Rosa and I lay in the bed until late last night, talking. I was trying to explain to her some of what I deal with being schizophrenic.
"I used to think my neighbors had put cameras in my ceilings," I told her. "I remember tearing holes in the ceiling trying to find them. It cost my father a fortune to have it repaired."
"Were you in college?" Rosa asked.
"Yeah," I replied. "Those were my darkest times."
"At least you have your father bringing your medications now," Rosa told me.
"He does it for him and not for me," I replied. "Medicated, I am easier to deal with. He has purely selfish motives."
"Your family is fucked up," Rosa said.
"I know," was my forlorn reply.
Rosa soon fell asleep and I lay in the bed for the longest time thinking -- thinking of my life as a schizophrenic and how much better it is these days. The paranoia is gone. The intrusive thoughts and urgings have faded away. I still struggle with obsessive compulsiveness, but it is no where near as bad as before. I attribute much of this to do with the cessation of my drinking, but realize the medications play a big part as well.
I awoke this morning very early and couldn't sleep. I pulled on my blue jeans and sweatshirt and snuck out Rosa's door. I felt like some rangy tomcat in the night having mated and looking for other opportunities. I was so worried about Maggie and headed home to make sure she was okay. I arrived home to an excited dog and a glorious homecoming. There is nothing like man's best friend. I am heading back to bed.