My Descent Into Psychosis

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia I

Earlier this year was when my fall into absolute solipsism occurred. I will detail the events as best I can
recall, however, due to the nature of the psychiatric medications I am on, and their doses, my memory
operates at a far lesser degree that it once did. This is both a relief and a tragedy.

Over the period of approximately 6 months, I began believing I was to be assassinated. I boarded up the
windows of my city apartment and a feeling of intense adrenaline and overwhelming dread engulfed
me – I'd never felt anything at the intensity I was experiencing it, at the time. An anxiousness of
extreme proportions incessantly lived in the centre of my chest, and my stomach was constantly
shifting between excruciating pain, and a wide array of uneasiness.

During this time there were many instances where I acted out of character. Personal tasks took on a
gargantuan impossibility, and I was losing touch with reality in every sense one could do so. When full
psychosis took hold, I could see camera's in the ceiling of my apartment, in my mind's eye, as well as
physically. I had convinced myself I was being watched, and hid from strangers a block away when
they would go about their business, and even though its highly unlikely they could see me at all, I
believed they were watching and monitoring my every move, planning my demise. This went on day
and night. I did not discuss this with anybody, because, to me, it was really happening, and I had been
spending 99% of my waking hours alone.

Small things became large, my perceptions became more and more distorted, and unbeknownst to me, I
was heading toward complete and utter insanity. I'd shift between elation, on cloud 9, filled with
urgency and ecstasy, to low, low cycles of the blackest, inescapable depression.

You might at this point ask yourself, how could such a capable, seemingly intelligent individual as I
possibly have gone through something that so evidently resembled "crazy". Well, a lot of you dislike
my way, and that's fine, but I do hope you can parse the fact I'm one smart cookie from the fact I'm
someone who you don't care to engage with, due to my unsavoury personality traits that jar with yours.
I'm writing this because I want you all to know that sometimes my paranoia gets the best of me. That
when this happens, its easy as pie (or has been) for me to buy in to the possibly ludicrous conspiracies
against and surrounding certain prominent users of the forum.

I'd like to apologize, but its hard, since the courtesy I'd be giving those with bad intentions would not
be given to me in return. Suffice it to say, I don't particularly believe some of the "common consensus"
about perceived overlords watching over and commanding an ominous presence, targeting peons such
as I for their own amusement. While there may be but a kernel of truth to any of it remains irrelevant to
me now, since I have for a couple 3 months begun to recover fully from the specific delusions that
made me act out.

I sincerely trust you'll take that for what it's worth.

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia II

Visions and hallucinations have affected me for most of my life. In good (and bad) ways. But the thing
that got in the way of my personal relationships with people was something that, on its face, may sound
silly: incessant, uncontrollable laughter. I'm not just talking about at inappropriate times, or my
apparent "dark" sense of humour...no, its more than that. I would be sitting around with people in any
given social setting and begin giggling like an idiot – at something only I could see. And no, it wasn't
physical, in the way you or I are, no! These are things I'd be seeing though. I saw each and every scene
vividly. Friends would sometimes get annoyed, or ask, confused, what the fuck I was laughing at. I'd
repeat some phrase that went along with the scene I was seeing in my mind's eye, and they'd be
dumbfounded. I was having a blast! It was hilarious – to me – but no one else could see what it was
that was so funny. This went on for many, many years. Now that I think back, there was possibly some
pattern to it. When I was having laughing fits at absolutely nothing because of the abundance of
chemicals in my brain, I was either buzzing with anger or too exhausted to do anything other than sleep
for 12 hours, or lay on the couch...my personality vacant, replaced with a severe numbness.

I drank a lot. It began in college. And then came the pot. I drank to get drunk, from the get go. That's
what me and my buddies did. Liquor was fucking amazing. I'd drink a bottle of something, then go
smoke a joint, drink another bottle, follow it with a joint. Rinse, repeat. Day in, day out. At some point
I didn't even feel real, I just felt like a ghost floating through the same repetitive activities each and
every day. I always had money, despite not having a job of any kind. For some reason, I could scheme
my way to always having enough coin in my pocket to score another little fix. Cocaine was like playing
a fucking first-person shooter game, but I was God. And when I'm God, everyone dies. It took me to
the heights of confidence I could only achieve when riding one of my manic highs (the uncontrollable
laughter, pure ecstasy).

