(no subject)
Sunshine Days
My friend, you have asked me to tell a story that I have never told. It is a tale that will be hard for me to tell and maybe hard for you to hear. There is so much about me and my mental illness that you don’t know. But for you my friend, I will tell my story, not just because you ask, but because you think it something worth telling.
It would be years before I would know what was wrong with me. I knew I was different from most people and I quickly learned to keep those differences to myself. After all not every one hears voices that aren’t there. Because if you do your crazy. Only crazy people hear or see things that aren’t there. And those crazy voices that those crazy people hear always tell them to harm others or themselves. And for some people that may very well be true. But in the beginning, for me it wasn’t.
I called them my inner voices. Just something my mind did when I found myself facing turmoil of some kind. That’s how I coped with it any way. And for the most part the voices were helpful. They were kinder to me than most any one. Like an old friend that I hadn’t seen in a long time but would always be there to listen. Now everyone needs a friend that listens and every one that doesn’t have that wants it. Of course we do, no one wants to be alone, not even us crazy people.
So names I gave to my inner voices. I started giving them names so it would be easier to talk about them and easier to talk to them. Some names were more like nic-names. And others were full names almost as if they were real which may have been more of a problem then I realized at the time. But at the time it wasn’t like talking to something that wasn’t real. They were very real. Now I’ve never had a lot of close friends. I prefer to only keep a few close to me. But these friends in my head were closer to me than any one, because they could never betray me in any way. And I never had to be alone; there would always be someone there for me. And that was very comforting.
There were many, so many and yet only one. But how can this be. Does it matter? How can there be an answer, and why does there need to be. How can I give any one an answer that would make sense to them? It would make no sense to the sane but perfect sense to the insane. So I named them and spoke with them and believed in them. My perfect companion, my muse.
Anna was very kind always ready to say something positive about anything. Being somewhat pessimistic myself it was nice to have someone inside myself to have such a nice outlook on the world when the world for me had been such a dark place. Anna had no judgment in anything she said. She forced me to be kinder to those I love and kinder to myself. I remember her voice. It was so very soothing. We would talk for hours about everything. How many times have I had to tell people that walked in on me and asked who I was taking to and I had to say no one just thinking out loud.
Isn’t strange to think that a voice that isn’t there can help to improve one’s self. Not all the voices said bad things. Most of them were helpful in their own ways. Sometimes they could be a little too loud in my head and I would have to really focus on what someone was saying to me. And it would take me just a little too long to give an answer. Do I need more time to think it over? How do I say that I need more time to listen to what the voices are saying? There is no way to say this without ending up in a mental hospital.
There were other voices that I called Muse. They would speak to me in a way that I cannot explain. Poetry would pour out of me. I could write for hours and it was so easy. All I would have to do was put pen to paper and write. Muse helped me be creative and expressive. I could put down my heart and soul, my pain and hate or love. And I would breathe my let goes onto the page and be free and more than just a mentally ill girl.
So for as long as I could, I would hide this from family and friends alike. But this is not something that anyone can hide for long. Some of the voices became much more demanding and over powered the nice soothing ones that had helped me so very much. Now things were becoming frightening. I would call and call out to Anna but she was no longer there. And my beloved muse became darker and more sinister. I was answered by a voice that referred to its self as Lisa Lopez. I was a young teen when this began and I felt so alone and so very lost. At this time in my young life I had no one to turn to, no one to help me.
Lisa was cruel and sharp tongued. She was always ready with a put down. And there wasn’t anything that I could do that would please her. How did it get to this after having such a nice childhood with such nice voices that were so kind, to voices that were hurtful? There could be many reasons for this such as drug abuse or a traumatic event. Yes trauma, when horrible things happen are brains will do what they can to cope with it. Sometimes the mind will black out the event to preserve the mind until we are strong enough to deal with such an event.
Lisa was there for a very long time. She had a way of saying things to cut me low. And a way she had to make me believe it. She creates doubt in my heart. Doubt and fear. Damn you Lisa. Damn all the voices in my head, damn them! For making me weak, for creating in me a target for those monsters that prey upon the weak.
A dark night, a dark room. A filthy mattress on a gritty floor. Blood and tears and all the voices screaming. Then a shocking silence. Not death that I begged and prayed for. Disbelief runs cold through my veins as shame and the darkness claims me still. After words I would not speak, not for three weeks. But the voices inside me where sickened. So many voices screaming at me. Up until this point I had no idea how many voices there were, and it was far too many to count.
