Romanticise Schizophrenia (I am Not a Soldier)
Paranoia, for me, is like having another layer of skin. Being so overcome with self-deception that all you want to do is rip it apart and start over. All I can do is hold my breath and hope that the world doesn’t shift beneath me. My consciousness has declared war on itself. My brain is the battlefield, and I am the only victim. (I am not a soldier).
I cry out into the abyss, “I am good, I am soft,” and the echo answers, “I am cold, I am cruel.” I scream as I punch aimlessly, echoing off the walls that aren’t there. How would one combat an intangible being? Cradling the grass between my bleeding fingers as I fall to the battlefield, I stare into the hole that is my mind. A faceless monster stares back. When is a monster not a monster? When will you be able to look it in the eyes in the mirror without getting scared of it? Is the monster worthy of forgiveness? I don’t think I am the right person to answer such questions (I am not a soldier).
This is how I was born, and I believe this is how I will die — damaged and unloveable. The front is silent. I was made from a broken mould; there is no fixing me. I’ve been sinking into the muck and wrapping roots around my heart. I will sometimes stuff handfuls of mud into my mouth in an attempt to keep quiet. To keep myself hidden. To make sure that nobody sees my struggles. I will remain silent and invisible until a torrential rain sweeps me away and I experience peace again. I don’t mean to romanticise death — I don’t mean to fall in love with it, wrapping it around my neck until I can’t see. It consumes me because I need it. I need death so I can appreciate life. I am not brave (I am not a soldier).
When I die, this mind will lay jewels on my grave and mourn my passing as though it wasn’t its fault. It destroyed my ability to love and left me beyond repair. Forget about loving, it made sure I never hoped again. Know that I will be in silent anguish and that I will reverberate my fate when the sky becomes black and the rain begins to pour, when the peace becomes too much like regret, and when my name rises like a scream. When everything goes wrong and they remember my long-forgotten name, that is when I will be happy. I will still haunt. Do not honour me. Nor my name. I AM NOT A SOLDIER.
Acceptance is the end of delusion, or is it the beginning?
