Days with weather like this will always remind me of my homeless days -- overcast and dreary, and threatening rain. The temperature being less than optimal and feeling rather chilly. One time in my tent comes particularly to mind as I was trying to stay warm on a cold and rainy night. I had rode my motorcycle in from the country to update my blog at my late grandmother's house. I drove home in a driving rain, freezing cold. I could feel raindrops like shards of cold, biting glass leaking into my shoes making my socks grow wet. It was mid December and was threatening sleet with the temperature just hovering above freezing. I finally made it back to my campsite out in God's country and wrapped up in my warm sleeping bag after changing into dry clothes. My feet were icy blue and cold after I took off my hiking boots. It took hours to finally warm up. I wanted to build a comforting fire, but the rain prevented this. Long hours were spent sleepless and shivering. I would have done anything for a warm hotel room, but was running low on money.
My father started giving me a new pill last night causing me to sleep ten hours or more. He would not tell me what it was saying, "Trust me." I do know it makes me sleep like I haven't slept since I took Zyprexa.
I talked to my father about the voices I hear. It was a rare moment of introspection and revelation, and one that I have never shared with him nor anyone else. Not even my psychiatrist or therapist. I am always in fear that I would be locked away in a mental hospital for revealing such things.
"What do your voices tell you?" my father asked, intrigued.
"To do terrible things like steal or lie," I replied. "To act out impulsively."
"But you don't act on them," dad then said. "You never get in trouble. You never have."
"I know, but they are always there. They make me cringe. I shudder every time that voice tells me to grab beer and run from the convenience store. I feel it is my destiny to end up in jail and I have urges to do something that will put me there."
"How long have you had these voices?"
"Ever since I was a small child -- 1st grade. They used to constantly tell me that I was going to hell when I was a youngster. They are haunting."
My father gave me a hug and told me, "I wish you would talk more openly about your schizophrenia so you wouldn't have to deal with this stuff alone."
"I'm scared," I replied. "I am scared that people will judge me and think I am a bad person who does bad things. My voices are so negative and criminal. It is like publicly decreeing your deepest, darkest secrets."
I walked my father out to his car to say goodbye. I felt I had said too much and have probably written too much as well. I was embarrassed. Very seldom have I acted on the voices and they are manageable with my medications -- just nagging urges in the back of my mind which I try to ignore. When I was off my medications, I would drink heavily to subdue these voices.