Over the years, I began to retreat into myself, in the week. Being able to work for yourself provides a
wonderfully convenient outlet to give in to all of your impulses, and still make bank. I became more
and more acquainted with my own company, in scribbling word salad on notebook paper, and
impressing myself. I followed a lot of direction from some unknown and visceral force within me. One
which had no name, but possessed a fiercely independent spirit, a defiant character, and an evil intent.
Self destruction. That is the goal. Nihilism. Its all there is. No hope, no way out...to just die and kill the
self instead of feed an ego, as a way of humbling oneself...it all seemed perfectly natural. I was no
narcissist, no sycophant. By destroying myself, and by sabotaging my very own efforts I could attain a
level of true enlightenment. It was all sacred sin. The damning of the soul, a sacred act. This eventually
led to a place after years of self-hatred in which I had worn down every bit of my pride to virtually
nothing. I couldn't muster a good word for myself, and my inner voice told me how colossally I
continued to fail. That inner voice, yes. I remember not long ago, its echoes...but now I know, that that
inner voice was not me. I didn't need to pay it any mind. Easier said than done! My self esteem could
barely fill a thimble, to this day. But I work at being able to accept compliments. I have to "reality
check" each and every occurrence with another human being, and this proves difficult when running
ones own business.

I follow my intuition a lot, in my work, and I do listen to my gut. But my mind was at some point,
shattered into a million pieces by something very possibly out of my control. I listen to the doctors
explain what it is the reason for these things are, and they make sense. I believe in medicine.

But there are times, oh, there are indeed...where none of that is enough, and I begin to believe that even
the doctors who saved me are concocting a pyramid scheme of shame that'll do away with me. After
all, you look to the research on these drugs they push, and its clear as day my life, although fuller and
more comfortable on them, is going to turn out a lot shorter than any euthymics would. But maybe
that's good! After all, it is myself who I despise, as puny as the steps I make to recover are.

I remember, when I was still drinking alcohol (something I'm unable to do on anti-psychotics,
antidepressants AND mood stabilizers – yes I take all 3) I began having these blackouts. Psychotic
breaks. I would go ballistic, accuse friends of things at parties, steal shit, insult people, drive drunk as
fuck for 20 miles plus, home. Its no wonder I never wrapped myself round a pole. In my manic states I
did offer hitchhikers rides a few times – and boy, that turned out well for me. Not really. I've almost lost
my life more times than I care t admit, and being attracted to the darkness like a moth to a flame, done
the most stupid things imaginable, because I simply couldn't see things clearly as I was so goddamned
unstable.

Everyone was out to get me. I never had a good day, not one. Little did I know it was all brain
chemistry. Who woulda thunk?!

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia III

The Whirlpool of Transparent Masks

I couldn't grasp what was going on with me, and in turn invented new ways to squander my time and
sully the chances various people had taken on me. I always felt as if I owed somebody an explanation,
as well as an apology. However, I was often tempted to avoid apologizing, as in the past it'd wound me
up in unfavourable circumstances - the depths of which, are indescribable. I become hard, unkind and
turn ever more inward, till I fall into an abyss, constructed by the demons I've housed in the
wrongdoings of my youth. I feel old, I am told I'm in the prime of my life, and cannot imagine a world
without my mother, when it has already taken my father. 'One foot in front of the other,' I tell myself,
and I sharpen my mechanical pencil. For years and years, I wore my profession as a disguise, only to
disregard it in later years. Now when I'm asked, I move on ever so quickly and adopt the 'interested is
interesting' approach. I often find myself near tears wondering what my those close to me thinks of my
life, and where I have wound up. So low on any material wealth, its crushing. My mother tells me she
loves me, says it doesn't matter, oftentimes she comes to my aid. I feel like a fraud, yet act as if I'm
elated, skipping over those things that bother me most.

Lovers arrive in my life, and leave. There are seasons I'm taken up in the romance of it all, and believe
so strongly this is the reason we're here. But, is it lust? Perhaps. Love is so impeding, and a cancer that
spreads so quickly, or rather a fire that burns everything it was at first down to a crisp. I am uncertain as
to where next things take me, but enter a new phase accompanied only by the same apathy I
experienced in cycles before. I've arrived at the notion that these cycles are uncontrollable and expose
the existence of a type of fate. I burn, and rise flying upward out of the chimney of despair, only to be
met with the cold night air of the depressive I so comfortably have inhabited for so long. Suddenly, a
glimmer of hope comes back and I can feel the weight of years of downness lift, and everything is
jovial. I announce it within myself, and its so intense I fail to remember it'll be fleeting. I drag my
eyelids closed, as I'm met with another nights rest, and consider it a piece of heaven. Why, when
unconscious, out, asleep, in bed, and off, would I feel better than in waking hours? Because nothing is
expected of me perhaps. I begin to strip away all of the ways, as best I can, that those I need, could
possibly have expectations – while simultaneously cushioning as best as possible any of the ways this
will cut off my nose to spite my face. Peculiarly enough, little changes, and life grants me leeway. This
makes me happy, and I begin to live a less anxious existence. There is now plenty of time freed up for
me, with which I can commit to things of interest, and so I explore new channels of self expression.

