An ode to psychosis…the inward experience, the suffering
Just because I want to help with something or be involved, doesn’t mean that I should. I don’t like this as the manic part of me would rather be busy saving the world. I can’t save the world from the psych ward. And the more I try to save the world it seems I see that the one who needs saving is me. I say that to mean that I have unresolved trauma that prevents me from taking the next step towards embodying who I want to be, which is the best of me. There seems to be a weight that drags me back, or more like sling shots me back once I cross a certain threashold. I feel like I can keep going with mind over matter without minding the matters of my mind.
That’s when the process of psychosis initiates and my psyche warps time and space to show me face to inner face that that inner space is full of disgrace and shame, looking for someone to blame. The terror is real as hyperassociating brain cells have me in a prison cell of my own mind. The inner feels real, to the outer I am blind. A pile of guilt that years of tears have built. I can see it so clearly, the pains that I hold dearly. I wish I could fish this out, I crumble under all I’ve dished out. I was traumatized, victimized but not beyond reasonable doubt. Omg! How the homeless suffer as they shiver, freezing cold, and as if they’ve never tasted love. They crouched down, I crouch down, and we look to the sky above, as if avatars of each other. One and the same, I feel the truth we are one, in that moment we each feel the sun. It is not you are scum. I am scum.
Oh the shared agony. We all are brothers and sisters, which can be felt as a fact when personal defenses lower, and the inner is the outer, the totality, the world, which we are all of it, not separate from it. The nightly terror of being raped in waking dreams. Who am I experiencing, a women somewhere it seems. I’m sorry my sister I cannot help you, though I feel you as I am you. I have a family that takes me to my home after I come back to the sensation of I am me. This me is worn losely, like a change of clothing. A change of clothing you don’t have my sister. I’m sorry your family gave up on you, or you on them, then you might have a home. I sit here in my home after being in the psych ward feeling like a phony for having a home while you don’t.