So there I am locked inside myself with the voices raging within my head. There is no way of knowing if Lisa Lopez was born of them all or if she was just the loudest. But she was the one to stay the longest and quiet the rest. She began to speak to me in low tones. She seemed to know how to make everything better. She seemed to know how to make me stronger. I allowed her to be in control. She decided everything and that’s the way I wanted it. It was so easy to give in and let her do everything. And yet she was not the worst.
There are people that go through their whole lives that are never touched by dark things. That is not my story. So friend with what you know already, do you still wish to read on?
I suffered at the hands of a boy that wasn’t much older than I was. And that pain would go on for more than a year. He saw in me the fear and weakness that he could use against me. Used it to keep me quiet and in line. And all the while he smiled into the faces of our families and played the part of the big brother.
I am disgusted as I write this. And the memories of it are still too real, and much too fresh. But many years have passed now. Even thought I am still angry, still hurt, still afraid, and still ashamed. All this time and I have never gotten over it. Maybe no one does. But I’ve left it in the past. It’s no longer on my ever thought.
Only being a child and having lived through what I did, this boy became my living night mare. I internalized it, and he became a part of me. Became a voice in my head that would rip me open wide to the cold night air.
Some times we come across people and you can’t help but wonder what the hell happened to you. They are haunted people, and I am one of them. With that disgusting voice in my head pushing me to the very brink of destruction and I felt like there was no way to stop it.
I tried lots of ways to stop that voice in my head. But at the same time it would mean stopping all the voice and that would mean that I would be alone. You may not understand that never having lived it. But the voices are friends unlike any others. But in order to stop the one I had to stop them all.
Before I stated therapy, I tried to shut this voice up on my own. I drank to numb it and when that didn’t work anymore I used drugs, anything I could get my hands on. I poisoned myself night after night, day after day. I had no hope left when my therapist said he could help me. I didn’t believe him. I believed that only death could release me. And I wanted to die; I had wanted to die for a very long time. And in many ways I was already dead.
Does time heal everything like they say? Maybe it does. Maybe we can’t do it all on our own. And maybe there’s no shame in that. But for teen age years and most of my twenty’s I would rage and push loved ones away.
I, to some point, feel in love with my sadness. It was the perfect excuse not to have any real or long lasting relationships. And it was very hard to let that go. My friend, do you know that this is the most I have ever spoken about that year. I have written other stories about that dark room, and the phrase ‘dark room’ has become a metaphor for me. Now when I feel my depression closing in on me I refer to it as going back to the dark room. So many years later and there is still a part of my soul that still remains there, and maybe it always will.
Do you know my friend that you are the only one to remain continually through all that life as thrown at me? Did you know my one regret was not saying good bye to you when I was lying on that bathroom floor when I had thought to end it all. I was too ashamed to tell you what I had done. I stayed away for so long and kept my silence. But I wanted to be alone; I didn’t want to get better. Because even though the voices now caused pain at least I could feel that. Pain was real. The pills the doctors gave me, made me feel as though I was walking through a thick fog that had no end. The pain was gone but there was nothing good. How could I live, how could I write like this?
More time would pass and over the years I would go off the meds and jump off the wagon and stumble around in the dark room. Now my friend I will speak more frankly and wont rely on pretty words to smooth it over. After I was raped, the very last time. I was supposed to die; I was very close to it. Something kept me alive and it had nothing to do with wanting to live. Because over the years I would come close to ending it by my own hand, many times. But that’s another matter. As I said I was supposed to die and although my body lived there was that part of my heart, my soul that died. And the only thing that kept me going was anger. And the voices from the dark room feed into it. So the madness would rage on. The anger became everything and nothing. And it was killing me.
Anger is a poison my friend. I lash out in anger without meaning to. It is always the first feeling that rises to the surface and breaks through. And at times I am drowning in it. I have a tendency to push people away and to shut myself off from the world. And I have more than a tendency to hurt myself. I have proven it again and again. But I am more afraid of that one voice so I take my pills to starve off the madness and keep all the voices quiet.
But those voices are not always quiet. I struggle with this still, and I will for the rest of my life. There are so many pills to take every day. It is tire some and there are days when I don’t want to take pills. I don’t want to be so very different and so fucking crazy.
Different, I have never liked the word. This one word seemingly so innocent strikes me to the very core and hurts more than most know. Why you ask, well my friend because it is the truth. I cannot gain say it, though I have tried. I have hurt myself so very much trying so hard to be other than what I am. As much as it pains me and irritates me to no end, I am what I am, perfectly different in so many ways.
