Why I Am Here
Imagine looking into a full length mirror, then imagine the mirror being smashed with a single blow to the head by a hammer. That has been my life for the past 50 years.
The main reason I am here, is to prevent what happened to me from happening to others.
For 50 years I’ve struggled with mental illness, all because I became addicted to marijuana in my early 20s, which then lead to a psychotic breakdown, shortly after my 25th birthday.
Words alone can’t describe the horror of existing in hell 24/7, as if a bug were being forever ground between a block of searing anxiety and a block of crushing depression, over and over and over and over …
Worse was what I saw and felt in my brain. Thousands upon thousands of writhing and intertwining fiery tendrils, as if our sun had become home for thousands of gorgons and in the process, had gone mad.
Closing my eyes only made the horror clearer. Getting even 4-hours of sleep was a miracle. I was constantly tired, constantly exhausted, and practically catatonic.
Once while sitting in a clothing store, a person came over and touched my arm. He said I was sitting so still that he wasn’t sure if I was a manikin or not.
That’s how tightly I was trying to control my essence, for if I should let go for even a moment, the hell would become forever.
I was a kernel within a fetid swamp of horror. It was not me looking out my eyes. I was far back in my head, in a safe place where I’d found temporary refuge from madness.
Bright colors seemed to be reaching out to me, sinister, as if they were trying to talk. I avoided record stores, especially the “psychedelic” albums with their bright colors and distorted imagery.
Movies were far too intense to bear. Even magazines were risky, because I never knew what the next page would reveal.
The main reason I am here, is to prevent what happened to me from happening to others.
For 50 years I’ve struggled with mental illness, all because I became addicted to marijuana in my early 20s, which then lead to a psychotic breakdown, shortly after my 25th birthday.
Words alone can’t describe the horror of existing in hell 24/7, as if a bug were being forever ground between a block of searing anxiety and a block of crushing depression, over and over and over and over …
Worse was what I saw and felt in my brain. Thousands upon thousands of writhing and intertwining fiery tendrils, as if our sun had become home for thousands of gorgons and in the process, had gone mad.
Closing my eyes only made the horror clearer. Getting even 4-hours of sleep was a miracle. I was constantly tired, constantly exhausted, and practically catatonic.
Once while sitting in a clothing store, a person came over and touched my arm. He said I was sitting so still that he wasn’t sure if I was a manikin or not.
That’s how tightly I was trying to control my essence, for if I should let go for even a moment, the hell would become forever.
I was a kernel within a fetid swamp of horror. It was not me looking out my eyes. I was far back in my head, in a safe place where I’d found temporary refuge from madness.
Bright colors seemed to be reaching out to me, sinister, as if they were trying to talk. I avoided record stores, especially the “psychedelic” albums with their bright colors and distorted imagery.
Movies were far too intense to bear. Even magazines were risky, because I never knew what the next page would reveal.