Schizophrenia The first time he heard voices, he wouldn’t

The first time he heard voices, he wouldn’t look at me, went into the bathroom and ran the tub full of water, tucked himself beneath the cool skin of its surface and tried to drown them out. The next day, he couldn’t stop talking about joy being like an ice-covered tree, about strangers with arms like blood oranges, dark moths covering a woman until only her eyes were visible.

The brain is just a layer of tissue and nerves suspended in fluid; the heart knows what the heart wants, and human beings are only made of 75% water. I tried to understand this, how that road sign upstairs in his brain that was once lit up had gone out so quickly, like a pit stop on an abandoned road once used by passing travelers and then slowly left for good.

On Mondays he shook so hard every bone beneath his wrists rattled, and wouldn’t leave the house because there were men in black suits outside waiting to take him away. Other nights I would wake up at 3 am to find him standing naked at the window, hands pressed to the glass, staring out at the city lights, telling me there was someone out there, looking back at him, paranoid.
He slurred his words like a man who’s had a few too many drinks, but all I could do was hold him until the next round of antipsychotics.


-Meggie Royer (via writingsforwinter)