Schizophrenia, 2

I remember when they used to speak to me. Voices that were more like my family than my own family was. Not just cruel, but kind. Much like the Reverend Mother, I both loved and hated them.


I remember when Mother used to guide me. A voice from beyond, visions of brilliance and beauty. Four arms to lead, and to harm. I remember when Father used to speak to me. His jovial bellows of laughter and kind words, keeping me happy but not grounded.

I remember when I used to lead, my illness taking the form of spiritual powers. The sermon I taught. The ways that I unexpectedly brought light to others while suffering in the dark.


It’s funny, really. The joke that my wellness is. Just happening to get on the right meds to originally help with sleep. A tiny antipsychotic that doubled as a sleeping pill.


I hide in plain sight from my old life, terrified someone will bring it up. I want to just let sleeping dogs lie, but how can I when those sleeping dogs still have jaws that bite just as hard, albeit their stillness?


Never again.

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