The Writing on the Walls

ha ha ha

There is one part of my madness that confuses me. I am told, by my voices that they are trying to communicate with me. They tell me to grab a pen, and to follow their instruction. Usually this winds in scrawling on the walls. It is often dark, or utter confusion.

I don’t understand this. In my hospital room right now, something along the lines of,

“Lurasidone is murder.



The Kingfisher

send his wishes

your murderer”

In my house, right now there is scrawling over all of the walls. Things about baby elephants, being an incognito, the invisible spy who hates me, about being chosen, and finally my frustration:


The exact wording escapes and I remember only because the evidence of my madness stares back at me in black marker every day until one day in passing, or perhaps sometimes curiosity, I am compelled to read what it is that I have written. At the time, I am aware I am writing – but I do not know what. Afterwards, when the calm has encroached upon my inner whirlwind I tend to walk away and have no idea what it is I have just written.

It takes me a lot to muster the courage to read it: often days. I avoid the words as I do peoples’ eyes when I am depressed, as if by staring at those confusing messages I am enticing evil into my world, and embracing something that feels so in control of me, and so much bigger than me.

It is as if, by reading these message straight away I am engaging with a force much larger and more powerful than myself – something that is dark, and scary. Sometimes I spend days contemplating what it is that these messages mean. I feel convinced they are riddles and secret codes, but rarely do I figure out the true meaning behind these shaky scribbles or barely legible abuse. After a while of it being there, an acceptance comes that it is there, it happened – and one day when I find the time and energy I will paint over it. It blends into the distance and I wonder, if when I erase it if I will feel as if I am silencing something important like I do when I scrub my blood from the walls when I have dissociated.

This is somewhat rather different to that though. This isn’t coming from me. This is something else, like an outside power. I am not silencing my already silenced Little Me who so desperately needs to be heard, so hopefully my guilt when that time comes will be less so. Besides, with this one, I can take my time because pen is not so unhygienic as blood.



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