The one where I get serious and try to lay some shit out.

I think the difficult thing, for me is that I need to talk, or write. I need to get it all out to make any sense of the jumble in my head. Sometimes talking or typing in a void is enough. Sometimes you want to bounce things off of somebody. If you go on line, go on Facebook, where ever, and you look up anxiety and depression support groups, you'll find more than you could possibly participate in. They're out there and they're full of actual human beings, interacting. Talking about their meds and dosages and what helps and how to deal with all sorts of triggers and shit. People reaching out and looking at each other and understanding each other. That's a lovely thing.
     Now you try looking for a schizophrenia support group. There are a few. They have people in them to. I haven't joined them all, or anything. I can't speak for all of them, but man, the ones I have. If people are posting at all, it's some wild shit. It just sort of reminds you how really alone you are in this. That guy posting about the mind control experiments the government is doing on us all... I mean, I won't pretend I can't sympathise. I've felt that way. I've been where every one of my senses can come to no other conclusion. But it just made me aware of how abysmally fucked up I was.  I certainly didn't want to shout about it from the rooftops warning everyone.
     That's not a dig. We've all got our own brain demons to slay. It just reinforces the fact that there is nowhere to say this shit, unless I make a place to say it. No one is going to nod at me and say, "Yeah, that shit is rough. You'll pull through." No one is going to say anything, in fact. What could they say? The beauty of the internet is not having to see how they look at you, with this silent, sad concern. 
     I suppose I haven't said it on this blog yet, that word. Schizophrenia. Isn't it just all big and scary and weird? I bet it makes you think of asylums or homeless people. It does me, and I have it, so, you know. I don't want to be afraid of a word. I mean, I spent years in the thick of it. My every waking moment was full of fear, fear of myself, fear of my brain and what it would make me see/hear/smell/feel next, fear of losing everyone I loved, fear of what would happen to me.  Then things got better, and I lived in fear of it coming back. Fear of being there again. Fear of saying it, that word, and the way people would look at me once they knew. I'm fucking tired of being afraid. Afraid of a fucking word.
     So yeah, I'm schizophrenic. I suffer from anxiety quite often, and depression much less often. I expend a serious amount of brain space and energy gauging my capacity for dealing with things, socializing, even just being around people. Most of the time I do it without thinking. I keep my expectations of myself really low. People probably think I'm a lot of things that I'm not. But it's when I forget to pace myself and let myself off of doing too much that I run into problems, most often.
     Sometimes it's hard to let go of the things that we once enjoyed. Sometimes we think, oh, I'm so different now, LIFE is so different now. Maybe it'll be okay. You know what? Maybe it will, but it isn't worth taking the chance. So maybe, instead, it's time to stop trying to shove it all under the bed and forget about it. Maybe it's time to accept it and own it and then let it go.

Deep in the process...

Putting myself back together again seems to entail all the same things it always has.  Blasting music, talking to myself, middle of the night sudden onset insomnia... significantly less cigarettes (none, ha!) but yes. I almost feel good. It almost feels good. I'm not sure that anything makes much more sense than it did before, but I'm not sure it's supposed to, either. Always a bit disconcerting to be reminded how tenuous your grip on reality actually is, though. I may be being slightly unfair to myself. It's not so much that I lost it, as I put it somewhere for safe keeping and forgot where that was. YOUR GLASSES ARE ON TOP OF YOUR HEAD, YO. Something like that.
     So, what next? I've no clue. A few days of taking it all easy, for starters. Maybe I'll start blogging about normal shit. Losing weight and the soup kitchen and biking and all the other shit I've had going on lately or been thinking about doing. WHO KNOWS. Maybe I'll write a proper blog post. Imagine that.

Inaugural Post

Another new blog, eh? I mean, it's not like I'm good at keeping things going. Oh sure, I start off all full of ideas and motivation, so sure that this will be the time I make a go of things, but it always peters out eventually. So why bother?
     Well, hell, why not? Maybe I'll get bored (or, more likely, devoid of inspiration) and leave this blog languishing like all the others in a week or so, when the after-effects of my latest psychotic break wear away and leave me feeling insulated again. But then again, maybe not. For now, the pain and the fear and the questions (oh the many fucking questions) are bright and shining, reverberating through my consciousness like a beating, guilt stuffed heart shoved under the floor boards begging for validation. And I, dear reader, haven't got a notebook, so the gut spilling will take place here, on the wide open internet for the world to see, if the world ever happens to stumble upon this.  
     I guess the main and overwhelming question I need to deal with at the moment, is where is the line between a panic attack and a psychotic break, and, (for me personally) is it even possible to have the former without the latter? So, I mean, yeah... fun times! So far, my biggest take away from this latest rejection of reality is the futility of assuming that I'm "cured" or whatever nonsense it is I've been feeding myself for the past 18 years.  I'm not. It's always going to be there, waiting to step in and take the reins when I push myself too far.  Still, I suppose forewarned is forearmed or some shit.