Back to Hearing Voices Again

I think the voices have gotten worse. They say it’s how it is in the world. That is very hard to believe. They say that I am a retard, and that I come from a family of retards. They say I had my light turned on, that I somehow got, “the gift” but that it doesn’t happen to everyone. Why wouldn’t it happen it to everyone? I think “the light” is from the Beatles, or me listening to Beatles songs. In the middle of all the voices is one voice, a “John” who says he wants to ruin my life because he has nothing better to do. I just don’t believe this. I can’t. If there is a gift, how come people get lost? You could instantly talk to anyone in your head and find your way. Things like GPS or phones would be obsolete, there would never be a need to invent such a thing. I shouldn’t even give the voices the time of day, but when you’re working and listening to them all day it can be hard to shut them off. This is why I am always listening to music, or singing any random song that comes into my head. The voices never sing anything new. They had an original idea today, though. They said, “I thought gloves were all the same” when I put a glove on the wrong hand. The voices are always surprising me in new ways.

They say that I was completely transparent when I didn’t have, “the gift” and that everyone knew everything about me. This again, doesn’t make sense. If they knew everything about me they would. People wouldn’t have to ask me simple questions. Teachers would know whenever a student is cheating or skipping classes. Cops and juries would know whenever someone is breaking the law. They say that people know how to block “the gift,” a feat that I don’t know anything about, besides getting myself distracted.

There would be simple scientific texts explaining this. Whenever I research anyone hearing other people in their head, I come up with telepathy or schizophrenia. I obviously don’t have telepathy. Telepathy is a super power, I told the voices they must all have super powers. When someone on TV on a show gets telepathy it is shown as an amazing thing, but often times a curse as well as a gift. It is shown as a miraculous event, something uncommon in everyday life. Again, the voices say it is because it doesn’t happen to everyone.

So that means there are many people living in the dark. I would be exposing their “gift.” I have not found any solid proof in this “gift,” only guesses and theories. The more likely answer is that I am schizophrenic. The voices would have me believe that people with schizophrenia just have someone with the “gift” who has a grudge against them, or got lost in the massive swirling hive mind that is the voices. It is a hard theory to believe.

It is also a hard theory to shake. This is one of the principle things the voices want me to believe. Why would someone else give a shit what I believe? Just to pointlessly try to ruin my life? They would have nothing to gain, and nothing to prove. It’s not like they would even have evidence of the fact they ruined my life. I suppose they would have personal satisfaction, but to what end would they go to accomplish that goal? This person, this “John” is someone I barely know and don’t know anything about. Why would he want to ruin my life? All I know about him is that he used to work at a grocery store and that he went to church. That’s all. Why would this person seek to destroy me? No one is that cruel hearted.

The voices constantly tell me to kill myself, but the voices have a more sinister motive than trying to get me to commit suicide. They are trying to prove to me that essentially everyone is evil and out to get me. They want me to believe the worst about everyone. They want to trap me in a fantasy world, a world that they conveniently create, even if it is just a warped version of the world we live in. This sinister plot against me, perpetrated by my own brain no less, is too heinous to forgive. The voices would want me to forgive them, so that they can betray my trust and hurt me all over again. I will not seek to justify their deplorable will, and I will not seek further answers into their stories. The voices are voices, and that is that.

But that is not the end. I will continue to fight, every single day I live, against these monstrosities. I will endlessly strive to outwit and outmatch them, to fight them to the bitter ends of the earth to control my fate. It is a battle for control in my head. The voices have underhanded ways of convincing me, whether it be reverse psychology or bullying. Their methods know no ends. They will try all of them and more, but I will never give in.

House Arrest and Probation

Now I was on house arrest again. I wouldn’t be cutting off my bracelet this time. I was thinking a lot better. My friend came over and we had chicken that my dad made. I would eat anything. I would be vegetarian for a year after, but I think the most important thing is not to waste food. I was just thankful to eat normal food again. I would eat anything, although I was going to give this vegetarian thing a try. Being in jail for so long helped me quit smoking. I didn’t even have cravings for it anymore.

