When does the noise stop?
Schizophrenia is a real bitch. Some days it’s almost manageable. There are shadows in my peripheral… dropped objects in another room… minor inconveniences that don’t distract from my day, ultimately.
Other days…
I find myself in Hell. No, literally. Scorching hot, flame-ridden, agony-ridden Hell. Of course, nobody believes me when I will inevitably tell them about this. “You didn’t go to Hell, John, it was just a hallucination.” “You’re not hearing real things, John, they’re just hallucinations.”
“We’re real, John, the voices are just lying to you. They’re hallucinations.”
I don’t know what to trust anymore…
I wake up again. I’m in my bed, in my bedroom, at least. Sobbel sleeps by me. My one companion in this world. I’ve had Sobbel for about 2 years now. A gift from my parents so I’d have someone else in the house, and so I’d have someone to ground me during an… episode. I appreciated the gesture. Didn’t actually stop the visions. Or noises. But I liked the little bugger. Unfortunately, I’m about to wake him up getting out of bed.
“W-wuhhh…? J-Jawn wakies awweady…? Nu ebin bwight times yet…”
“Sorry tiny. I need some water.”
“Otay… nu wisten to noisies oww wook at shadow-munstahs… dey nu weaw…”
I wonder if he really said that.
I get my water and sit down at my kitchen table. It’s definitely not bwight times yet. It’s 2:47 A.M. But I’m used to it. Sleep and I have a rocky relationship. Unfortunately, it seems like the meds don’t help when I sleep. Just when I’m awake. If they’re supposed to… they don’t. If they aren’t… I guess I should be grateful they work at all. I’ve gone through several different medications of increasingly strong doses before these. These are the only ones to have a noticeable effect. Pity they don’t do more, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I finish my water and stand up. I’m not tired. Sigh. Another early morning for me. I grab some sourdough bread, egg, cheese, and bacon, and begin to make my morning sandwich. I scramble the egg, toast the bread, cook the bacon, and melt the cheese together. It seems like cooking is the only time my mind relaxes and I can just do my own thing. What a surprise I turned out to be a cook. It’s fun, admittedly, but I still wish I’d be able to do something more… interesting… as a job. Oh well.
The sandwich is quite good. Another glass of water and my meds to go with it. By this point Sobbel is up and, drearily, enters the kitchen.
“Nu can sweepies?”
“Nope.”
“Wan Sobbew sit wif yu?”
“Yeah.”
He sits next to me in his chair. Most people find our relationship odd. I treat him like a roommate, or at most in a brotherly sense. He does the same. I even asked him to just call me John. “Daddeh” makes me uncomfortable.
“Sobbew am su tiwed…”
“You can go back to sleep. I’m just having breakfast.”
“Nu… nee make suwe nu munstahs oww noisies boddah Jawn…”
“Thanks, Sobbel. Want a sandwich?”
“Yes pwease…”
I prepare another sandwich for him. It’s relaxing. I think about the day ahead of me and sigh. Friday. Long night at the restaurant. It is what it is.
I set the plate in front of him and he gets up to eat it. I sit back down and stare out the window next to me into the moonless sky. Somehow, I can still make out shadows in my peripheral view. I don’t even bother to look. I’m too tired and it’s too early to be worrying over the shadow people. I’ll do it later.
Later comes. 6:45 A.M. I set out an apple, some peanut butter, and water for Sobbel as I leave for work. Thankfully the restaurant is only a few blocks from my house. I’m lucky, in that sense. If I hadn’t had inherited my house in the city from my Granddad, I’d probably have to suffer the hour long commute into town from the nearest housing area. I enter the building through the back and clock in. Long day ahead, but at least there will be peace for most of it.
It is peaceful.
I walk back to the house after clocking out. Good day today. Lots of customers. Lots of compliments to the chef. My boss was pleased. She usually is. Nice lady, and especially nice to me. I can tell it’s partially of pity. I try not to let it bother me. I don’t like being pitied. I’m a completely capable person, even with my sickness. Still, I’m grateful for the kindness.
I ignore the footsteps behind me as I walk. They’re not real. They’re not real. They’re not…
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Oh, uh… sorry.”
An older man passes by me. Guess I was walking too slow. But I was right. They weren’t real.
I enter the house. 8 P.M. Most people would be upset that they don’t have lots of time at home. I don’t, really. I haven’t much to my home besides the essentials. The only real fun things I have are my computer with a few games and my music room. I enter my music room and slip a cassette into my hi-fi system. B.B. King. Relaxing. It takes up most of my evening as I sit and eat the extra meal I prepared from work. Ratatouille. It’s quite good. I let the tape play out and throw away my trash. A little extra time, so I put another cassette in. 2002’s The Sacred Well. Good new-age stuff. Very relaxing.
My music is interrupted by a thump on the wall. I jump a little bit. I will never get used to the thumps. I check outside the room. As I suspected. Nobody there.
I finish the album and enter my bedroom. Sobbel sleeps soundly on the foot of the bed. I change into my sleeping silks and lay under the covers. I stare at the ceiling and let my mind wander.
When I was a kid, I had far worse visions. In and out of sleep. There were always people that weren’t there. Always. Dead relatives, giants, fairies. Demons. I never adjusted to the demons. Everything else was fine. Halls that weren’t there either. I’d be walking into a building and all of a sudden someone would ask me why I was standing on the sidewalk all hazy-eyed. Things like that. I’d overcome, though. I owed it to the meds, yes, and my parents who were always there for me. But I owed a lot to Sobbel. Little man had been a big help keeping my mind on the straight and narrow. I was grateful.
I slept.
…
“How is he?”
“Still not responsive. We don’t even know if he’s aware yet if he’s here.”
“My poor boy… how is he dealing with his little companion?”
“He seems to have at least helped him stabilize. No more late-night sedations because he’s panicking. He’s not quite lucid yet, but he’s calm.”
“That’s all the Missus and I can ask for. Thank you.”
“It’s our duty, sir. Your son is safe here with us.”
…
John lays on his bed. The room is padded, not really of necessity, just as a precaution. The staff never know if or when he may try to hurt himself. But, he never does.
His little friend, Sobbel, lies below. A nice, soft plushie of a fluffy with a microphone in it.