Biographical

The ditch separating illness from affliction…is bridged by madness…

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Color drained away in a monochromatic assault upon my perception. The great tragedy lay in the fact that it was my mind mounting the assault. And it isn’t the sadness or the madness which pierces the deepest, it’s the regret. The regret that the inertial nature of all that unhinges a man is not daunted by the knowledge of it’s coming. It need not gather any resolve nor steel itself against resistance because it is like time; it will come whether we will it or not and move on without a thought.

But the distance between peace and the otherworldly maelstrom I’m slammed about by always seems to be deceptively near while every grudging stumble forward seems to take me one more step further from the calm. And when my strength fails so too does my mind’s investment in my decisions and actions. And with that divestment of control comes imprisoning voyeurism; consigned to watch my doppelgänger wreak havoc. And when the dust settles and screaming quiets, I struggle to find the cracks between the repentant me and the me that feels like I’m standing upon the edge of oblivion, with the shrieking voices pushing me to step off. That’s because the weariness that accompanies contemplating one’s own emptiness is altogether exhausting.


This is often my reality. And the reality of many others scattered amongst the masses, who are screaming inside while the world passes them by, their agony unheard, unacknowledged and without an antidote.

For many of those with mental illness (myself included), every day can be an endless, mind-numbing series of overwhelming moments that take us to the brink. And all this most often occurs beyond the notice of those around us; everything stays internal until we explode upon ill prepared loved ones and sometimes an unknowing public.

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The ditch separating illness from affliction…is bridged by madness…

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