But no one comes. I'm alone, isolated by the hell of my own making, with nothing but my own tools
left to build a noose. I refuse, and continue to make my hell, and make it a beautiful hell. This hell
shrinks, and as it does, I grow larger, feasting on all those things I indulge in without limit. God calls,
but I stuff my ears closed with two globs of lard, accrued by sloth. A hand is outstretched and pulls at
me, but I'm blinded by the narrow tunnels of delusion, shrunken and pitch dark around my eyes.

Everybody I've ever know surrounds the cage I've been in, and calls to me, but, blind and deaf, I only
hear myself. Soon, everybody that has gathered and tried to unlock this cage has gone, and night creeps
in. I'm left, and don't even know it, I'm alone, not by my own making, but rightfully deserted, and if I
were to weep, nobody would hear me do so. Slowly, the surface beneath the cage begins to wither, and
so I fall ever deeper into another place, the splash, I do not feel, as I am covered in the wet suit of
impervious ignorance, I'm drowning, and only realize so, as I gasp for air and only swallow water. But
people come to my aid, and pull at the cage, and carry it to another place, dryer. They saw me out of the
bars, but these people do not resemble, at all, those I held dear in life, no. They have uncovered my
eyes, and they frighten me. My eyes, cataracts, see only blurs – so spare me what I would see if I knew
who these people were. These people put me under, and surgically remove the cataracts. Blindfolded, I
recuperate, in a sort of medical facility, till I regain my sight. What I am met with upon regaining vision
scares me more than anything I have ever seen. These people, they are not people. They are hideous,
and they can hear me think it! They scatter as I shriek. Drawing near once again, I catch my breath and
inquire as to what it is that is taking place. Am I dead? The faces peer in to my very being. I am scared,
and they know it. But they have saved me, and although I had abandoned every last one of the loved
ones I once knew, I am now in the place that I am because of it. They do wear clothes, but not any I
have seen before. I question my safety, and start for a door. But I cannot go back. Of this I'm assured,
and I cry out. I fight, and I'm frogmarched to another place. I ask them to tell me this isn't true, but
nobody will give me the answers I want. I look again upon one of their faces, and I feel a tinge crawl
across mine. "I'm in a dream, a horrid dream!" I shout. Their faces transmogrify, from terrifying to
jovial, yet these once good Samaritans start to mock me, and approach like a pack of wolves.

Time has passed, but I'm unaware of this. Then all of a sudden, I'm wrapped in what feels like a
blanket, being swayed gently by what feels like a pair of giant, warm hands. I feel at peace, and I hear a
voice. I'm told that there was always somebody with me, through all the times I felt that there wasn't.
My eyes are closed, and I drift asleep. I awake again later surrounded by white. I look around, see no
feet, no hands or arms, but I possess vision. I see my mother, at a birds eye view, looking at a picture.

In the picture is me, as a baby. She is glowing. I see my one of my siblings, I can see what they are
thinking, and emanating off of them is love. Another family member is surrounded by thoughts, some
of which are of me, and as I feel these things I feel myself grow brighter. I move, and although there is
a sense of movement to me, the three scenes have vanished, and I'm only surrounded by white. I glide
and glide in all four directions, North, East, South, finally West, and come across a place I've never
been. Its not like anywhere I've seen. I come to the realization that in my life I've never traveled, lived
and died where I was raised, aside from moving from the more quiet beach side to the city, and of
course to my grandmothers province. I explore this place, and its got all of the things one would
assume a place would have, but I can't decipher where exactly it is. I arrive at the conclusion that
human beings could not possibly know all of the world, and this must be somewhere I just hadn't
known, and our limited understanding of things couldn't describe it sufficiently. This information
comes to me, not of my own mind, but it is a knowing that is melded with my consciousness. Where
are the people of this place? I question how I got to where I am, chalking it up to my having died, but
something else urges me that this is not the case. Had my own solipsism not taken hold, I wondered,
would I not be at the place I once was, and wouldn't that be better? I was taken aback that such
questions were still with me, when I had incoming answers, from another source, aiding my curiosities.
I thought back to small pleasures like coffee, a sunrise, and the physical rest. I just didn't know what to
think or say, so I allowed my mind to clear as fully as it possibly could, and just then, my whole being
began getting sucked into an ever increasing hole. Surely it couldn't be the solipsism I'd erected like a
concrete wall before, returning to enslave me yet again? No.

