Schizophrenic Edge
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| "Happily Surrendered to be" |
How close can a person get to the schizophrenic edge and not drop in? I think I have been there... and I remain to tell about it.
I am sure as time rolls on I will get to view more of what has happen, and with a widening understanding recognize myself... shadows of me, "could-be-me" scenes.
I am not sure if I should cry or rejoice. Cry for who I was, the pain, the prison, the exotic psychotic! or rejoice for "the me" that was able to escape the looney shell, as to slit the outer skin and walk through.
Over the years I think I had moments of norm... moments of slipping out and frolicking in the sun like a child released from school for the first day of summer. Everything so bright, and simple, and full.
But a "mighty hand of not" would find me, hunt me, hound me and drag me back into the "land of lost" -- the greying black stone-cold cave of uncertainty. The wild escapades of a mind--so certain of its own sanity - its own clear view - its own super-knowledge beyond the average mind of common folk - those simpletons. Not to live in putred pride, but to feel you can see life better than most... in more levels, dimensions, deeper and with absolute sharpness that frequent passerby-ers miss.
The great abyss of knowledge, of pinpoint accuracy, of elation to see and hear. To walk on the free side of human life, the one that doesn't follow archaic rules of man, but runs after the Most High... and actually knows Him, touches Him. Could this be why I am so certain and so surely believe? Because my faith is not blind but based on experience, based on so numerous escapades with Him, and where few believe enough to be swept away.
And I am not sure I know... if I know... what I know.
I heard voices. Clear loud instructing voices. Horrible voices. Haunting voices. Day after day, year after year... I know what it is like to live within the company of more than just myself. And that makes me sad, not strongly sad, but with watercolor strokes of sorrow.
As I am better, I am reading books of the experiences of others for the first time--over and over I read of the voices heard by those of Schizophrenia... the words, the commands, the suggestions and they are frighteningly similar to my own recollection. I know. I remember the ones I experienced daily so long ago. And I now know, I was on the schizophrenic edge... caught, before I fell permanently into the depths where few if any return.
And tears wanting to well up, pressing against the inside of my face. My lips pressed together by a neatly hand-sewn seam... not knowing what to say or feel or think. In this thought--these thoughts--I must will myself to be, to just be still.
I will rest right here...
This not so comforting thought, but I don't want to run, to dash away, to break free, to scatter like a mad wild animal, like a child lost and running through the woods, frightened that she will never be found again... at least not by a rescuer ....and I don't want to miss what I need to see or learn or know.
I want to understand. I am no longer in a quest to guide others, what a simple-mindedly thought to think I'd be able to do such a thing, as to drop bread crumbs along the way for others "like me" to have hope and find their journey-free with the guidance of my helping hand. What a grandiose wish! Probably sourcing from a need of purpose, meaning, to help me endure the darkest moments... wanting to know the endless pain was not for naught. And it is quite possible, it was a gift to me, to lighten the load I carried by dropping little bits and pieces along the way for others to find. This act of kindness to others could have very well been a protective way to make it more likely I could break through the shell.
At least now, I am on the outside looking in or at who I once was - whichever it may be.
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