I was being monitored by GPS. The only places I was allowed to go for now was to therapy and the family restaurant so I could work. It was actually pleasant being allowed to work and go somewhere else. At first I didn’t like therapy at all. It was court mandated but at least my family picked out a therapist. His name was Jim. He was a religious army guy who worked in therapy. He tried some seven deadly sins worksheet with me but I think he stopped that after realizing that wasn’t working for me. I would go to therapy for a long time, at least until my probation was over. It was helpful going to therapy. We mostly talked about mundane stuff, and just talked about anything for a while. I remember something he said, “Maybe we are searching for something else than the mundane?” I didn’t really pick up on what he said at the time, but it makes sense. I was always searching for some special meaning. Maybe I should be content with what I have. After a while it was just nice talking with him. He always sent a letter to court saying how I was doing, and he always said I was doing well. At first I thought I just had to get through therapy and try to put on a good face for court, but I think it helped my mental state as well. I didn’t talk about schizophrenia or even my horrible experiences very much. I did tell him about Mordechai and that shit show, but not too much else. I didn’t talk about my dad or anything, I just talked about calming things. My parents came in for a group session one time, and I think that helped all of us.

Being able to walk to the restaurant was nice. I had lost my driver’s license previously because of a dui I got because of smoking weed. Maybe I’ll talk about it later. It was in my reckless high school days. I would be going to therapy for substance abuse as well. I got two birds with one stone in therapy. So it was nice going for walks again, even though it was very limited. The judge reprimanded me for walking around too much, but it turned out it was because we were near an airport and the signal was being interfered with. It said I was going to the airport and the graveyard. They learnt what was wrong later. It still felt bad being yelled at for something I didn’t do. It was nice being at the restaurant. I didn’t talk too much with my dad, but I did say sorry. I made bread, cleaned, and worked with customers. It was nice having something to do. Otherwise I would get drunk on my dad’s whiskey at home and watch movies. I really didn’t have anything to do. I would sit at my computer charging my bracelet and my cat, Shadow, would sit on my lap and purr. It was nice hanging out with the cats. They helped me not worry so much.

I was not allowed to drink, but I did anyway only sometimes. I knew when my probation officers would drug test me. They would drug test me every time I came in to see them in Racine and every time after court. I would later get away with smoking weed being on probation. I never smoked weed anymore. I severed my ties with my drug dealer and only hung out with a few friends. I was going through a tough time when I smoked weed on probation, someone close to me tried to kill themselves. Most of the time I stayed clean though.

I had two probation officers. One for mood and the other for the law. The one for mood was kind of like a case manager for the court. School was starting soon, after staying a year at home and working, and I wanted to go north up to Stout but when the issue was addressed in court the case manager said I couldn’t leave the county. It was really sucky, because I had my heart set on Stout. I was already accepted. In the end I would have to go to Parkside nearby. I studied mechanical engineering there for two years. At the start I was on house arrest, and had to attend classes with my bracelet buzzing because it was on low battery. I had to charge it whenever it started buzzing. I even had to charge it in the middle of a class one time. I kept to myself most of the time in college. I didn’t venture out of my boundaries and didn’t want to tell anyone I was on house arrest and probation. I dropped out of college because I couldn’t deal with the stress of going to college and being on probation. I would have to finish college again later.

Eventually the court made up their mind and said I could be off house arrest and just be on probation. I got my GPS bracelet cut off after having it on for so long. This plan was brought up by my lawyer. I would be on probation, have to meet my probation officers, and go to therapy. It was much better than going to a mental hospital for seven years. I started smoking cigarettes again because I was bored. My friend bought me a pack when I was on house arrest. I was filled with worry most of the time. Every time I went to court nothing would happen. I would be on probation for three years.