My friend, you have asked me to tell a story that I have never told. It is a tale that will be hard for me to tell and maybe hard for you to hear. There is so much about me and my mental illness that you don’t know. But for you my friend, I will tell my story, not just because you ask, but because you think it something worth telling.
It would be years before I would know what was wrong with me. I knew I was different from most people and I quickly learned to keep those differences to myself. After all not every one hears voices that aren’t there. Because if you do your crazy. Only crazy people hear or see things that aren’t there. And those crazy voices that those crazy people hear always tell them to harm others or themselves. And for some people that may very well be true. But in the beginning, for me it wasn’t.
I called them my inner voices. Just something my mind did when I found myself facing turmoil of some kind. That’s how I coped with it any way. And for the most part the voices were helpful. They were kinder to me than most any one. Like an old friend that I hadn’t seen in a long time but would always be there to listen. Now everyone needs a friend that listens and every one that doesn’t have that wants it. Of course we do, no one wants to be alone, not even us crazy people.
So names I gave to my inner voices. I started giving them names so it would be easier to talk about them and easier to talk to them. Some names were more like nic-names. And others were full names almost as if they were real which may have been more of a problem then I realized at the time. But at the time it wasn’t like talking to something that wasn’t real. They were very real. Now I’ve never had a lot of close friends. I prefer to only keep a few close to me. But these friends in my head were closer to me than any one, because they could never betray me in any way. And I never had to be alone; there would always be someone there for me. And that was very comforting.
There were many, so many and yet only one. But how can this be. Does it matter? How can there be an answer, and why does there need to be. How can I give any one an answer that would make sense to them? It would make no sense to the sane but perfect sense to the insane. So I named them and spoke with them and believed in them. My perfect companion, my muse.
Anna was very kind always ready to say something positive about anything. Being somewhat pessimistic myself it was nice to have someone inside myself to have such a nice outlook on the world when the world for me had been such a dark place. Anna had no judgment in anything she said. She forced me to be kinder to those I love and kinder to myself. I remember her voice. It was so very soothing. We would talk for hours about everything. How many times have I had to tell people that walked in on me and asked who I was taking to and I had to say no one just thinking out loud.
Isn’t strange to think that a voice that isn’t there can help to improve one’s self. Not all the voices said bad things. Most of them were helpful in their own ways. Sometimes they could be a little too loud in my head and I would have to really focus on what someone was saying to me. And it would take me just a little too long to give an answer. Do I need more time to think it over? How do I say that I need more time to listen to what the voices are saying? There is no way to say this without ending up in a mental hospital.
There were other voices that I called Muse. They would speak to me in a way that I cannot explain. Poetry would pour out of me. I could write for hours and it was so easy. All I would have to do was put pen to paper and write. Muse helped me be creative and expressive. I could put down my heart and soul, my pain and hate or love. And I would breathe my let goes onto the page and be free and more than just a mentally ill girl.
So for as long as I could, I would hide this from family and friends alike. But this is not something that anyone can hide for long. Some of the voices became much more demanding and over powered the nice soothing ones that had helped me so very much. Now things were becoming frightening. I would call and call out to Anna but she was no longer there. And my beloved muse became darker and more sinister. I was answered by a voice that referred to its self as Lisa Lopez. I was a young teen when this began and I felt so alone and so very lost. At this time in my young life I had no one to turn to, no one to help me.
Lisa was cruel and sharp tongued. She was always ready with a put down. And there wasn’t anything that I could do that would please her. How did it get to this after having such a nice childhood with such nice voices that were so kind, to voices that were hurtful? There could be many reasons for this such as drug abuse or a traumatic event. Yes trauma, when horrible things happen are brains will do what they can to cope with it. Sometimes the mind will black out the event to preserve the mind until we are strong enough to deal with such an event.
Lisa was there for a very long time. She had a way of saying things to cut me low. And a way she had to make me believe it. She creates doubt in my heart. Doubt and fear. Damn you Lisa. Damn all the voices in my head, damn them! For making me weak, for creating in me a target for those monsters that prey upon the weak.
A dark night, a dark room. A filthy mattress on a gritty floor. Blood and tears and all the voices screaming. Then a shocking silence. Not death that I begged and prayed for. Disbelief runs cold through my veins as shame and the darkness claims me still. After words I would not speak, not for three weeks. But the voices inside me where sickened. So many voices screaming at me. Up until this point I had no idea how many voices there were, and it was far too many to count.
