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essay 1. My Last Episode Feb. 08/2002

page1:

 

Welcome to this, my pretty much restarting publishing on the web my little schizophrenicized theoreticals and whatevers. These pieces I write, hoping to get readers a free glimpse into the mind of a person diagnosed with the 'life-long' struggle with the disorder title they gave me called schizophrenia.

 

This is as much as I can remember about my last episode:

The first thing I would like to say is that I was taking my

antipsychotics only periodically, I had fallen into an insomniac state of being and the seroquel/quetiapine was good at knocking me out when I couldn't get to sleep. I was tired of seeing the psychiatrist. It was becoming mundane. Three things were the only input/output of the meetings. Three questions they ask you when you have to go for your psych. meeting. 1. How are you sleeping. 2. How are you feeling. 3. What do you do with yourself. And then they give you your perscription, and appointment for the next visit...(either in 2weeks or one month if you are doing well).

And that was the problem, at first. Its how the breakdown got some fuel to burn. I told my psych. I was tired of meeting with them, that I could get my general practitioner to prescribe me the stuff, and I could by-pass all the officiality bullshit of the visit to the perpetuators of insanity. (I mean, seriously. think of this: if doctors actually 'cured' people, don't you think they'd be in an unemployment line? I think its all sinister...heheh...)

So I was rebelling against my psych., and my g.p. doc said he preferred I went to the psych. doc for a more uptodate type of medical care. So I was caught. I unplugged my phone, started rationing myself on the seroquel I had, and went basically off all my meds because I didn't want to go back to the psych.'s clinic.

It was pure bullshit. I find a med that works, I try to simplify my life a bit, and what do I get. A bunch of screwed doctors.

But after some time without my meds, I became delusional.

And there were those freakin' voices. (here's an example of what 'my voices' are like. If I am praying to God, the voice prays for me almost exactly like I would, and I am supposed to believe this superimposed voice in my mind by saying 'amen' to its prayer. It chases my mind around...especially when I am not on a half decent medication.)

(I even remember trying to walk into the drugstore trying to get a ten year refill on my perscription but they said I had to go back to my doctor to get some. that is proof that it was not that I was non-compliant with my medications...just sick of psychiatrists and their assumptions and speculations....)

I was 'a Zionist bondservant' to God. Under rep. of Jesus Christ. I prayed alot, worked out quite a bit(put 50pounds in a backpack and cruise around on nice days...gotta have a stomach belt backpack though..heheh) and, as many will say is common in my type or subtype of schizophrenia I was having religious delusions. (or, religious realizations. depends on which side of the fence yer sittin' on.) The archangel Michael and the struggle with Satan was ever on my mind. In the fall I saw Jesus Christ get onto a bus. I was walking up a nice sidewalk, a bus was just pulling up. A group of grandma's were there, and Jesus. I froze...(I had walked an afternoon, a night, and an early morning to get to this place called white rock, right on the american/canadian border near vancouver b.c.) I looked at this Jesus guy, and he was rather short, but alarmingly lookalikeish from the many portraits many have seen... So Jesus is looking at me, and our eyes meet, i'm frozen, and I hear this voice in my head saying: 'verily I tell you, you shall not lose your reward in Heaven.' And then the grandma's got on the bus, Jesus peels off his sweater, and I notice an iron star of david around his neck... And I'm still frozen as he gets on the bus...

But I'm schizophrenic. How could I see Jesus. If I had told the docs that while I was hospitalized, uh....my detention there would have lengthened, I'm sure.

(And this is all within about 3weeks of no meds. It went on from about November 2001 to the infamous day the s.w.a.t. team came and yanked me into the hospital on Feb. 08 2002)

(second entry: 'my last episode')

But enough about Jesus and the bus. I was insane. I am insane. Not in a bad way, though. Its's like supercreativity. I have a bizarre sense of humor. My mind is much more than a machine. So where was I.

I'm on a psych. visit strike, can't get my anti-crazy pills because I was sick of the whole damned scene... And I'm delusional. I'm getting the radio special messages for only me stuff. (the usual on that symptom...its always freaky when it starts happening...and television can do it too...) So I pretty much holed myself up for a couple of months, studying the bible, (especially The Revelations to John)... I had my phone disconnected from the wall, so even people coming to visit could not get through...they would think I was not at home...

And I remember that I was getting ideas that I was this particular person in the bible...that was weird...

I' m thinking I can materialize matter in other places...

There were times when I was experiencing a different persona out of my original one, and it was embroiled in the fight between Michael's angels and Satan's angels. This guy came up one day and blessed me, anointed my head, gave me a sword and a shield, in the name of Christ, said may Christ be 'at my back'...

And I add more layers of things to ponder upon in the great universe and I get more freaked out...

third entry:

But I am writing things all over the page. I would like to get back to my last episode. (and these things are all that i can remember, with a faulty mine as mine truly is)

The nucleus of the problem was that I could not get my 'seroquel' without going to my psychiatrist. So, rationing, I wandered around delusional in the day and taking the seroquel when i just couldn't handle the voices anymore.

The landlord had given me an eviction notice, but I didn't realize the implications of all the having to find a new place and all that..the importance of it didn't even effect me I was so far from reality it was crazy. But anyway, they gave me an eviction notice, i didn't choose to fight it (i had writings all over my balcony windows and bible quotes thinking someone was filming me plus I had written in many places on the wall with felt pen) and I had drawn some symbols on my door.

So the entire building gets a notice that someone will be entering your apartment, will need access, for painting all the doors in the building. I wrote bad things on my notice, crumpled it up and threw it back into the hallway.

Then on the early morning of Feb. 8th 2000 or 2001 I can't remember, the police come to my door. I was awake, melting a candle sculpture, and they said they were the police could they come in. I was freaked and grabbed a big wax carving knife in my hand and stood up and looked at my mail opening in the door. (I had jammed it open with a beer can, and a lady police officer saw me with the knife because she was looking through it, and I heard heard say: " he's got a knife".

So I just tried to ignore them out in the hallway, went to my bedroom and laid down.

Thats when I heard the lock turn and the place filled first with guys with lazer scopes checking out the room. They found me in my bedroom and kept there guns pointing at me until my bedroom was full of s.w.a.t. team cops.

There were lazer scopes all over my body, and one guy kneeling with a big fat gun with an electric harpoon in it.

It was cold, I had all my windows open, and had my hands obscured under some blankets. The cops yell: "remove your hands" three times, I just silently shook my head, then the harpoon guy lets it go and the harpoon on a long wire to the gun enters my chest right above my heart on my ribcage.

But there was no electrical charge of any kind.

So they jumped on me with shields and pinned me while they strapped my ankles together, then behind my back, then they cut open my favorite shirt and twist pulled the harpoon out of my chest (I still have a tiny scar from it). As they were dragging me out of my bedroom I asked for a portion of the wire the harpoon was on to make a necklace out of, the response by one of them was "you could have been shot in there, do you realize that?"

I simply said something about not afraid of dying and could you grab my smokes and keys while we're on our way out..

Then they took me to a nearby Psychiatric Assessment Unit (lockdown level one psychiatry) with a camera watching you pee in a room with one window and doors about 6 inches thick...

more to come...