All throughout being pursued by a pack of strange individuals, I'd been able to stay put, not die of
fright. I was beginning to question the existence of death, and see more of what I'd known life to be as
a death of sorts. Not being able to put ones finger on something certainly can lead to a lot of open
questions. I couldn't gather my papers, and fulfill my tasks any longer. I couldn't carefully craft
excuses, and here all of my failings were in full view for all. But all, I was not familiar with. Was there
anything else behind what was behind all of what I had lived before? How many more curtains could
possibly be drawn before I arrived at the real face, the one behind the duplicitous masks? And so, I set
out on a new journey - a journey to uncover the masks of these inexplicably horrendous faces I could
not shake from my minds eye. Down a muddy street, above a lorry. Skyward, on the wings of an eagle
as it soared. Drip-drip-dripping out a leaky tap. But no masks, none. None in any of these confounded
scenes. I wouldn't give up, however, as I glanced into the murky water of a pond. The only others there
beneath the surface, slithering against others of their ilk. A slimy eel then emerged, only to widen its
eyes at me and lick its lips. I was taken aback, but she consoled me with the idea that she was only
keeping her chops moist, as any creatures are wont to do.

"What do you I look like, a cheshire cat?," she hissed suddenly, stunning me.
"This is not Wonderland, and I indeed am not Alice." I said in retort.

The eel blinked her eyes, and queried what it is I sought. I filled her in on my predicament, what with
the unmasking of the awful and horrid looking creatures I'd seen. She'd gone down a laundry list of
possibilities, none of which held my attention very long, though before long, I bade her farewell. Upon
returning to the murky depths of her pond she probably had a gay old time at my expense, relaying
what a fool I appeared to be – seeking invisible faces of untold men from a place so far off any number
the most educated of folk could barely begin to imagine. Well, I kicked a pebble, and so it rolled down
a hill, gaining traction till in fell into the side of a protruding root. I shrugged, folded my arms and sat
on the ground, picking at some long strands of grass. Then I emptied my mind somewhat, and soon
found myself lost again, above my body, and gliding through the clouds.

Later, I awoke with a tremble. I had drifted off and had a snooze. I was parched, and beginning to feel
somewhat peckish. But who was to say where I could get a bite to eat? I was so lost, having traveled all
this way from everything I knew, seeking opaque ends. Shattering my dream, I gave in to the lowly
needs of a hungry girl and strolled down the mountain and into the first market I could lay my eyes on.
The first thing my lips met with were a tap, and I drank from it furiously, till I belched. Then I saw a
man selling food of some sort, and stumbled over, excusing the lady and man I brushed up against in
pursuit of a meal.

"Pushy little bitch", remarked the woman, and I looked back sheepishly, half forcing a smile.
"Shove my bloody wife, will you?!" yelled the husband, and I turned round, ran off and rolled my eyes.
Soon I gave up on a bite in such harsh conditions, and proceeded to a railway track in order to speedily
escape the portly, aggressive man that threatened he'd have my head. I put my hands on my hips and
leant down, staring at a few faded words on one of the tracks – presumably some company name or
some such. I felt nauseous, and it was blistering hot in this place. I looked around again and saw only
trees, rocks, grass-like shrubs, and that contentious market in the distance. The train track began to
rumble, and I tripped and fell, slicing my shin open. My shoelace had untied, and was stuck in the
track!

"God help me," I whimpered, with my eyes closed.

In an instant, I found myself in the shade, with the train roaring by. If I were where I was just seconds
ago I surely would've died! I looked to my left and saw a blur out of my peripheral vision. An odd face,
blue, and maniacal taunted my minds eye. I shouted in fear, and scooted back, knocking the back of my
head against the tree truck, biting the tip of my tongue and drawing blood. I cursed – twice! Three
times, then four. I was now watching the train I'd intended to grab onto disappear into the distance, but
fortunately had retained my life. How curious life is, I thought. A mutilated shin and a mouth filled
with blood, a bump on the head and an empty stomach. Just a lovely time I was having. Ashamed, I
quickly thanked out loud whomever it was that saved me from death by train! A mechanical voice
crinkled across my psyche like the the sound of fingers crumpling tin foil. I blurted an expletive and
covered my mouth in shame. Something inside me ushered a few thoughts into a particular direction –
that being the masks. I shook my head in disbelief and sprang to my feet, looking everywhere for one
of those peculiar faces that circled me before. How odd this whole situation had turned out, I whispered
to myself. I needed something to chew on, and sure as can be, a plan unfolded explicitly in my mind.

All I was to do was follow it!

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia IV

I should've discontinued, I should have stopped myself. But I didn't. Whoever knows me knows I never
can.

