Thursday, 12 February 2015

Beginnings, Endings and the Beginning of the End

I wander around the world now as a vague reflection of my former self. I know what my ideals were, I understand their importance and while I still regret nothing, I also feel nothing.

The drugs they gave me to cease my bodies natural ebb and flow have now rendered me numb. Apparently this is the perfect place to be, ‘normal’ or so they say.

I couldn’t imagine always wanting to live a ‘normal’ life, void of divine spirituality and completed sense of self. Never experiencing the intensity of pure fun, joy and excitement mixed with the energy of a thousand four year olds.

Nor however, could I believe in a world without the extreme sense of despair and hopelessness that comes from unchangeable circumstances or being racked with guilt over something real or perceived or often, no reason at all other than to remind you to appreciate the times of experiencing vivid life and self-awareness.

One thing I have been thankful for not experiencing was the ‘voices’ so many people speak of intruding into their minds and scaring them into psychosis.

At least I thought that I hadn’t, until I stopped taking the antipsychotic they put me on. Suddenly I have music playing around me, as though a string quartet or an orchestra is warming up or playing in the distance, it’s faint and somewhat beautiful, but it’s there, where it wasn’t before.

I also hear a voice coming back, an intrusive voice that I had always attributed to a pattern of self-thought and not an entity of its own – the voice from my eating disorder, the one that keeps me in line, that reminds me of my youth in an encouraging, scornful and often violent manner.

I had barely noticed it had gone missing recently– too much other stuff going on, but God, the binging. The binging that has reached critical levels – levels I may never be able to return from. I was inadvertently watching myself from the outside and wondering how the fuck I was letting this happen, the auto pilot on button stuck like glue.

The dirty little secret is that I want this voice to come back. I need it to come back. I must be held accountable for my actions and this is the only way I think it will be possible. I need to look upon the criticism and judgement as constructive, a challenge and a God to be obeyed at all costs. The depression that comes from living with the voice is nothing compared to the dire pit of hell that stem from the consequences of a world of silence and dirty normality.

I would rather let the voice take me over and let my new found lack of fear be my final undoing. Since the overdose I no longer feel frightened of pain or death at all. Not even a tiny twinge of concern or fear of future regret. I think that after taking the pills and feeling completely at peace with it even several hours later reassured me that it was the right course of action, I chose my fete and now I am but a mere ghost caught between worlds but able to interact, just waiting for my time to come so I can move on to where I am supposed to be.

The trouble is I am impatient, I don’t like waiting and I don’t want to wait now. I wonder if patience could in fact my life lesson this time around. God knows I breezed through the usual trials and tribulations that one must master so quickly that I must have learned them before. I completed what I came to do but if that is in fact my life lesson (and possibly acceptance – which I have for almost everything) I must learn it and not end my human existence by my own hand or I will simply have to do it all over again. I just want to move on, I am READY to move on.

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