ted Bundy and Ed Gein (I know, technically Gein isn't a serial killer because he didn't have the numbers, but he had other things that brings him to the table). Gacy lived in a house with 28 rotting corpses under his floorboards. He used to quote scripture while he strangled and raped his victims, often stopping briefly to offer them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches... nice follow through, aren't we comforted now. Dahmer, Fish and Gein all practiced cannibalism, but Dahmer's reasoning behind this surpasses the others by leaps and bounds. Dahmer ate people to fill the emptiness inside himself. He believed that once he digested them, that he would never be alone again... I find this terribly romantic. Gein had furniture made out of body parts and kept a shoe box of vulvae to pleasure himself sexually. Which leads us to necrophilia... Dahmer, Gein, Bundy and Fish all took part in this forbidden pleasure. While Bundy and Fish just enjoyed it, Dahmer and Gein had their severed heads and shoe box to keep them company on those cold, lonely nights. These examples are what sets them apart from the rest of the serial killers... at least in my mind. It was something more than just killing people... it was an art form. And they did it with a smile on their face... the same one that lured those victims to their haunting end. A smile, much like the one I wear while I think of them... much like the one you may be wearing now.

Moments Of Joy

I am capable of experiencing moments that consist of emotions other than sorrow and anguish. So today, I am going to talk about things that make me smile. A big part of my day to day life is distraction... I need things to keep the voices from tearing me apart. One thing that has proven extremely helpful is video games... I play a lot of video games. In fact, most of my day consists of living in a fictional world, wielding magic and slaying monsters. My therapist refers to this as "digital therapy"... no, I am fairly certain that phrase is unique and not something recognized by the mental health community. He has seen the benefit in my life, so he is okay with it... even though that is really all the interaction with the outside world I have, other than the limited amount by shopping. I also really enjoy watching movies and TV shows on DVD. Lately I have been watching the show "Lost" and playing the video game "Nier" on my xbox 360. I quickly fell in love with them both and have been really enjoying the time I spend doing those activities. I also started watching this older TV show called "Roswell"... not the best, but still enjoyable. The only real downside that I see to the video gaming is it is very easy for me to get obsessed with a game I am playing or too emotionally attached to the characters. The xbox 360 has this little thing called achievements... complete a certain task or goal and you get an achievement worth a certain amount of points. If you manage to claim all of the achievements then you get a 100% completion rating for that game. The points and ratings are pointless... other than the warm, fuzzy feeling inside for doing a job well done. It is safe to say, I am quite the "achievement whore"... I drive myself completely crazed trying to get those things sometimes... so it isn't a flawless form of therapy, but it gives me moments of peace and joy. I asked someone recently, why it is that I can get so attached to things like TV show or video game characters and stories... so emotionally involved to the point of loving them. I find it odd that I can do this, but unable to experience these emotions or feelings with real people. My only thought on it really is that these things are safe and they won't try to harm me... but people, they are the master's of self destruction.

Spare The Rod & Spoil The Child

When I was in the 6th grade, I asked my parents if I could change schools... I was being severely bullied and just wanted to be somewhere safe. My choice of course was to enroll into the Christian Academy across the street. The people seemed so nice and friendly... surely Jesus would protect me as well. After all, the school was held inside of a church... nothing bad happens when Jesus is around. Children are so gullible and naive. Rules, rules, rules... don't break the rules! Easier said than done. We had desks that faced the wall, each separated by long wooden planks... so you couldn't see the person beside you or anything in your peripheral vision. Two flags decorated the desk... one American Flag and one Christian Flag. If you needed to speak to a "teacher", you would remove the Christian Flag and place it on top the desk, where it meets the wall, on a little shelf. If you needed to grade your work, you removed the American Flag and placed it again in the same place. A "teacher" would come by and either talk to you about your question or touch you lightly on the shoulder informing you it is safe to get out of your seat to grade your work. I say "teacher" because they didn't teach you a fucking thing... my teacher was a book filled with Christian cartoon characters telling me how to do the work. We had a little booklet for each subject matter and when we finished it, we would get a new booklet with more and more lessons. This was called the P.A.C.E. program. Marks were handed out for infractions... marks meant trouble. Here are a few conditions for receiving a mark. A mistake in grading your work... one mark of each mistake. Turning around at your desk... mark. Speaking during school... mark. Standing without permission... mark. Leaving your desk without permission... mark. Finished with all of your work and NOT reading the Bible to occupy yourself... mark. Three to five marks in one day meant detention after school... 30, 45 or 60 minutes depending on how many marks. Six marks earned in one day meant a "paddling"... it wasn't a fucking "paddling"! You would have to go into the principle's office, lean against his desk and close your eyes. He would breathe heavily in your ear while one hand slowly wrapped itself tight against your pelvic area and then he would beat your ass with great precision with a wooden plank. The "paddle" was around 20-24 inches long, 8 inches wide, 1.5 inches thick, shellacked and had holes drilled into it.... Jesus approved, to be sure. Don't break the rules and you won't get marks.