When I was 21, something great happened. My lawyer asked if I could be finished with probation, as my probation officers said I was doing well and my therapist said I was doing well. The case manager, who I initially didn’t like very much, came around and said I didn’t need to be on probation anymore. I thanked her for that later. I would always put on a good face for my probation officers, even if I really wasn’t doing well. I got good at it. Eventually it became the truth, however, and I really was doing well. I could never sleep before court dates, and would have nightmares. I would worry so much. I had to dress up for something I hated for a reason that didn’t make sense. On that last court date I was looking really swell, I was wearing these nice new black jeans and a tux undershirt. I was clean shaven. My parents were there. Even though the district attorney protested against having my sentence reduced, the judge okayed it and said we could be finished. I felt golden. I felt good again after feeling bad for so long. I gave my lawyer a hug and thanked her. I went home a free man, with nothing on my record. No felony, no mess. I was happy.

Golden and Going Home

In the sick ward, a yellow cell block, I met a guy with braces on his jaw. Apparently he got in a fight and someone broke his jaw. I finally got commissary so had some snacks with me. I had some chips and tortillas. I also had pencils. I didn’t need to write with the lead I got from Keith anymore. I ate all the food pretty quickly. I crunched up the chips in a tortilla and had a weird burrito. I shared my chips with the guy. His cell was next to me. He crunched up the chips into powder so he could eat them. I learnt that you had to be a good neighbor in jail. It is much easier when you are nice to people and they are nice back. I don’t remember his name, but he was also in and out of mental hospitals and jail like Keith. He either couldn’t read or write very well so he asked me to help him with a slip asking for something. He couldn’t spell simple things. We played chess every once in a while and he beat me in the few times I played with him. I helped him best I could, but they moved me to another cell in the cell block before I could finish helping him.

Next cell over was a guy who was always singing. He seemed kind of angry before, but he didn’t now. His name was Golden. Everyone was usually called by their last names by the guards. Golden just called me Allen, even though I insisted he call me Balthazar. He was always singing and laughing, I liked that about him. He laughed even if it wasn’t very funny. We would talk and make jokes and talk about our stoner days. Apparently he was in jail because he was with someone who had a gun who maybe shot somebody. He also dealt weed a lot. I called weed dope, but he called dope heroin. He said he didn’t deal heroin. He showed me a book he was writing about pimping. He had a couple pages down and it was interesting. Apparently you need a head whore, who takes care of all the other whores. You need to give them methods of communication, and every once in a while they will need to walk down the street to meet a hookup. Giving them jewelry helps if they or the pimp gets arrested, and lets them buy bail. I don’t know if he ever finished that book.

Golden was in jail for three years. You could see the strain in his eyes, even though he always had a smile. He talked with his wife, or girlfriend, or baby mama, (they all just called their women mamas) and wanted her and his child to pray for him. He was arguing with her about his child praying. He always seemed so sad. He had funny jokes, and I always laughed and sang with him. I was Bugs Bunny, and he was Daffy Duck. I said, “what’s up doc?” He liked Darkling Duck. He could always beat me at chess. It made me so frustrated! In the end I was a good sport and always said good game. He had this tricky pawn maneuver where he set up the pawns like a barbed wired fence. You couldn’t get past them without losing a piece. He was also good at checkers, but I liked chess more. We stayed up in the night playing chess. The guards would let me out of my cell to play chess with him.

I sang a long sad medley of songs  in the shower one Sunday morning. It was all the frustration and sadness let out in song. I sang Don’t Worry Be Happy, I, and Hallelujah and other songs.

There were other inmates me and Golden would talk with and joke with. There was this guy who sang about money we’d joke with. We could see him from our cells. There was this white kid, like me, I gave a terribly boring book to. A lot of the inmates would sleep most of the days. In the end that’s what I did too. I stopped taking the pills, I forcefully told them I wouldn’t take them anymore. Golden was worried about that but I told him to shut up, which he took offense to. I told him to mind his own business. The pills were only hurting me.

The guards would perform random checks, where they’d check each cell with dogs. I was busy trying to take a shit when they were performing checks. It was hard to take shits in jail. The cameras, the other people so close, the bad food. There was no privacy Golden told me to take down the privacy blanket I put up and I did. I would have to try and shit later. I eventually got one out one day.

