This is a narration on the things you can't say to someone who doesn't understand what it's like.
When I was seventeen, my mom lied to get me sent to the psych ward. I remember the intake nurse who turned to mother and asked how my behavior was at home. My mother lied a little too easily, and I just stared wide-eyed in shock. I mean ever since I was old enough to conceptualize, I'd be worrying about whether mom was going to live or die because, this time she overdosed on her pills. I recall sitting at the dinner table and asking her where the marks on her wrists came from, and she gave me a dysphoric grin and said she crashed her bike into a window. Of course how would I know the difference between truth or lie.
I've been lied to all my life. I remember being eight, watching from across the room while my mom complained of being blackmailed by agents. She was shaking and looked as though she was going mad. "Just look! Look at the letters! Even the handwriting is different," she said, because the other was in cursive. Maybe there are also some inconsistencies. It was either interrogation, willful protest, blackmail, madness, or peace. The day mom was put into the hospital, my grandfather called to tell Dan that he'd found her, and she had walked to a bus station. Now it's slashed wrists, not a bike accident, though I never saw mom attempt suicide. I came to her room every day, and dad would yell from across the hall. She took Prozac which made her sleep a lot.
Then as the dosage increased, so did her madness. Suddenly there was a secret history to everything. Suddenly she couldn't decide what was real, or wasn't, suddenly she lost her mind. I'd shake her gently but she refused to move from the queen sized bed. She's simply snore all day, her spark gone. She battled demons and madness, but I hate God for doing this. I hate God for allowing this. I kind of hate myself for loving her too. She broke down and there's no way I can bring her back to life. I can't wake her up she's still asleep. She never caught the bus at the bottom of the hill to our house, where her father found her. And I still have no proof of her claims about forced electroshock.
That's why I don't hate my mom for lying. I don't think she knows any better.
I began having auditory hallucinations in the psych ward. I believe they were sent to get me out of there. My mind in its trapped inexpressible state. If, however, I tried to ever express myself I was degraded for my circular reasoning. I got brave one day and told everyone I was fine and that I didn't have schizophrenia. I got up and walked straight to the doors, "I'm leaving" and then bounced back as reality hit. The doors were locked obviously. I had no way to get out. One month before my eighteenth birthday.
Every time my parents would send me to the psych ward, they cleaned my bedroom. They never would do that when I was home. This is really funny too, the voices I heard whispered about domestication, white blood cells, anemia, dementia. I'd always have weird visions of messed up old people lost and shaking in this kind of place. That's how it made me feel. I still have premonitions. I still know.
You can either live with regret and pain from what happened to you, fully. Or you can buy the lie that you're broken. I reprogrammed myself to forget. Tranquilizers, seizure medications, anything to knock the pain out. I bought the lie that I was broken. I am like the million broken pieces of all the beautiful things I have thrown away. But the truth is, I didn't throw this world away it abandoned me and I destroyed myself.
I can't even die. Well, I haven't died yet. I almost thought I was going to die last night when the navigator got me stranded on a mountain, and no one would give me directions. I followed my instincts and made it home.
I have good instincts, but I typically ignore them because I hate being a nun. I really don't know why so many bad things happened this week. It just seemed like the world was conspiring against me. What are the chances. The world is full of chance. I just hope I haven't missed my chance at existence because it often feels like I don't. If I was smart, I tell myself...my dad blames me for my bipolar schizophrenia. I blame him for putting me in that box in the first place, and he blames me for speaking. I have no one to blame.