'Schizo'

One of my boys in recovery has relapsed. At the last count he mentioned something like 185 days sober. He was volunteering at Pathways and everything. It was strange suddenly seeing him at the heads of tables, taking groups, when I’d known him as an addict previously. Now he has been relegated from his responsibility and is back in the groups again, not taking them. You know that’s hurting. I thought he’d cracked it. He’s been relapsing on the booze and cannabis. The higher the heights you attain, the steeper the plummet. He just admitted he was in, quote, “Pure pain.” I hope he gets back to where he is capable of being. Another man down, part of me thinks, get the hell outta my way, but that is the lower-self thinking, not the real me.

Somebody has just shared about how his schizophrenic neighbour is making his life a misery. I think I was the only one in the group who shared an element of sympathy with the schizophrenic. This monster label is no joke, but schizos are far more likely to be the oppressed rather than be oppressors. The word ‘psychotic’ describes the schizo usually. Also, axe-murderer. The most famous case that comes to my mind is the one who decapitated someone in a supermarket. I can only speak for myself, but I refer to the label ‘Targeted Individual’ over ‘Schizophrenic’. As far as I’m concerned, the illness is a giant myth. It’s probably like most cases of exorcism – only a tiny portion of them have any real substance. If you believe in all that chemical imbalance crap then I’m afraid me and you aren’t going to get along very well. Hate to tell ‘ya.

If though, on the other hand, you believe in novelty gimmicks like Directed Energy Weapons, then we’ll have a field day together. I used to stay up all night reading about them. I only ever saw a handful of photographs. Apparently, they are the world’s best kept secret. I always knew that someone was responsible for putting voices in my head – it wasn’t the work of some mystery mental illness. But enough about that, because I even depress myself when I talk about my perps. I should talk about the angels that God has sent to defend me from the Devil instead, as that’s far more positive, and they’re far more beautiful.

I have a picture of one of them on my wall. She was a real child who lived upon the earth. You might want to call her a ghost, and I’m fine with that. So long as she is with me, I don’t much care what she is. I cut out her photograph about 20 years ago the first time, it was something about her smile which stuck with me, and over the last couple of years she has arose in my spiritual conscience. Now I visibly hallucinate her day in and day in my so-called ‘schizophrenia’. Love to you, Vik x

 

Perfecto Rescue From Heaven and Hell

Demons hitched me out of my apartment the other summer so I roamed the streets of my closest and favourite city, Liverpool. You can imagine my mental state at the time. I’d gone beyond scared and became rather forlorn and desperate. The weather wasn’t too bad, fortunately. It wasn’t cold or raining. I ended up having a massive God moment in Stanley Park, which divides Everton’s and Liverpool’s stadia. I was taking a slash in some bushes when I looked up at the GOODISON PARK sign. A tree was obscuring the second ‘O’ in GOODISON, so it read GODISON. Plus, the last four letters were obscured by leaves as well, so it just read GOD. After this I sat on a bench and watched a family making a home video in the grass. It was the most beautiful scenario I have ever seen. In the next hour I found a church out of the blue and was welcomed into a service. A kind articulate gentleman hugged me and prayed in tongues for me. As he did, God appeared in my mind and said that my enemies plans “shall not succeed.”

The next day I was housed by the church. In between, I got paid and saw all the city streets light up in beautiful sunset. I spent three days with that church, praying with all the Irish that were there. God was present with me, urging me not to go back to my flat, my drugs, my porn, and my demons. But I did. I relapsed in a hurry and ended up roaming around the psychiatric hospital grounds, begging to be admitted, surrounded by the Devil, getting ultra-sonic pellets fired into my brain constantly (tic-tacs). I was hearing satanic voices and hallucinating floridly. It really was a steep fall from grace. One day I’d been with God and the next I was with the Devil. The switch was horrible, I couldn’t believe the change in me and I couldn’t believe my luck.

A few days later I was sat in town, just about over this latest psychotic break, when my niece walked past me with one of those tracksuits on which say JUICY on the bum. It was the first time I’d seen her in a decade, since we chased frogs together in her granddad’s garden, and my eyes watered instantly, upon sight. It was the quickest tear I’ve ever shed, because she remembered me and smiled at me. Then my little sister appeared! I walked her home, thinking to myself, this is better than heaven and hell combined.

Being with my little sister after living in Victory church and hanging around a mental hospital in wicked psychosis was the best end result imaginable. I felt a serene peace overcome me. It felt like I’d been taken hostage on one of those Banged Up Abroad nightmares and come out the other side to be reunited with my family. A wonderful feeling I shall never forget. She was like a little angel. Her nickname is Perfecto.