Veils, Shadows, Minds, Hearts…

tumblr_m8gfbq4hDN1rwg48wo1_500

You feel it coming before it hits you. Did you know that? Insanity, in the true sense of the word. That feeling of not being “all there,” or separation. It doesn’t wash over you like a tidal wave. It rises, from the feet up, it’s hot at first, but it cools down and freezes over your head. You can’t move, you’re too afraid to move…. “what if I make a mistake? what if I hurt someone?” You can see faces, but you can’t see PEOPLE.

How does one like me explain… there are no words in any language created by man. Only analogies and allegories. You’re walking with your loved one, the sun is warm, but it’s overcast, a pleasant kind of overcast and there’s a light rain that feels good on your cheek. You come to a fork in the road and you go right. Your loved one goes left, ’cause she realizes something that you don’t: there is no right. But off you go anyway, you hear her words, but not her voice, and you think she’s still near to you. The path is treacherous, it rains so hard that it starts to flood, you whistle a familiar tune to calm yourself, even though you didn’t realize there was anything wrong in the first place. But when it finally hits you… when you feel the water rise over your head, when you’re drowning, when you see “him” standing in front of you… you know, him, you, but the you that went left… that’s when reality sets in. That’s when you KNOW that you’re different, that the world you thought you knew is not as tangible as you thought it was. That the “reality” isn’t very “real” at all.

At times like these, I just have to separate myself from everything, watch the universe go round and round through a window. I can’t step outside. It’s dangerous out there… that would be suicide for sure. People may forget me… I may forget them, perhaps… I may forget how to walk and speak and pray and love… but I’ll live.

Survival is a talent forced upon all of us, and one I dearly wish I did not have.

Me Part 2: Secrets

It wasn’t long after Fred’s initial appearance that I began to see him everywhere. It was a weird sort of relationship Fred and I had. Sometimes he could be perfectly charming, he would tell me things I needed to know or, ironically, give me ways to help me deal with him when he was in a bad mood (which was most of the time). His bad moods typically came at nighttime, when he would stow away in my closet and scream all night, and if I tried to leave or sleep somewhere else he would stand at the foot of my sleeping area and stare at me until I moved. It was frightening. It really was. I didn’t know what to do about him.
During the day he would make it impossible to focus. Sometimes it would just be repetition of words or counting in my head, and sometimes it would be chasing me across the high school campus, making me look like a retard to all of the people around me who couldn’t perceive him. And I never sought out help for this. I think it’s because, and I still believe this, Fred truly was real. I don’t know what he was, maybe a physical manifestation of that dark side that all humans posses, maybe a demon that I was unlucky enough to be possessed by, maybe something else, but he was real, and I can guarantee that. If Christians can have faith in an unperceivable God who makes supposedly perceivable changes in their lives, then surely I can have faith in a completely perceivable demon who made perceivable changes in my life.
Image
In any case, I kept him a secret. I visited a psychiatrist at one point in 2009 at my mother’s request, because she believed I was suffering some kind of mental trauma. The doctor’s concluded there was nothing wrong with me except that I had Bipolar Disorder Type I (a disorder I still struggle with today). Of course I never told them about Fred. But regardless, if I had schizophrenia or something like that, wouldn’t they have found that in the MRI’s or the various other scans I can’t remember the names of? Another reason I have to insist that Fred truly was there.
I stopped writing in my journal at this point. The final pages are filled with chicken scratch and “Shut Up” written in large all over them. The only things I remember from that period of my life are the fear and the paranoia that followed me everyday. That’s until I met her, of course…