It’s like my inside self is an introverted version of my outside self:
-A melancholy observer of good, bad, right, wrong, ethical & unethical.
-Perched judge, scanning the landscape.
-A banter tugging on “What really matters?”
COVID elicits the internal voice like a
-Submarine charting unguarded waters,
-Titanic dodging icebergs,
– minefield of exploding thoughts.
The internal voice, born of the need to self-sooth.
I can hear it now, speaking to me:
–“Wash your face, brush your teeth, go to bed.”
When my body is still, the volume increases.
How to sleep with the voice?
An intravenous, transfusion of amplified chatter-it takes over, so that you forget your physical self.
It’s real- Pablo Picasso wrote, “ anything imagined is real.”
“What do you want?” It answers with an echo, “What do you want?”
Disobedient brunt of squalor, a tempest of scarred expressions that brace my ears.
Psychotic memories, of psychosis. It happened 20 years ago.
The conscious mind split, cloned reasoning, wading through words like mud up to my hips. I know what it feels like to be in a psychotic bubble of regret and punished for being sick.
Admitted as an involuntary patient.
I stopped eating.
Want to become drug fucked?
They forced medication into me and sent me to LA, LA land. I became an addict in a hospital.
It felt violent! They shoved the pills down my throat- I did not want them. When I did not take them, they stuck needles into me.
Passive recipient of services.
I was forced to submit, punished into sickness and punished into health, it was a violation of my body, my will, my Soul.
They justified it, saying that they were saving me from myself. Though they did not ask me what I needed.
A kind heart, a listening ear, arms extended, a welcoming place to sit, feel belonging and a physical presence.
It was sinister and insincere, a scratching at a scab bleeds.
Riddled with addiction to tranquilisers and vallium, my brain and my body spilt.
Fear bleats, scratches against the wrists, twisted in ropes, tied down.
Pushed and prodded, a specimen in a petri-dish.
Involuntary impatient with no rights.
Labelled impatient, no patience to understand.
Terror like a lighting strike- no sense of breathe, or presence of body- I floated amongst the voices of people I knew, they soothed me with comfort and reminded me that I was loved.
The internal voice is company, a reassurance of sorts.
A different way of seeing the world. If I know I’m mental and I can control it, then I’m just like everyone else.
When you are vulnerable, people justify what they do to you, to SAVE you.
I will not forget the mental health care system, and I will never return.
When I needed kindness and was labelled ‘mental’- I became a projection of what others feared of becoming themselves.
To care for another person, however deranged, we must look inwards first to be honest with the self.
The misunderstood Soul, is the inability to hear the OMMM of the universe or be still to sense the healing breath- we have become lost in the dark of our own imaginings and need the internal voice to call us back to our body, to call us back home.