I remember this girl... she used to smile at me during lunch. One day, I decided to write her a little note saying, "I like you."... innocent kid stuff really. After she read it, she blushed and giggled... I remember feeling so happy, because she liked me too. This joy lasted about 2 minutes... she was dragged back inside the church and interrogated. A few minutes later they came for me... I saw her crying and her face swollen red with anger and shame. I was taken into the office and beaten severely for writing that little note... not just once, but twice and every day for the next week. After I got home from school, beaten once more by my father and my mother had properly cast the demon of lust out of me... I learned what I did that was so wrong. You see, when a man comes of age and is ready to associate with women, Jesus will tell you which woman to approach and court. Then all the things you need to know about relationships, marriage and sex are magically imprinted inside your brain. It is a terrible sin for a 12 yr old boy to "like" a girl and unforgivable for him to express that statement in a note. Just imagine how my life would have turned out, if I hadn't learned that valuable lesson?

Rethinking T.O.D.

Today I found myself swept away and in thought... perhaps I should reload that dream and inhale deeply. People tell me quite often, that I should write a book about my life. My usual response is, "Did that once... fucker wouldn't print.". Reminded again today in casual conversation, the notion actually stuck against the back of my mind. Bouncing around inside with the choir debating furiously, I thought perhaps maybe I should give it another go. After all, the last attempt was more of a chronological collection of my writings and poetry over the years... not a real book about my life. Every time I see my therapist and I spin the tales of old, he is either in utter shock, tear bursting laughter or cringing empathy. Someone told me today that I could perhaps touch a lot of peoples' lives in various ways... their reactions to the events in my life would inspire an onslaught of emotions ranging from fury, anguish, sorrow, contempt, joy, peace, encouragement. These are not my words... personally, I don't think people would care to read the ramblings of an ex-junkie schizophrenic. Still, the thought lingers. Finding myself in a state of delusional bliss... what if I really could just touch one person? Change one opinion? Inspire one dream? The notion sounds terribly insane as I write these words down... I can't even remember to eat everyday, how the fuck am I going to make a difference? The debate is ongoing... the choir and the cat are disgusted and relentless. Regardless of their opinion or any of my own personal feelings about the issue, I need to make an appointment with a lawyer and ask some questions... my only concern is my safety. If I decide to attempt such an adventure, I thought it would be nice to add some of my writings and poetry within the book... perhaps at the beginning of each chapter, something relevant. The original T.O.D. was my dream to have my poetry published, so it seems fitting. It's just a thought... one of many.

41 Till Daybreak

Sleep eludes my gnashing maw... the rabbits are in cages, with no farms to labor. Such busywork, the spinning of webs... the feast of gray matter tickles the back of your throat. Knotted hair and scarlet, candied liquor grease my palms and whitened knuckles... Tuesday was her name. It was in my grasp, just one more ash... it always ends the same.

Functional Fracture

Today, at my appointment, I revisited the "illness scenario"... every so often I try to convince my therapist and myself, that I am not really sick. As usual, I lost this argument. I asked him to remove the gloves and just tell me how it is... straight to the gut. "What is the deal with me, Doc?". In his professional opinion, I am a "well-managed schizophrenic"... based on the fact that I have a support team helping me refrain from drooling on myself, covered in my own feces and living under a bridge. As for my "personality disorders", as I have come to label them... that is the incorrect terminology. He told me, as a child, due to the extreme abuse in my life I have "fractured" my core self. This is not to be misunderstood as the same thing as someone that "splinters". Someone that "splinters", develops multiple personalities... these people are suffering from DID or most commonly called, MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder). My condition has left me with incomplete personalities, unlike someone with DID... I don't lose time in the sense that I disappear for days having no memory of where and what I have done. Those people, have their lives run by the other complete personalities... my case is different. I remember the things being done, I just may not have the ability or power to stop them from happening... eyes peeled open to watch as the marionette contorts the moppet. When someone else comes to "steer the ship", as I call it, it is a conscious event... I decide to leave, rather than being pushed off of center stage. Even though I have these symptoms, I do not have a "personality disorder"... there are no technical terms for this event. Added with the problem of dealing with and understanding human emotions, the inability to make and retain lasting and positive relationships and function well around the masses of sheep... these are all under the umbrella of schizophrenia. With such a huge fucking umbrella, I wonder how I am getting so wet... the melting plastic is forming a helmet along the crease of my scalp. The collective, my choir and tormentors, are internal voices, not external... this point was moot and added nothing to my defense. The verdict... I am sick, there is no escaping this fact. Am I to become a bridge dweller living in a cardboard box? Not if I continue seeing my doctors and continue receiving the support from the few people in my life.... this is assuming I don't drive them away screaming or with kitchen knives decorating their foreheads. Curiously, he asked me if I wanted to have a personality disorder. I told him, that it would make more sense to me... I am lacking the software and firmware updates to process this information. For the moment, I am quizzical and weary... at ease, my little friends, we shall revisit this topic again in the near future.