I feel "written off", somehow...
Only a few know what it means to be trivialized. Compartmentalized. Put into a box and labeled, as some sort of twisted merchandise, or captive beasts in some archaic bathroom tile zoo. I am schizophrenic...I am one of those few.
Every day i am assaulted, as much by horrors of a hallucinatory nature as by the condescending onslaught of people who proclaim themselves as sane. "SANE", as though it were writ large, a "look-at-me" declaration on a peel-and-stick name tag, announcing one's presence at a class reunion: Hi, my name is...
I've taken my meds like a good subject, the better to blunt the hallucinatory heckling; to dilute the poison of paranoia with the milk of reason; to douse the flames of delusion with the cold, refreshing waters of reality; to sop up the pychosomatic tears with a pharmaceutical handkerchief, as though it were gravy being mopped up with a biscuit. Like a religious ritual, one dose of redemption, measured in milligrams, shall purify my unclean mind and spirit.
And yet, the road to recovery, to improvement, is paved with witch-hunters who would burn me at the stake, or else wrap me up in canvas and banish me to that oubliette with pillowed walls, or even pronounce me possessed with demonic entities.
Is it any wonder, then, that with the abundance of Eighteenth-century brains in Twentieth century flesh, that I feel like my call for understanding has fallen on deaf ears?
Every day i am assaulted, as much by horrors of a hallucinatory nature as by the condescending onslaught of people who proclaim themselves as sane. "SANE", as though it were writ large, a "look-at-me" declaration on a peel-and-stick name tag, announcing one's presence at a class reunion: Hi, my name is...
I've taken my meds like a good subject, the better to blunt the hallucinatory heckling; to dilute the poison of paranoia with the milk of reason; to douse the flames of delusion with the cold, refreshing waters of reality; to sop up the pychosomatic tears with a pharmaceutical handkerchief, as though it were gravy being mopped up with a biscuit. Like a religious ritual, one dose of redemption, measured in milligrams, shall purify my unclean mind and spirit.
And yet, the road to recovery, to improvement, is paved with witch-hunters who would burn me at the stake, or else wrap me up in canvas and banish me to that oubliette with pillowed walls, or even pronounce me possessed with demonic entities.
Is it any wonder, then, that with the abundance of Eighteenth-century brains in Twentieth century flesh, that I feel like my call for understanding has fallen on deaf ears?
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