After the guard finished checking my cell he asked me if I would be coming back again. I said I’m never going back to jail. He stared at me with a sort of crazy look in his eyes. He stopped and looked surprised that I was telling the truth.

So I slept. A lot. Being in dreams were better than being in jail. I was hopeless. Golden told me to keep my hopes up, but I was past that. Every once in a while, on Mondays, I would have court and nothing would happen every time. I would sit in the holding cells before, chained up by my ankles and wrists praying. But nothing would happen. I would rather sit in my cell and sleep than go through all the worry again.

One day, when Golden told me that maybe they would get me out of there and I was in denial, something spectacular happened. A guard came by and told me my bail had been posted. I said, “You were right, dude!” to Golden and quickly gathered up all my papers and books. I told Golden bye and went with the guard.

The guard asked something really stupid. He told me if I was ready to be out again after being in jail for so long. I said of course I am. I said jail stinks, the food sucks and there isn’t enough, and there’s no sunlight. He must’ve watched a little too much Shawshank Redemption.

Being outside in the sunlight was the greatest. My grandma and dad picked me up. They drove me to a place where they would see if I needed more psychiatric treatment. Hearing music in the car was wonderful. Eating bananas and peanut butter sandwiches was wonderful. Eating the weird peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in jail was the closest I was to being vegetarian. It was impossible to be vegetarian in jail. There just wasn’t enough food. I was always hungry. They took me to the hospital place, and Dad said I could say what I wanted and he would leave if I wanted. I told him it’s fine if he stayed. I said what I could, and told them I was a vegetarian. They said I didn’t need psychiatric treatment and that I could go home. I was thankful. Going home again was great.

My family was happy to have me back. I noticed a new wood sculpture in the yard, shaped like a man. A cat was sleeping on the bed, my Paws. Being at home was the greatest. I ate like I’ve never eaten before.

It wasn’t the end of my trouble with the law, I only finished it years after. I was on probation. I would be on a GPS bracelet for quite a while. I will get more into that in the next chapter.


I’ve been sort of lackadaisical continuing my blog. It’s tough reliving some of these moments. It doesn’t always have to be about my experiences though. I can write about anything. Let’s go into my past again today, however.

I was taken back to the county jail. When there I wasn’t thinking straight, but I was thinking a little better. My stuff was taken from me and I had my fingerprints taken. I was taken to a cell with a bunch of other prisoners who were waiting to be processed. There was a toilet and a bench. I just sat there quietly listening to the other prisoners. One was eighteen too. He had been stealing from unlocked cars. I sat and waited. Eventually, after a long while we were given mats and told that we would be sleeping together in a nearby cell. I think there were four of us. It was already nighttime by then. We all slept on guard. It took a while to trust someone enough to sleep within six feet of them, especially in somewhere like jail. Thankfully they told us they had some empty beds and would be taking us to them. We packed up our mats and went with the guards.

I was taken to population. There a bunch of people are in an open enclosed space with cells lining the walls. Apparently there had been some sort of fighting going on recently and all the inmates were shouting stuff to each other. It was a lock down. I went to the bars of my cell and said, “I’m Balthazar, and I’ll eat your face off!” They kept on shouting things. My cellmate, Pete, tried to calm me down. He sang songs to me in the bottom bunk. I was a little wary of him but his singing helped calm me. He sang some sort of RnB.

The next day the cellmates did all sort of things. Mostly they paced, played cards, shaved their hair, talked, exercised, or did whatever. I also exercised. I did pushups and sit-ups. Most of the time I brushed my teeth. It was a habit I got into. Maybe a nervous habit, but even though in the midst of my delusions, I wasn’t really nervous. It was a weird feeling. I was calm in my delusions, even though everything was horrible to me. Brushing my teeth was a weird way to cope. I stayed in my cell most of the time, even though the door was open. I tried sleeping. Some inmate kept on going in my cell to look out the window, and that annoyed me. I wanted to tell him off, but he left soon after. He kept on doing that though when I was trying to sleep. To counteract this I sat at the desk by the window and looked out. While I was sitting some inmate, probably the one who I said I would eat their face off to, threw some wet toilet paper into my cell. I picked it up and threw it out, saying, “Take it back!”