Reaching out for help when you're knee deep in life-wrecking, the position is dire. I couldn't sit
straight. I couldn't move. I couldn't look at her ... least of all in the God damn mirror.
I held the pen knife my grandfather had given me, between that flesh and mine, and ripped, began
tearing them apart. They were siamese no more, ex-circus freaks and blood. Earlier that day doctor
hadn't even been in town and I'd delivered a newborn piglet. But, I thought something was a little off
when I looked down in the pond and the Koi were gone.

I ran out into the street. Motherfuckers were sending smoke signals, somewhere, or trying to at least.
But I couldn't see them, and they were in another country and had hidden my rocks and trees.
Losing ones nerve never a good look I played it cool. No one had less than me, I strolled streets proud
and looking calm.

When the blood started to gush out of the tenth story windows I began to panic, or rather to look
unsettled- that I couldn't help. My friends all worked continuously, night and day... shifts did not exist. I
never saw them and began to wonder if I still had the right to call 'em friends.

Then the finger came out the sky, and the little surrounding me glanced and ran around in panic,
trampling some I shrugged.

These days seemed more one long night, and never before an evening I had participated in. I sat on
park benches and a faceless mass approached.

Wherever these faces went I felt drawn to and giggled uncontrollably ... not aware of the control they
had over me. I mirrored the lack of face and off I peeled mine.

They all brought logs and pins and razors and we stacked them in a pile. An hour prior I'd drifted off to
sleep to the awful scent of my fathers alcoholic breath.

I realised none of me were going anywhere, and gave up.

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia V

The last money I saw, which I earned myself, was a couple hundred bucks, and that was over a month
ago now. For weeks I’ve been too incapacitated to do more than do my daily ablutions, get dressed and
plop on the couch in exhaustion.

I thought I saw a glimmer of hope a week or so ago. But it was a flash in the pan, and nothing more.

Today, I awoke to a new level of numbness - one I’d never experienced before. It slowly morphed from
that to a hollowness of a different sort, a kind of “empty” if you will. Just a peg down from neutral.

It’s not silly. It’s no longer a joke. As the day progressed (or regressed) a dark cloud began to form
above me. It was black, and it poured acid rain style depression. No tears, luckily. But, you know, being
depressed without an obvious cause - as the chemicals in your brain shift and slither around - sure is a
downer (for want of a better word).

I just sat there, slouched at my work desk, my art supplies scattered around haphazardly, waiting for me
to at least try. But I didn’t. I fucking failed again today, for the 30th time, to do a single thing. I live in
my head. My affect is blunt. I’m suspended above myself, in solitude, and when noise or light pierced
through that I recoil in horror.

I can watch hardcore porn, or the most vile horror films one could imagine, and not bat an eyelid. But
people ... my God, no, please ... give me a rope or a handful of pills. I can’t take more than a few hours
of it before I’m fantasising about being firmly 6 feet underground.

What will my future look like? When I can’t lean on these crutches prescribed to me? Will I have one?
Anger began to build in me, simultaneous to the deep, dark, low sadness. I couldn’t understand what
the hell I was experiencing! This hasn’t happened to me with this intensity since before I began seeking
treatment, and walked through the doors of my saviour, psychiatry.

It’s true that you fall for your therapist. And hard! But you also get suspicious ... you hate them, they
scare you ... as they sit there despondent to your dump truck of emotions. They’re used to it - the
feelings of the haunted - spilling, flowing, circling their drain. But they’re there, the muted, neutral
sounding board, and they’re that to everyone that they can reach (if they’re willing).

The thought of thanking her has crossed my mind more often than I’d like to admit to myself. I’m
hopeless, worthless and unable to resolve any of the things that cross my path. But I have to follow
blindly the lead she sets out before me and trust it’ll hold when the going gets tough.

So I sit here, fist balled up. Veins protruding. Blood rushing through my face, teeth clenched. And I
pound inanimate objects, like the desk. My senses are so acute, I can detect muffled this or accentuated
that from kilometres away.

But I’m scared in this moment - about what exactly I should do. I can’t articulate well enough the devil
that interferes with my progress, who sends obstacles to me in the form of my own loved ones facial
expressions. I can’t detail the feeling of being watched by the demons always hanging around not far
off to the side of me. If I tell someone they’ll think I’m nuts, because I already hide so much of what I
go through for fear of how severely I’ll be viewed by others.

The voices are gone, but I got a command today. I try not think about it. These things are finding new
ways to get to me. They’re less prominent now, and they hate me for that. I can’t entertain that these are
spirits, I just can’t. Medical excuses so far have been a God send in the truest sense. They keep me
from the rabbit hole. That rabbit hole I’m filling up, shovelling every last bit of gravel I can salvage. I
need to seal the entry points and vacate the place these shadows lurk.