So there I am locked inside myself with the voices raging within my head. There is no way of knowing if Lisa Lopez was born of them all or if she was just the loudest. But she was the one to stay the longest and quiet the rest. She began to speak to me in low tones. She seemed to know how to make everything better. She seemed to know how to make me stronger. I allowed her to be in control. She decided everything and that’s the way I wanted it. It was so easy to give in and let her do everything. And yet she was not the worst.
There are people that go through their whole lives that are never touched by dark things. That is not my story. So friend with what you know already, do you still wish to read on?
I suffered at the hands of a boy that wasn’t much older than I was. And that pain would go on for more than a year. He saw in me the fear and weakness that he could use against me. Used it to keep me quiet and in line. And all the while he smiled into the faces of our families and played the part of the big brother.
I am disgusted as I write this. And the memories of it are still too real, and much too fresh. But many years have passed now. Even thought I am still angry, still hurt, still afraid, and still ashamed. All this time and I have never gotten over it. Maybe no one does. But I’ve left it in the past. It’s no longer on my ever thought.
Only being a child and having lived through what I did, this boy became my living night mare. I internalized it, and he became a part of me. Became a voice in my head that would rip me open wide to the cold night air.
Some times we come across people and you can’t help but wonder what the hell happened to you. They are haunted people, and I am one of them. With that disgusting voice in my head pushing me to the very brink of destruction and I felt like there was no way to stop it.
I tried lots of ways to stop that voice in my head. But at the same time it would mean stopping all the voice and that would mean that I would be alone. You may not understand that never having lived it. But the voices are friends unlike any others. But in order to stop the one I had to stop them all.
Before I stated therapy, I tried to shut this voice up on my own. I drank to numb it and when that didn’t work anymore I used drugs, anything I could get my hands on. I poisoned myself night after night, day after day. I had no hope left when my therapist said he could help me. I didn’t believe him. I believed that only death could release me. And I wanted to die; I had wanted to die for a very long time. And in many ways I was already dead.
Does time heal everything like they say? Maybe it does. Maybe we can’t do it all on our own. And maybe there’s no shame in that. But for teen age years and most of my twenty’s I would rage and push loved ones away.
I, to some point, feel in love with my sadness. It was the perfect excuse not to have any real or long lasting relationships. And it was very hard to let that go. My friend, do you know that this is the most I have ever spoken about that year. I have written other stories about that dark room, and the phrase ‘dark room’ has become a metaphor for me. Now when I feel my depression closing in on me I refer to it as going back to the dark room. So many years later and there is still a part of my soul that still remains there, and maybe it always will.
Do you know my friend that you are the only one to remain continually through all that life as thrown at me? Did you know my one regret was not saying good bye to you when I was lying on that bathroom floor when I had thought to end it all. I was too ashamed to tell you what I had done. I stayed away for so long and kept my silence. But I wanted to be alone; I didn’t want to get better. Because even though the voices now caused pain at least I could feel that. Pain was real. The pills the doctors gave me, made me feel as though I was walking through a thick fog that had no end. The pain was gone but there was nothing good. How could I live, how could I write like this?
More time would pass and over the years I would go off the meds and jump off the wagon and stumble around in the dark room. Now my friend I will speak more frankly and wont rely on pretty words to smooth it over. After I was raped, the very last time. I was supposed to die; I was very close to it. Something kept me alive and it had nothing to do with wanting to live. Because over the years I would come close to ending it by my own hand, many times. But that’s another matter. As I said I was supposed to die and although my body lived there was that part of my heart, my soul that died. And the only thing that kept me going was anger. And the voices from the dark room feed into it. So the madness would rage on. The anger became everything and nothing. And it was killing me.
Anger is a poison my friend. I lash out in anger without meaning to. It is always the first feeling that rises to the surface and breaks through. And at times I am drowning in it. I have a tendency to push people away and to shut myself off from the world. And I have more than a tendency to hurt myself. I have proven it again and again. But I am more afraid of that one voice so I take my pills to starve off the madness and keep all the voices quiet.
But those voices are not always quiet. I struggle with this still, and I will for the rest of my life. There are so many pills to take every day. It is tire some and there are days when I don’t want to take pills. I don’t want to be so very different and so fucking crazy.
Different, I have never liked the word. This one word seemingly so innocent strikes me to the very core and hurts more than most know. Why you ask, well my friend because it is the truth. I cannot gain say it, though I have tried. I have hurt myself so very much trying so hard to be other than what I am. As much as it pains me and irritates me to no end, I am what I am, perfectly different in so many ways.