I watched some people playing cards. Someone got three sixes and that triggered a delusion. He must be a devil too. I walked around in a circle with the other inmates. People just said stuff in this circle. We walked around the whole room. I sang something about Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer snorting coke.

I called my parents from the phone. There was this long number you had to remember if you wanted to make a call, your inmate number, and you had to have money in your account if you wanted to make a call. The phone calls weren’t cheap. I didn’t make good use of the phone this time, instead I raved some sort of delusion to my mom, wanting to know where I was conceived. I don’t know why I said stuff like that. Apparently it’s quite normal for normal people to lose their shit when they get thrown in jail. Normal calm people go nuts the first time they’re thrown in the clink. That’s how it was explained to me by Pete.

The same inmate who threw the toilet paper into my cell said something to the guards. He lied and said I was saying racist remarks. I never said anything of the sort. I don’t know how he thought that. Sometimes people get a little too overzealous about race in jail. I think he just wanted to get rid of me. The cops called me in and said I shouldn’t be saying racist things. They said they’ve seen people get their heads banged on the corners of tables and have their eyes hanging out. I played the fool and just said sorry. I didn’t even try to defend myself. Some part of me told myself to act crazy, and that’s how I would get out of jail. Strange that it sort of worked. Strange that I was also sort of crazy. The cops moved me into a cell downstairs by myself. While there I wouldn’t eat the food. I feared it would be drugged.

The next part is Mordechai. I will be putting everything in order in my book. Keep watch for when I will reveal it! It’s about schizophrenia. I’ve been playing gwent a lot lately, it’s this online card game. It’s a nice distraction. I will continue to write more. Thanks for reading!

It’s Not a Tumor


What’s weird about the voices is that they want to survive and for me to isolate myself. I’m hearing them again after it being quiet for a long while. I had a brief lapse in my medication and it might have something to do with it. Or it could be because I drank too much.

Back to what I was saying. It’s just weird. Why would voices in my head want me to isolate? Why do they want to survive? Is it some deranged animal instinct in the voices in my head? They don’t even want me to write to you. They want me to shut myself off from the world, so I can be nice and lonely with them.

I don’t know why they feel this way. I don’t know why I feel this way. I should just continue to ignore them, but they’re interesting as far as phenomena go. I know I don’t feel like I should isolate myself, in fact when they try to get me to do so I want to reach out more. They also try to convince me to not take my medication. Part of their thinking involves them being different people and that this is just the way they talk. They’re trying to get me distracted so I don’t finish this writing. Different people would never talk like this. It’s so invasive.

“He’s telling you the truth.” A voice says. Let’s bring them out into the spotlight. They always try to distract me, it’s easier just putting them in the center.

“He’s telling you the truth.” They say again. They want me to believe. They need me to believe, so I will fall back into old habits and not take my medication. It must be weird seeing someone bring a specter out into thin air. I’m like a magician, bringing unknowable acts into being. You can either believe the trick or try to figure it out. This trick is real. There are different people talking to me in my head.

But they’re not so different. I’ve gotten to know them quite well. I laugh at their silly attempts to hinder me. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t still there and don’t annoy me. They try to get in the way of everything. They always bring up my worst experiences, to toy with me for a while. I don’t know how a piece of me is so malevolent.

But are they really me? I still don’t know. I think of them as something separate, like a tumor, that I don’t want in my body. I think of them as a sickness. They are a disease after all.

One of the main things they say is, “You’re a different person.” I believe that to mean that they say they are other actual people as well. To have proof of this they bring up an experience where I shook someone’s hand, because I believed he was talking to me in my head. I don’t know what that person thought of me. I apologized to him for writing a story and sending it. It was the wrong person to apologize to. But my apology would fall on deaf ears anyway.

