There is little doubt in my mind that the trigger of my horrific case of schizophrenia was ecstacy and marijuana. The illness was dormant for 35 years, secretly locked within tiny DNA until I started rolling on E and smoking like the devil.
Environmental and psychological conditions were perfect for the psychotic breakout. A rash of personal problems caused my mind to retreat into darkness and isolation. The loss of a job, home and lover within a month’s time is enough to crack anyone’s dark psychological wholeness.
Still high on ecstacy even though I hadn’t popped a pill in months, I went through the fire of a constant high, one that was impossible to come down from. Every time I took a drink of water, my head sang in glory– so many ideas came rushing all at once. Mania was fierce! If only I had a pen in hand at the time of contact with God.
Eventually, the Eden I was exploring turned into a desert of grief. My mind began racing through the realms of unstoppable, imaginary horrors. It was the great fall and loss of self that so many saints have written about. Bitterness towards life was all I felt. There was no end to the pain, ever, I was told by imaginary voices. I understood why many take their own lives during such possessions.
To this day, I remain convinced, by thorough observation, that the illness is not just in me. It is everywhere around us. Only a few are chosen to suffer from the biological disease. And the spirits I saw? The ‘imaginary’ demons that once haunted me– do I think they were real? Of course I still believe they are all around us. They are as concrete as consciousness is to me. Shawn came back from the grave to haunt me. Anyone would have lost their mind if in the same circumstance as me. When people are gone, they are supposed to be gone, but not Shawn. He was right there with me, a witness to it all.
Going three weeks without any marijuana– my body was paranoia free. His death made me want to be clean. I should have never smoked again, though. After my first experimentation with E pills, it seemed that marijuana had a different affect on my mood than it once had when I simply would smoke, sit back and listen to music or get done.
That was the real trigger– the pot I smoked after cleansing my soul during a two week period of mourning.
The bud went right to my head. Tyre should have known better. Me too. What were we thinking? Why did I go out looking for sex two weeks after Shawn died anyway? He was always overly protective of me when he was alive. As an invisible soul, he was like a scorned hooker working a cheap motel who had drained three loads from me in one night and I ran out the door in early morning without paying, while the hooker stayed asleep, exhausted from all that I had given her. His ghost was furious with me. I was so sorry for what I had done.
If ever another man tried to take me from him, Shawn, while still alive, grew furious. He was trying to rest in peace when suddenly my mind made contact with him. His soul, like the illness in my genes was dormant for two weeks when suddenly, I decided I needed to go out to get laid in order to stop missing him so much.
“Shawn Lazarus Smith, walk,” the voice of Jesus must have commanded from over there. He was back for good it seemed and ready to make me pay for being such a heartless whore.
I was with his old friend from LA– Tyre, the bartender from the hidden, “down low” club in Bed-Stuy– Langstons. Shawn and me played with Tyre several times before Shawn passed. It was a threesome heaven with those two; a holy trinity of sorts. God, I think I was in love with both of them at the same time and neither seemed jealous.
Those times were gone and besides, Shawn wasn’t there in person. Tyre handed me the blunt. I thought I wanted him, but suddenly changed my mind.
“Listen,” he said. “Hear that?”
“What’s that,” I cried.
“My upstairs neighbor. He got a dick bigger than mine.”
The man upstairs wasn’t gay, or at least it wasn’t another man he was screwing. It was a woman, with cries of ecstacy that verged towards moans of possible rape.
It didn’t seem real. What was Tyre talking about? No, I wasn’t down for any of that. I ran out of his apartment on Quincy Street and headed towards home. I was nearly hit by a car that quickly turned from Nostrand Avenue. The car behind rear ended him. I kept walking. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. For a moment I forgot where I was. Something was after me now. It was Shawn. That I am sure of. It wasn’t a mental illness, it was Shawn fucking with my head, like I had his, during those wave filled nights in Brooklyn, when guys like Tyre were with us.
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