My mind tells me one ... no, a couple ... uh, multiple things all at once. And at other times, I sit, mouth
agape, hollower than any empty thing you could fathom, and I’m just fascinated ... with four walls ...
because I’m viewing an invisible projector, that is so close to real I am affected by the intricate details
of its contents ... only they’re nothing, and I’m no one, and this all feels just like a dream ... and I could
float away while observing myself from above, as I die a thousand deaths, and am reborn in manic
depression, to die another day.

I don't know if I can muster the courage to pretend to give a damn much longer, but I know I have to at
least try.

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia VI

Tomorrow. Yeah, I'm sure I'll feel something more than emptiness and apathy tomorrow. It's just today
is so ... Ugh. It's hard. It's hard to pick the pen up and get going. The tasks I need to do are so fucking
simple, yet they're impossible when I feel like this.

I can't do anything now. What's that behind me? I'm sure there's someone there. It feels like the Devil is
perching on the windowsill, but he hides himself from view just to fuck with me.

Nobody cares about the human garbage I've become. I'm a waste to everybody who ever had the
displeasure of coming into contact with me, for Christs sake.

I hate the reflection that snarls back at me in the mirror and laughs, mockingly, because it wants me
dead. He can't seem to get me to kill myself, though. Because, luckily, I'm too fucking flat to so much
as put a foot into a sock or a shoe.

I just don't care. The only things that hold my attention are inside my head, but have convinced me
they're outside of it. I don't even know what you're saying when you're speaking to me in our
conversation anymore. My memory erases itself of anything it's taken in in a matter of seconds.

And I think I'm happy because I'm dumb. These pills present me with a clean slate every day. I'm stuck
in one day, every day, and people laugh at me when I mistake today for tomorrow or yesterday for
today. I can't seem to keep track of the date, time or flesh out a schedule anymore.

Every day is just an amorphous blur, nondescript and gone, along with the recollections I had of my
own feelings or inaction I've been living inside of for the past however many months it's gone on now.
Why does everything seem so goddamn pointless, and inaccessible to me? Why don't I care that the
roads I wander down feed into each other and lead to one dead end I won't even acknowledge once I
get to it? Why am I unable to feel my body any longer? It's like it's not even here. I'm a
consciousnesses without a direction or a goal.

Well, maybe somewhere, sometime I once had a goal ... but I never reached it. Because I forgot how
much I wanted to achieve it once I became engrossed in the movies in my head.

Its nothing I can determine, what will occur, today, tomorrow. Every day I give up before I begin
because I just don't recognise the individual behind the wheel of my every move.

It's not a case of forward, right or left ... but backwards ... and further, every day.

No one would believe me or sympathise, if I were to attempt to put this all to words. Not even the
professionals I pay to give me their attention are interested anymore in my recovery, because I simply
can't seem to articulate that although I resemble a mummy at this stage (with the amount of band aids I
have stuck all over me) my problems have only gone from raw, incessant, emotional turmoil, to numb,
empty apathy so intense that I literally have no will to end it anymore, but I'm also incapable of
experiencing any emotions whatsoever, and therefore my entire existence has been rendered
meaningless.

See, I never considered how different things would be, once my old problems evaporated, and were
replaced by a vast, immovable force, like the new phenomena that has engulfed the prior me.

I'm no one anymore, I'm but a shell. I sold my neurons to big pharma, without considering the impact it
would have on me down the line.

While its true that my perceptions were clouded immeasurably by the afflictions I housed against my
will, I just float through days now with a happy go lucky nihilism that's so zen its cost me more and
more.

My career has long since been flushed. My desire to make any impact on the world is nonexistent. And
I'm being lied to by the people who's job it is to make sure I prolong my life of suffering and agony,
because the wide range of emotion I once possessed, I've been robbed of. By tablets? By doctors? I
can't seem to understand the complexities and nuances of my own paranoia, so I wear it like an orange
jumpsuit with shame, while I clutch at the steel bars of psychiatry I landed myself in.

There is no coming back from being the guy who lost his mind and wound up delirious and babbling
incoherently. I am told to move past things that happened when whatever it was first snapped in my
brain. But that's easy advice to give, you know? I don't think these people understand, because I'm able
to dress up my depression in a well groomed, smiley, surface level mask and bodysuit, so that they
don't learn the actual depths of my darkness. Because I decided, somewhere along the line, that that'd
be too much for them. That I better not tell them all there is to know.

Because I'm "doing better" now, you know? If I fuck up, then it leaves a blemish on your practice. I
wouldn't wanna ruin anything for you, you know.

Sometimes I'm too nice, polite to a fault. Always shooting off my mouth at those who simply don't
deserve it.

