So much has changed with my writing style since my incarceration in a psychiatric ward. Wearing a little white gown with no underwear beneath, I carried a black notebook and filled it with many deciphered words that today, I can no longer interpret. I walked the hallways of the hospital all night long with pens stuck behind each ear, trying to ease an unbearable pain that seemed to be crushing me from within. Writing helped to stop what psychiatrists call “racing thoughts”. It was a tool I used to control my mind’s inability to stop thinking about everything.
One cannot imagine how fearful the state of racing thoughts is. It is terrible not to be able to shut worry down. Writing saved me from “intrusive thoughts” too—imaginings of the mind that seem placed there by an outside force, that I remain convinced was the CIA trying to steal my gift for gab on paper.
The power of the pen put an end to the horror of not harnessing my mind’s never ending run-on sentence, although a constant sadness has plagued me since the day of that great missing period. I came to an understanding with myself that I would have that pain of crushing sadness until I died, but found a strange happiness within, thanks mainly to the fact that all those worries had eased when I wrote.
Medication was not an option. While on anti-psychotics, I lost all desire to write, and sensed my soul had died. Perhaps it had and what brought it back was this gift.
Physical labor has killed my unending need to write, though. Writing had become like a racing thought too, only thoughts were somehow captured and not permitted run amuck. I work as a messenger and walk more than 10 miles a day, now. How the hell could I possibly write? I work on the weekends, cleaning multiple buildings. The Mexicans that live here look at me like I am crazy—if they only knew! None of them want the job of taking out the trash and cleaning up after others. It takes as certain character to be a porter and a writer.
Perhaps I have reached some level of enlightenment as an artist and don’t suffer from schizophrenia, like was once written of me. There is no longer a need to think, or even write like I have done constantly for the past ten years. There is a state of tranquility that comes over me as I walk all day, or sweep on the weekends. It’s a miracle of sorts, like a well written peace.