Silver Comet Bakery, Rockmart, GA. I have been spending my time writing out on the computer all of my memories of the past 17 years, the schizophrenic years. I don't even do this in my journal because I can't write fast enough or long enough, so I haven't really taken a good look. I can see that I was actually busy, trying to just live. None of my plans really succeeded, but as far as I was able I didn't stop trying. I was as creative and ambitious as I could be, given the illness. And I looked at some of the awful things that happened, and I opened my mind a bit to what would be a more classical analysis, what I could remember from psychology classes in school. Just lightly. I had resisted this because I was so preoccupied with the idea that I had been damned or something like that. I'm giving myself until next week to just do this, then I have to start reading a novel that a friend wrote and sent to me. I have been putting that off.
I realised that I haven't been very reflective at all, until recently, with the Latuda. I mean, I have mourned losses and thought about regrets, but I hadn't made a proper account of it all. Of course, I am doing this on the tarot website I mentioned in my previous post, and I'm not saving what I wrote. I'm just moving through it all quite quickly so I don't get bogged down in style or spelling or craft. There are schizophrenic bloggers I follow who have written books, but I don't want to do that. I kind of hate my story. I find though, that I have to keep on top of the urge to imagine a listener. Whenever little things happen on my computer, I think there is someone there. I try to correct my thinking. The hardest thing for me to accept is that I am actually alone with my mind. I have mentioned before in previous posts that I divorced my beloved husband because of schizophrenia. I left a marriage and a home and a way of working that I had worked quite hard to create with him. But being alone is not just being without him. It's being without ideas like safety, blessedness, even good luck, what ever you want to call it. Pema Chodron, the Buddhist nun whose work I read occasionally, was the first to introduce the concept of no hope to me. The book is called The Wisdom of No Escape. I rejected the idea of abandoning hope, I thought I couldn't live without hope. I hoped to overcome schizophrenia and build a life for myself again. But it's not happening. But instead of being depressed, I am trying to just look at what it is without much emotion. Throughout my illness, I have tried to maintain a schedule, and it is this schedule which marks a path. All I have to do is keep putting one foot in front of the other. I just want to do this for as long as I can keep it up. Only this.
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