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Living with Psychosis | Living in Shame by Jonathan Harnisch

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station description Join us, or if you have more important things to do, that's ok too. Life is short! ... read more
‎cannabis cuddles & conversation
Duration: 26:32
First, a cheek up from the neck up: State: manic, season? Dream. I shake and twitch. My nose rune, IO am freezing., The temperature is 85 degrees Fahrenheit with the heater and fire on. I feel high, in haste, pressured with a sense of urgency and optimistic, stress, stress, stress, and extremely irr
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First, a cheek up from the neck up: State: manic, season? Dream. I shake and twitch. My nose rune, IO am freezing., The temperature is 85 degrees Fahrenheit with the heater and fire on. I feel high, in haste, pressured with a sense of urgency and optimistic, stress, stress, stress, and extremely irritable, unrealistic in general, not worthy, manic, depressed, mixed up, confused, sleeping very little, but feeling extremely energetic. I wrote and talk so rapidly that others can’t keep up. My thoughts, beliefs and ideas race, as do the voices in my head. Everything, mainly my thoughts jump quickly from one idea to the next. Ugh, necessary urgency, manic, manic, manic. Bipolar, schizophrenia, schizoaffective, Storms swirl sadistically creatively. I know they are not good enough I have do better. in my head, my room and my life. I’m scared of my own death, chain smoking, drinking water, water and more water. I am at distracted by all of the noise in this silent office here at midnight. I can’t concentrate,. I feel fragmented and disconnected to myself. I feel worthless unapologetic. Impulsive. It’ll pass. It’ll pass. I know. It will. I write this recklessly. My thoughts skip a beat,. I’m a recluse. I know for a fact that my delusions and hallucinations have returned. I speak into the cell phone, voice texting this piece. Editing too much. Overdoing it. Writing, more and more. Not enough….Time passes. I come upon my 40th year. Time passes so quickly these days. The prognosis of my schizophrenia spectrum disorder progresses as my cognitive abilities decline. Life is an intimate and somewhat private stage. The Internet is a public and global stage that is written in ink, not pencil. There is a curtain that always remains open.Time passes. Time goes ... where?“I’ve always loved the night, when everyone else is asleep and the world is all mine. It’s quiet and dark—the perfect time for creativity.” —Jonathan Harnisch, Porcelain Utopia.I forget the rest. I just don’t care anymore. But, the sad part is I actually do.Love me, hate me, hurt me, or kill me. But I keep fighting.In a recent review in Foreword Reviews—known as “THE indie books magazine”—of one of my novels, perhaps my legacy, Jonathan Harnisch: An Alibiography, Alex Franks, in an excellent critique, writes: “Mental illness is romanticized at points in the text, as well, which may leave some familiar with the realities with an unsavory taste. That's not to say the work isn't well written—it's carefully plotted with well-rendered characters, presented in a narrative that would appropriately be deemed ‘schizophrenic.’” To romanticize, we must deal with an event in an idealized or unrealistic fashion; make something seem better or more appealing than it really is. I must have been having a good day when writing those “romanticized” parts. But, Jesus, sometimes I know of no other way to cope, I suppose. The illness sucks. Schizophrenia sucks. And right now I think I suck. I’m sick. I am very sick. I was simply taking a nap in the house, and my so-to-speak real life is fully delusional. At any rate, all the negative things, as my psychiatrist reminds me daily, are hallucinations or delusions. I am turning into my own book in many respects, and I still do not accept my mental health condition overall, not being able to tell what is real and what is not real, while my thinking, behavior, and mood are also altered. I think that in itself presents a large problem—most of my problems. I will be around. I hope I will be working, not sleeping. I don't know. As the day continues, I will try my best for you because I trust you, and I think you know that I would like your thoughts on things at some point. I understand many of the things I ask others to do are simply unrealistic or out of your jurisdiction, maybe. I just don't know how to wing it, while at the same time we must never mind typos. I don't know what I'm saying. I have no clue, though life is just impossible. I have to have a plan. I can't make one. I have nothing. If you have a full hour until one o'clock, feel free to leave messages of any kind. I just have nothing to say. Blah, blah, blah... Too many problems to discuss, and they change—with additions and deletions. For example, this morning. And then not later in the morning. And then now, which means it has changed three times already. I believe I am not real and that nothing is real, not even that thought. All I do is hurt people. I am often ashamed of myself, mostly when I am around other people in any way at all. And I think I'm brilliant, and I talk too much, and I don't talk at all. I'm a complete waste, a failure, a miserable miscreant, and then it changes back-and-forth, back-and-forth, back-and-forth. You can see I'm trying to communicate, and I just can't. Anyway I am safe. I am not suicidal. As usual, I’m sure many are concerned, though nobody is here or there. I don't care. This has already taken me 40 minutes to write. It sounds scary, and someti
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