I awake, feeling confused and alone. Why confused? My dreams were vivid, long, and troubling, though not nightmarish. I bought a fish, a beta. A lovely blue fellow, who is lively and responds to me quite well. I drempt he kept jumping out of his bowl, unsatisfied with the amount of water, and I was struggling to find an enclosure large enough. There was also some segment with my parents, which was odd, I don’t really remember. 300 mg of Seroquel now. I was drowsy and sleepy very quickly. I feel unable to do any school work. I feel very victimized by my own sufferings, my complexes or disorders, or whatever is happening to me. I now not only feel that the future is forever altered, but so is the past. My experiences were poorly experienced. I was not fully there. Where was I, and who has been living my life?
My nails are funky colours, a myriad of blues and greens and purples, with little white dots too. Goldfish get little white dots on them when they’re sick, I suppose it’s a sort of parasite. We lost many a goldfish to the white plague. I have run out of Cheerios. Back to the corner store, or I could simply make eggs. My roommate is alive and well, simply at rehearsal. I haven’t seen her in what feels like ages. I have not lived life well in quite some time now. September, October, bits of November seemed okay. My life, so much of my life has been a warped dream. Certain days are indeed nightmarish, though since they are my days, my own living days, I cannot call them as such, because I live them, and you wake up from nightmares, you do not wake up from madness. You walk through the fire, through the ice, and that is all. And you are alone, because no matter how many people you have, and how much they love you, no one can be in your mind, no one can sit inside of you and hold the part of you that isn’t screaming, that isn’t searching for sharp objects, the part of you that is caged and trapped and couldn’t scream if they wanted to, because they are petrified beyond sound. No one can touch that place. Not even the meds.
The same thoughts are running through my mind: I’m on anti-psychotics. I’m psychotic. I have psychosis. Everything I’ve always thought was abnormal about me, is. I’ve always known something was wrong, I’ve always known there was something wild inside of me, crazy about me, and I’ve always cherished it. Here it is, being unraveled, and instead of a beautiful set of China, as I might have imaged, instead of some fantastical journey through the realms of human experience, I unravel a vat of excrement and a carcass of a half-eaten woman. The journey is indeed fascinating, but I have ignored the level of agony it would entail, or at least, underestimated it.
I was looking in the mirror, and the image was almost shaking, I did not see myself, I do not know who I was looking at. I felt indifferent to them. I could hurt them. I don’t care about them. I have awoken in a state of disconnect. I feel like an apparition. Like vapour, and I am fading into this world which I never belonged to in the first place. As I fade, my shadow becomes bigger and bigger, until all that is left is a shadow of my former self. Light and dark, day and night, always playing within me, never quite letting me, whatever that is, rest.