Writing about my life. When I'm well it's math and code… But when the schizy demon rises it's prose and poetry.

The Worst Day

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In a gritty microsecond before conscious noticing happens between strangers in the street there is the “assessment-blink“. All needed knowledge about the other is gained in a brief moment. The crux point of whether to reject or accept is reached, the assessment of status completed and a decision is made.

There is usually a downward motion of the brow – the tiniest of frowns. The normaloid concludes unconsciously that there is nothing good about you and that you must be shot a subsequent hate-look, to ward your basic human presence off and enforce the societal wall of denial that is your destiny as a schizo. They have a car, a family, good things. You have nothing but a pack of anti-psychotic meds in the pharmacy paper bag. This wall of hatred is uncrossable, unbreakable. Your undesirable character is attested to on a public roster and can never be unsmirched. You are objectively defined as a cunt. Welcome to “Care in the Community”.

You hurry back to the safety of your hovel, your gait is ungainly because the stress has triggered the movement disorder. The air in the flat is thick with the odours of your prolonged habitation, you have been at home 24/7 because the flashing eye has driven you into retreat from all its devotees. You cannot talk because you have no words, you cannot think because you have no reason. No way to argue against the flash-eye, no way to challenge its fascism.

Outside other victims of the flash-eye shamble along pavements, faces cast to one side, teetering on the edge of the gutter. “Respectable” people call their children off when they see them show curiosity about this “oddity”. People are baffled when you speak, as if surpised you are capable. You are a non-being, a non-thing, demoted from personhood into the status of a vacuum. You must not be acknowledged at all costs, for the theorem of your non-existence is carved into normaloid reality with an absolute proof.

Sometimes a fiendish anger builds in you, a rage to destroy, to cause chaos, in order to win back some right to be recognised as human. The normaloids are ready though because your wrath is merely further evidence of your undesirability. While you tremble on the street corner you are barely even a curiosity. People shake their heads slightly: “what’s wrong with him?”

The trap is complete and all that remains to picture is your own death. Under a train, paracetamol, a coat-hanger on a hook, a stab to the wrist with a kitchen knife, a cliff, starvation, the throat incision, illegal drug overdose… the planned list builds slowly. You dream of making your ending public, petrol self-dousing and a cigarette lighter in front of parliament… Spraying Tesco shoppers with an arterial jet of your own blood while you scream. All this nightmare just because you wish someone would listen, acknowledge.

But your sickness has sapped even your will to do this final act and you never achieve it. Instead you smoke another cigarette and just try to forget. A terminal cancer patient stares at you accusingly from the tobacco pack, a distressed woman screams from the next block, a mistreated dog barks from the garden. You are drowning in the psychic waste of a cruel hypocritical world and you don’t even have the emotional function left to cry.

…But at least you have your meds.


Written by Luke Dunn

December 15, 2018 at 10:09 am

Posted in Prose

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