I don't know what to do. If this is the best it gets, it never gets better. Does it?

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia VII

Why is everybody so close? The proximity of them to me is putting me on edge. I want to freeze time,
to capture it all in a snow globe and have the freedom to fly over the city without the God damned,
motherfucking walls of body heat closing in on me like mechanical walls in a modern day gallows.

My body is a gulag here. I need your help, I need my space. I'd rather be invisible or nothing. Anything
is better than this.

Noise. Banging, talking, people. You lock us up for fucking months, and then you open the floodgates
and the ceiling is the floor. I detest every living thing that has air in its lungs, or possesses the ability to
be bellicose and audible.

I need silence. You need to sit down and shut the fuck up, now. I can't take another word. Everything is
throbbing, pulsating and rumbling. My ears are about to bleed. Just sit the fuck down, please.

Why can't they be alone with their thoughts? Why did I have to be punished like this? I hate any sound
out of any mouth or any throat making agree-upon meaning out of the things in their heads.

I want to jump, I seriously do. I need to have silence. I can't take the edge that's in this city, and I don't
want to be blamed for not being able to stomach it, ever.

Please, just a minute. Can we pause? Stop the world, I wanna get off. What possesses people to start
moving around and slamming their doors and cupboards? What is the real point of rearranging
furniture, and cleaning out the dirt that was swept under the rug for weeks?

You're doing it to your God damned, motherfucking SELVES. I can't take it anymore. I can see why
people take submachine guns into public places and just squeeze. I can't take another minute of this
shit, but I do.

What is the urgency, for these maggots to squirm around from one mound of dirt, hollowed out, to
another? Christ. It just goes on, and on and on and on...

Bullets, bidets, bigotry. I need my space, I need my time ... And no one, and I mean no one, is going to
rush me to any self created finish line. I don't do tricks for treats ... I am incapable of the rush.

I want to die in my coffin, in peace. Save the funeral attendees, please. All they'll do is muddy up the
grave site, and console one another because whatever it was I could do for them I can no longer do.
You are nothing but an opportunity for people to take responsibility off their hands. All these years, of
burden after burden, and they can finally breathe free. Jesus. Housework? Why? I'd rather die in my
filth, the way it was intended.

Call it shit where you eat. Call it what you will. But I can't seem to shake the way my hairs stand on
end at the slightest rustle of leaves. I need my space, quietude, silence, contemplation.

Why do they need noise, and interaction? Why are they so desirous of having hollow back slaps and
self righteous encouragement, especially, from people who mean nothing in the greater scheme of
things.

Why would I be any different from you? Why would hatred be appropriate, love? None of it has the
weight or meaning attached to it that you think it does. If this incessant disruption would just cease for
a fucking millisecond, I'd breathe a quiet sigh...but it wouldn't make it go away.

What do you do when someone is coming apart, and the only thing that can save them is a little white
pill, and some consolation from a paid ear? They don't care about you, and you're more trouble than
you've ever been worth.

Subdued paranoia, brooding, wallowing. I'm still annoyed, and ready to charge at the many red flags
around me. Fuck this shit, I hate myself and this situation so much right now nothing anyone could ever
say could ever lift me out of the pit of darkness I'm slumped in, bleeding to death. I hate the taste of the
tears. But most of all, I hate that no matter whether I live or die, this agony continues.

[AZZERAE]

Paranoia VIII

I lost a good friend this week. And I think I'm beginning to understand why. Something has taken a
tighter hold on me - something that isn't me.

In my ignorance, I thought it was a "show"! In the absence of understanding just what is going on here,
I have massacred the figurehead of angels: and ultimately, set fire to a peace treaty clothed in twin
wolves of my own perception.

Apology tour canceled. Pity and shame are eating my tiny, beaten heart. And there is more than just one
supreme Devil playing all my strings. The different versions of the Azzerae you know are not him -
instead demons are using this physical vessel of mine as a revolving door.

One minute I hate my friends, the next I adore them? Tell me something is off ... that this is explained
simply by psychiatry! I wish I could believe it. I have lived with (and continue to) a wide array of
demonic presences, and the door has always been open to them.

If we take a trip down memory lane, all the way back to that night that I stared into a Pentagram and
recited the words that, in summation, devoted my being to the Devil, I realise I need much more than
tranquilisers, stimulants and cognitive behavioural therapy. I need a spiritual spring clean. But how do I
get them to leave?

Its going to hurt. I know it is, because many people have tried to scare them off with the name of
Jehova. I wish a simple "I'm sorry" would stop, and take away, all the horrific things I've done to others
- in terms of emotional masochism, macho posturing - and lastly, abuse.