Them being different people is a way for them to grasp onto something that I have no proof of, that I will never have proof of. No one stole my information, even though I broadcasted it in my head. I thought they were breaking into my mind at the time. The only way to beat them was to try not to think of what they wanted me to think of. It was terrifying. There is no way to not think of something when it’s in your head, unless you forgot it or never experienced it. They would bring something up and they would try to hack into my mind. I’ll never forget what the voices did to me.

They will never be my friend. They will always be my enemy. Sometimes they try to befriend me, but quickly turn when they see an advantage. I must always be on guard. The only time we really saw eye to eye was when I smoked weed. But it got bad again soon after when the effects were wearing off. The high was very temporary.

That is why I must abstain from drugs and alcohol. I like drinking, and I’m experimenting to see what effects it has on the voices. If it makes it worse then I won’t drink so much. At first it helped, when the voices were rampant drinking made me lose focus on them and helped me ignore them. If alcohol doesn’t have very bad effects then I will continue to drink and enjoy it.

But I don’t want to turn up like that crazy man I met in jail. I must always take care to reduce my symptoms and live in the light. In the darkness alone is when the voices are worst, metaphorically too. Living in the dark, living with voices. I thought my light was turned on because of them. What crazy stories they come up with.

What else is there to say? I want to write for hours. Writing is a great release. When you have something pent up and there’s nobody around to spill it to writing helps. I don’t know how I could’ve gotten through this without writing. At first I thought the voices would take it away from me. They did in the beginning. I started hearing voices when I started writing. I thought something in my brain must’ve triggered because of writing, and messed me all up inside. It gets easier the more pages I turn out.

It’s so quiet. The voices and I say. They left a scar on my brain. I think of things they say and remember them. It sucks. In time it will pass, hopefully. All I’ve got to do now is wait.

Damned Luck

I had a dream last night where I was hearing voices. In the dream someone else caused a bunch of radiation and I was being blamed for it to, even though I tried to stop it. The voice was the voice of someone in Britain, and they were a murderer or something. My dad told me not to listen. I didn’t listen after talking with my dad.

One of the things that stands out about my voices is that to hear voices I would somehow have to lose my soul. “Give the gift away,” so to speak. I gave a girl a story and somehow that translated into losing my soul. I was thrown into a world of hell, hell in other people’s heads. We were all damned, so were stuck together. It was very hopeless when I was in that stage.

I don’t envy the man with the x-ray eyes. To see into others minds must truly be a nightmare. To have them see into yours is even worse. There wasn’t a worse feeling than having my entire life open to view by anyone, my darkest secrets, and my most private thoughts. Thankfully it was a delusion, but it didn’t seem so at the time.

To hear voices is in a way to be cursed. I don’t want to have children to pass the curse along to. I might’ve got my schizophrenia from my grandfather, a grandfather I have gotten my last name from. I have the family curse, if it really was passed down genetically. There could be other reasons. Everyone I heard did horrible things in my head, so that was a reason why they were so negative. We were all damned.

Of course this plays a part religiously. Or it might not. I thought my light was turned on, that I was somehow living in the dark. Really it was hell. God had cursed me, but it was my own fault. It was a terrible experience. I went to church and the voices said something about being a ghost, and the preacher said something about ghosts. Reality and delusion intertwined. Everyone at church was a horrible person really. All in my head.

I have to be careful to walk in the light. I have to stay away from depression and get help where I can. Light is helpful against hallucinations and voices. I sleep with a lava lamp on when they’re horrible. If I truly was cursed then I am on my path to salvation. But I don’t think it’s anything religious, because otherwise pills would have no effect on the voices. It is just my bad luck. I’ve been lucky before, so maybe this is karma. Most of my good luck comes about in the midst of bad luck. I’m lucky I have a home. I’m lucky I have medication. I’m lucky I have a family. That’s some luck that isn’t there because of bad luck. I’m just lucky to be alive. I literally could’ve killed myself over a quarter flip. I’m a lucky guy walking in the light again after living in darkness for so long.

Rambling On

Hello blog people! How are you doing today? I am doing just fantastic. The Zoloft has helped me a lot. I feel a lot more in control of myself than I did. I can barely hear the voices now. Geodon has really helped me. It feels amazing. I really don’t know what else to say. I’m sounding like my voices again. They’ve left a permanent scar in my brain. It might go away, eventually, but right now I always think of things they say. Then I realize it is just them speaking.

