The Night I Met The Devil
When I remeet the devil, I will be wearing sunglasses and no expression.
It was last spring when I first saw the devil. My hallucinations tend to be like holograms- not actually there, cartoonish, but what I saw that night in 2019 was actually there. These two hallucinations found me at a terrible excuse for a mental hospital in which I can't remember the name of.
My roommate was rumored to be a witch. It smelled of nastiness and turmoil there.
- https://media.giphy.com/media/xRS8tcBumqYx2/giphy.gif
While she was out of the room, the collective conscience was happening in my head again. This is to say I thought all the minds in the world were connected. There was a sickening rumor going around the United Mind about a person I care deeply for and consider a second father. It wasn't true, but if I wasn't in treatment, I may have been stupid enough to call him. My head hurt and everything felt smoky. I turned around, and there it was. The fucking devil. I could reach out and touch it. Black, tendrils flailing out. Impossible to describe without drawings. Kind of like Stranger Things.
I smiled and went into the milieu. I then, I am embarrassed to say, saw my favorite comedian in the next room. Pete Davidson. He had hooves, like a satanic goat. Again, I could reach out and touch him. I waved. If it weren’t somebody else’s room, I would have gone in to avoid the devil. The monster was not there when I got back.
A man was shouting his prayers the next morning. Somebody in my head said, “Don’t drink the KoolAid.”
A flick of red magically appeared in the water pitcher.
Don’t tell me schizophrenia isn’t the product of witchcraft.
During the onset of my illness, I noticed these “psychic attacks”, all I can describe my mental effects as-- were spaced out. It was always a supermoon or a cosmic event of some sort.
Voices would tell me to kill myself all night, until I put a cactus leaf on my chest. Now, the voice of "Emily Brandt" is always with me telling me unspeakable things-- a curse really.
All that helps me is writing and art. That’s what this blog will be about. I’m writing a book right now, and it’s helping me. Writing is my true calling. And this is me getting to the final product.
I spent the other night at Waukesha Memorial Hospital. Lucky for me the police are across the street here at Pewaukee House- a group home. I was feeling suicidal, but they told me I’m exhausting the local mental health care system. There’s a train that runs along the backyard that haunts me every livelong day. There will always be a part of me that wants to jump out in front of it.
I feel safe now, though. I feel my story might help somebody, so I’m staying alive.
This blog is about my experiences being a young writer in a group home with schizophrenia. How dating goes, how my job search goes, how it goes, how it goes, goes, goes.
Essentially, I wish to be a voice to those who hear voices.
Stay tuned. I post daily at 11:11 am.
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