An episode of psychosis. Number one of four.
Bipolar psychosis. It could be the scariest sh*t out there. Or I should say, in here. Psychosis is nowhere and everywhere. When it’s there, it’s here, it’s everything. It’s scarier than being faced with a Tiger. At least I would stand a chance against a Tiger. I could fight, flight, freeze, or feign death. None of these work against psychosis. When psychosis descends, nothing can be done about it, because you are it and it is you. You are psychosis. I am psychosis. When it is here, it is me. Psychosis takes over.
What can I do? I cannot fight it or I may kill myself? If I run, I may jump, or I may run right into a straight jacket. If I feign death, it knows I’m faking it. So I freeze and I say please take me to the psych ward. Freezing does not make it go away. It comes with me in the ambulance or my parents or my friends car. My friends, parents, and the paramedics do their best to comfort me, but psychosis assures me everything is NOT okay. It is omnipotent and omnipresent. It colours my entire reality from the beggining of my existence until the day I’ll die. Psychosis whisperers peircingly that I will die soon, tomorrow, today, now, I just died, it’s already happened, I’m already dead, I died 5 years ago in the back of the Jeep I was assaulted in. A terror fills me equivalent to the choice between jumping out of a building and burning alive. No, my dad rescued me. I died 3.5 years ago and my spirit became my neice. She’ll never know her Aunty. Wait, wait, play dead, stop breathing, you’re confused. Someone’s coming to kill you. Vampires. They can kill me, I won’t kill anyone. I surrender. You’re a bird. Flying South. You’re going back to Santa Barbara. You never left Santa Barbara. You’re a homeless man, laying on the sidewalk up against a building. I hear everyone walking by. Oh, if I die, I’ll wake up as a homeless man on the beach in Santa Barbara, and he’ll experience my life as just a strange hangover. I think I just opened my eyes for real. Why is there blood allover my wrists. I didn’t cut myself. Closed eyes. Wait, the angels are taking you. This feels beautiful. The white light and the warmth. WHAT! I have to stay here? You can’t take me because I teathered myself to this reality with these handcuffs I bought when I was 8 years old? I would have jumped off the balcony had I not remember about them at the exact instant I felt I was going to be crushed by reality, lose my bowels, and drop dead at the same time.
My friend enters the room. Please help me. No, don’t go to work, I need your help. She leaves the room.
I hear my name, my moms voice. The rest feels like an instant.
As someone grasps me and flips me backward to see my face, I feel as if I am at the scene of a car accident. I died in a car accident and my family is at the scene. Others inform me, my mom and brother thought at that moment I was dead. My brother tries to get me to respond. I feel as if I must be dead though I can hear his voice. Paramedics arrive. They try to wake me. They squash my finger. I wince. I’m ALIVE. The paramedic knows I’m alive, therefore I must be. I’m still laying in a sleeping bag on the balcony where I secured myself. It worked! It didn’t jump. I came back to my body. I don’t recall walking to the ambulance. Long story short, I came back to life, to play the role of one with a mental illness. How else can one explain escaping death, dying and coming back to life. How many parellel realities did I give birth to that would save me if I left this physical body? I’m like a bird, I only fly away (Nelly Furtado).