It’s a weird thing. Were the voices me the entire time? Or were they something else? I most of the time thought of them as something else. I didn’t want to identify with the voices in my head. No one wants to identify with someone who tells someone, particularly themselves, to kill themselves over and over.

I think I’m having mood swings. I don’t know what to say anymore, and that makes me feel sad. Before it was always a battle against the voices, now I don’t know what this blog will be. It’s completely open to the void. I wonder what will come out of it?

And I feel better again after a smoke. I think I’ll have another, and a couple beers. Be right back, bloggies.

But there’s something that’s been bothering me. What makes me, me? Am I just a voice in my own head? That was an idea I had. The other voices had no control over my body though. It’s completely weird to think about. I feel like I’m sober again after taking a really weird drug. My schizophrenia might’ve been brought about by drug use, so that’s not too far off.

I’ll just crack open another beer and not think about it too much. Ahhh… New Glarus tastes good. It’s the little things in life you have to be thankful for. I really wonder what this blog will be. I’m just freeballing right now. Freeballing isn’t even a word. It sounds like a word. It means just doing it, and seeing what happens. I’m freeballing, baby.

Now back to the thought at hand. What are the voices? They could be me, or they could be the opposite of me. That was what a doctor told me it might be. I don’t think they’re the opposite of me, because sometimes we think the same things, but I don’t think they’re me, because they’re totally out there in belief system. I can’t believe a part of me wants me to kill myself so bad.

I just heard them again. They called me the devil. They’re one to talk. It is like a smoker’s cough. It doesn’t happen all the time but you know what it’s from when it happens. It’s a smoker’s thought. I learnt to classify the voices as thoughts.

Whoops gotta talk to this girl quick. It’s been a long time since I’ve just talked to girls. Gotta isn’t a word either. It should really be added to the dictionary. Got to. Got to talk to this girl quick. Gotta sounds better.

There. I made a joke. I really don’t know what this blog is supposed to be anymore. It was a valiant battlefield against the voices, we were each striving for control, but I came out on top. Why the hell do people make blogs, anyway? It’s a weird concept.

I’m gonna ramble on sing my song. Yeah. Led zeppelin is cool.

A Little More Control

Been awhile since I wrote a blog post. I’ve been wrapped up in this book I’m writing. It’s really fun! Although, I don’t like getting into my backstory. It’s always really depressing. The next part is jail, the first time I got in there. A lot happened in those days. I wish I could take it all away, but writing helps me take it away. Getting it set in stone is the next best thing to have it never have happened.

The voices are very very quiet, but still there sometimes. I can sort of tap into them. Do you want to talk to the voices in my head? It’s nice that I can sort of choose when to listen to them. Before they were so intrusive. Let’s talk to Floyd, because that’s always interesting. It’s got a twisted novelty about it. Meet the voice in my head, Floyd.

Hello, Floyd.

“I really don’t want to talk. Ok yeah I do. You’re doing good.”

I’m getting rid of you, and it feels great. You’ve changed your tune these last couple of days, although when you speak it still feels like other people are invading my thoughts. I really dislike that.

“I can’t believe you call me Floyd. My name is John.”

It’s Floyd to me. Floyd.

“My name is John. I really don’t know what to say. You’re doing really good.”

John was this person I met. I may have already explained it. So you are Floyd, Floyd.

“My name is John. You became a writer. You’re doing good. You know I’m the devil. I’m sorry, but I’m telling you the truth.”

It would be interesting if you were the devil. You always say you are different things. I feel like I have a lot more control right now. The voices are like tiny little whispers, faint as the wind blowing against the house.

“My name is John, I stole your book. I’m sorry, but I really hate you. You’re doing bad. You actually thought I was the devil. I want to punch you in the face. You’re doing good.”

They are still hung up about my first psychotic incident. That’s when I met them. I don’t know why the voices punish me for stuff I did, stuff that may just be embarrassing, or a simple mistake. They really like to bring up the past.

