A Personal Commentary on going crazy
I’m a person with schizotypal personality disorder. I decided to document my average Friday night in the form of writing.
I am at a point in time that gives the impression- the illusion, of also being a point in space. It probably only makes sense to me, but I think it’s very important to distinguish between the two. They might seem like the same thing, but you’ll find that one can exist without the other. Going without one of them is a painful , existential amputation.
This is my place. I go through life, seeking new places and experiences to test myself on. Hoping to stumble across something I can be outstanding in, because mediocrity is my greatest dread. But this is a place I always return to; watermarking another round in my performance. I can make friends, survive new misfortunes, and reach further states of enlightenment. But among the bed of chaos, this focal point keeps me centered. IT barely feels like living, actually.
Nobody is thinking of where I am. I’m in my bed, staring at the ceiling, reflecting on my inability. I do some things well, and keep people together. I let people hurt me, and drain me, to convince myself that there is a reason for my emptiness. That, maybe, there really is a state of wholeness and nirvana that one could obtain, if not for the blemishes of the mortal world. A cure to unhappiness. A real, concrete, infallible assurance that you can live in a good way. These things are theoretical. Even then, the assertion of perfection being non-existent is a baseless act of conjecture, searching for an end result.
It makes sense to me. Maybe that’s because I’m having a psychotic episode, here in my room. I bet you want me to describe it. I bet you want to hinge your attention on how vividly I can describe when my brain gets fucked up. You have your idea of what psychosis is like, don’t you? You have expectations about how I express myself to you- because like everyone else, you can tell me how much better you understand my existence than I do. You know all about me, right? I fall under certain statistical averages related to health, gender and age, so you can nail me down with a profile right now. You’re reading this shit with contempt for me, for this monologue of yet another manic depressive, pseudo-schizo fuck who thinks it’s artsy to write sloppily and informally. Well fuck you. You can walk up to me and correct me on what I am, and how I can express coming to terms with it, and scoff at me for being bellow your arrogant, cunty expectations. But I don’t give a fuck. Because I’m in my place.
My place, cut off from humanity. Know the thing about fame becoming some metaphysical currency for how much you get to exist when you’re dead? How to gain ‘life’ in remembrance? Well I can feel that I’m not existing in that way, even now. Nobody in the entire world is directly conceiving of me, thinking of me. If I just vanished from the cosmos at this moment, there’s a certain probability that nothing would have to change as a result. How long would it take, if I dropped dead right now, for my death to have any significance in the external world? I’m not sure. I don’t care to live, or die.
This is my place. The place where I’m alone, invisible, and inconsequential. I obsessively relive my friendships burning, and dear people disowning me, just to know that I still feel at all. I’m frustrated and numb. I’m rushing and skipping over my thoughts, to get to the cathartic confessions. I want to confide myself in something, to shock myself with the sense that my endangering pain is tangible. I devolve into a shaking thing, sobbing and choking. I cry ounces of tears, and nobody can see. People don’t know you’re crying by your tears, but by your expression. And my expression remains dead as those tears pour out, and I chew at my lip. I want to rip my cut open, and taste the blood that tranquilizes me. My blood sloshes over my tongue like heroin over the brain stem. Then I become euphoric, little pieces of me falling away until a joyous little mannequin remains. I grin, gape forward, and salivate. But is there anything inside by then, under that husk? I wonder.
I recall every person who ever made me feel ugly inside, and admit that they are right. Locked in this room, drowning in sadness. I have no purpose.
This is me. This is my place. I’m not alright. I’m not alright, at all. But that’s okay with all of you, because you don’t want me to be alright. You thrive on having a reference for being broken. Something to be thankful you’re not experiencing. Fucker. Here I am, trying to vomit my psychosis out in front of you, trying to give it some fucking worth. Do you like to read to ‘get to know’ the author, hm? You want to know me as a person, through my works? But me? Just me, as I am now? You don’t give a fuck. You want to see what fruit this could bear out- you want me to write fucked up poetry, or some deep subliminal story.
You want to romanticize this. So do I. but I just fucking can’t right now. I’m not eloquent, or sympathetic, or whatever a disorder like mine’s supposed to make you. I’m just a person, dying in the dark. You’ll never see me. You’ll never know me. You might want to know what’s fucked with me, but not what’s just me. Without my great flaw, I’d be nothing. People don’t have any reaction, when I tell them about what I love, fear, or want in life. Know what gets reactions? Telling people how I see things that aren’t there. Spiders, scorpions and centipedes coursing through the dark, or nipping at my heels. Faces in the dark. Telling people how I have debilitating panic attacks, or that I’ve put a fucking gun in my mouth. So I hate this shit with a passion, but what would I be without it? Nothing lends me significance more than my illness, so what’s the point of getting better? Would it really be better?
This is my place. My special place… Time and time again… You can’t fallow me here. IF you can understand it, you’re probably the kind of person that put me here. Cut off. Losing my tiny mind, going through my entire one-man-show on this stage without an audience. You can’t think of me now, even if you try. You can just recognize this klusterfuck of emotions and complaints, but you can’t see the real me. You can’t see through this static, you condescending prick. You can’t see how much I love and hate. You can’t see how I experience this world, constantly overstimulated and morbidly hopeful. This is my documentation of a psychotic episode, for your voyeuristic, fetishizing pleasure. That’s hopefully how the arrangement works, right? You get to violate my personal headspace, and I get a fucking soap box for five minutes. Now start forgetting everything you’ve read. Let me fade out of your memory, like I’m bound to. Let me infect you with whatever emotions I can provoke, with the knowledge that that part of me in you, will die. Like being cannibalized. You’re a cannibal. You’re eating a batch of my cloned flesh, careless of the lack of sustenance, just fucking chewing me. I fucking dare you to try and swallow me. Reality itself, is spitting me out.