I can't even see myself beneath the murky river of Narcissus, because the "me" that stares back at me
(aside from being obstructed by dirty ripples) is whatever evil being it is that is currently having a stay
in my body and brain. Wait ... but I can think for myself ... and my thoughts are my own, and the
Schizophrenia has been dissolved by chemical warfare internal to my tortured psyche.

I've gone to war, held views that weren't my own, and twisted lies around the insides of my eyes as
window dressing, serving them all up as "straight talk" and never thought to question why I have
multiple streams of consciousness splashing around across the muddy walls of my mind as they do.

I look like an asshole. I've lived a hundred other lives. That's because I have been here before!

When I banter with the inner chatter of whoever else just arrived, while whoever else just left, I know
I've come too far at this point to begin to disregard a single word I'm writing. You demons and I have
had good times, and there's no denying that. But its time for you to leave now. Because I sure as hell
am not going to shuffle my emotional reactions like a deck of cards, and have you sow discord with the
words I construct with my own mouth that aren't mine. You are at the wheel, and this is an incredibly
difficult feat, to push you out of the driver's seat, and not crash the car.

You're changing the scene outside the dashboard with your black magic and inhuman ability. I've been
so deceived all this time, and this event has unfolded while I even seemed happy, or nonchalant about
it.

How was I to know that my depression was really just muted malaise, that apathy I felt for so many
years was created inside me, the festering and fermenting of my inner workings (right down to my
chemical make-up) and you've had me HELD HOSTAGE: truly, an awakening must happen now.

But as intelligent as so many people say I am, how do I go up against the Devil himself? And how do I
be sure that I don't tell the wrong person, and wind up either on stronger medication, or in a psych
ward? What if I seek help from some Priest, and his demons are legion, and convince the demons in me
that I call the whole thing off - or say a few "hail mary's" and a "glory be"?

I don't identify as Catholic, I don't hold so many of the beliefs I've tried to pretend I do, and now the
wolves are going to eat me up from inside ALL OVER AGAIN and I have to sit here and clutch my
white flag?

I can't do this anymore. I can't be told there's something dark inside of me ... and ignore it. But what
options are there for someone so steeped in spiritual bondage? And someone so ruled by apathetic,
subdued, yet subtly fearful, shattered visions? I have abandoned myself, and yielded to a translucent,
intangible Stockholm syndrome that comes off as nothing more than the ramblings of a madman.

How is it, that for years, everything that I joked I was, I turned out to be? Are words really dainty,
pleasing-to-the-ear spells? Magic, that create conscious streams of being, and that perpetuate the unjust
(or just) actions of the sentient? I will not remain unconcerned in the face of ludicrous claims about
simulated retelling of events I never witnessed - not in the spirit, nor with my physical eyes - I am here,
bleating in agony at the Shepherd in the Sky, to please, NOW, rescue me from this Hell of my own
making!

I must proceed, but for now, I just don't know how I'll solve this agony of the soul. There is no one to
help me up now, because I have murdered all my friends ... and any acquaintance? well, I think that
speaks for itself, Ouroboros.

HELP ME, I AM IN HELL NOW!

And I'll be going further downward, via a sinking feeling, like quicksand, into the darker, hotter floors
soon. Will there be any hope left in a year or two? Why does all the progress I make look like
stagnation now, with these new revelations? Because of the self-hypnosis ... Because its easy to sit in
that chair (back then) and sing ones praises for three quarters of an hour.

You need to stop this now, and you need to devise the exit plan on your own. No one can do it for you
at this point, because you shot them all, stabbed their backs and fronts ... the daggers went clean
through, don't try salvage body parts with stitching or with rolls of bandage! THEY'RE ALL GONE
NOW and the ONLY ones left have always told you what you wanted to hear anyway, which is why
you kept them around.

I'm pleased I've made this discovery, but there is an inner paralysis present right this very minute that is
palpable, and that scares me, truly. I've gotta get them out. But I need to possess the spiritual strength to
evict unwelcome evil. Jokes aren't gonna cut it anymore! Self-efficacy was the diversion, and to
subvert this principle now requires an unrelenting, exhaustive analysis of the inner workings that are
almost impossible to execute years in to this host-parasite Kabuki theatre - a rigorous separation of the
barnacles from the Cetacea ... prepare for vomit, heads spinning backwards, and an identity crisis of the
id.

So; I have a long way up this staircase. And I need to collect my things.

[WORTHAUGERa]

[WORTHAUGERa]

[Colonel Pate Manly]

Code: [Select]

https://youtu.be/uyGY2NfYpeE

Dr. MD MD, eye presume?



COL Manly

[AZZERAE]

I don't want to take these drugs anymore.