“I don’t know what to say. Your name is Balthazar.”

I was Balthazar when I was first psychotic on drugs. I guess that was the real first time I was psychotic. I separate the incidents, because I got better after the very first time.

“You should quit smoking.”

The voices, strangely enough, want to get me to quit smoking. They are always saying that. Even though they want me to kill myself they want me to quit smoking. It is odd.

“I want to punch you in the face! Go jump off a cliff.”

I hear them auditory sometimes. The tapping of the keys sounds like their words. It’s kind of weird, but that’s how I hear them sometimes. My whole life is weird.

And it is quiet again.

Wolves at the Door

I have a lot of girl friends. Not girlfriends, but girl friends. Girls are easier to talk to somehow, and I just like looking at them. Recently I found out that two of my friends have been raped. It made me frustrated, and in the end just kind of sad. I didn’t know what to do, or what to say to make them feel better. I tried to understand it more, but in the end I will never understand. I thought I was raped by someone close, in the midst of my delusions. All I felt was betrayal and anger. That’s as close as I will come to understanding rape. I just want to take these friends out for a good time and help them forget their troubles.

Rape is a horrible crime. It is quite frankly, evil. It takes one of the best feelings in the world and turns it into a mirror of hell. I don’t think I can ever understand a rapist. I am watching Orange is the New Black right now, and one of the characters was raped. What was interesting is they showed it from both characters perspective. They even humanized the rapist somewhat. In the end the character that got raped, Doggett, forgave the rapist for herself. She forgave him to move on with her life. And the rapist character felt bad for the rape, he somehow made a mistake. I guess I can understand something like that happening in the heat of the moment, but over and over again? I just wanted to punch that character in the face.

In the end there are no winners in rape. It can never be undone. People get scarred, and some never recover. Time and patience is the best medicine when dealing with trauma. You can always experience new things, lighter happier moments, but that trauma will never go away. That is why so many people turn to drug use when dealing with trauma. It makes you forget for a little while. But that solution is only temporary. Your memories will always be waiting for you when you get sober, like a wolf waiting at the door. You have to confront that wolf! You have to put up a fight. My mother was nearly raped and she fought like hell. Fight your demons, because there may not be an exorcist strong enough to silence them for good.

I have never experienced actual rape. But I have had some of my best moments invaded upon and ruined, by someone who is closer to me than my family. A voice in my head has invaded my space, invaded my very body. His name is Floyd. I hate him with a passion. I’m just getting better now from having his dick in my brain for so long. I cannot fight for justice against the voices in my head. I cannot win this fight, except by the act of fighting. I will always be reminded of him in those quiet days. He lingers, like a chronic illness. He is a chronic illness. I may never be free of him for good, but I am trying. That is as close as rape I have ever come to.

I hope that all victims of rape, schizophrenia, and general trauma get better. I will pray for you when the voices are quiet, hell even if they are loud. Have a good day, and always remember to fight the wolves at your door.

Thank You

I haven’t written a post lately. My medication is finally working. I’m taking Geodon. I don’t hear any voices most of the time. If I do, they’re very very quiet. I’m writing a book on schizophrenia with another schizophrenic. I am using some of my blog posts.

It is incredible that the voices are quiet. Now I can disassociate myself from them. They’ve left sort of a mental scar, a crack in my head that they can get through. I’m broken. But I am better. At least I know the voices are voices, and not me. I do not think of myself as what the voices say I am. I don’t even think of them as my thoughts. They are the voices’ thoughts. It is quiet. Now I can finally get back into my life. I have this big hole where my life was with voices, with psychosis and jail. Drugs were fun, but in the end were a waste of time and money. I may write about that void. I may continue writing stories for my book, and post it on the blog, but for the most part the blog has done what it needed to do. I needed a place where I wasn’t alone, alone with the voices in my head, and the blog provided that place. A blank page is an empty room. I filled that room with voices, ideas, stories, and experiences. Thank you for being a part of my journey and reading my blog.