‘You're disgusting', ‘You filthy pig', ‘Get a grip on yourself', I heard the voices chime in perfect harmony. I turned on the radio that stood by my bedside on the way to the bathroom. I hated the silence in my apartment; the static noise from the microwave, the squeaky sound my window made when a gust blew by. Those were real noises and I knew that, but somehow listening to them made it so hard to tell the difference between what was real or not. When I looked in the mirror, the image I saw was almost unrecognizable. I guessed it was me because it had the same downturned, umber eyes as me. Under them rested dark circles. I looked like I hadn't slept in weeks, which was actually pretty accurate. My hair was disheveled and my beard need to be trimmed badly. I looked like a Neanderthal. I briefly stopped my self critique to take in my surroundings. My bathroom looked equally horrendous; my once porcelain bathtub, toilet and sink were all filled with grime and scum. I couldn't even remember the last time I had taken a shower, let alone cleaned it. The voices started to chorus in my head again.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up," I muttered to myself as I backed up into the wall and slid down. I reached to grab my hair, which I had now realized had some patches in it. I tried my best to drown them out, to let the harsh but comforting sound of the heavy metal from the radio push them away, but they seemed to get louder and louder. ‘How are you going to write a book if you can't even take a stupid shower?'.
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" I heard a voice that sounded like mine yell. I hadn't even realized I was screaming until the ridicule in my head has subsided.
"Are you talking to me?" I heard another familiar voice say. I turned my head to find my brother, Amari standing in my bedroom. He couldn't even bother to hide the look of worry that was plastered on his face. Come to think of it, as long as I had known Amari, which was my whole life, he was always worried about me. His face reminded me of when I first got diagnosed with a schizoaffective disorder. When I had first discovered the voices, I brushed them off as just being my anxiety, but when they had started getting louder and crueler, I had told Amari and we decided to go see a psychiatrist.
"Kanaan, are you even listening to me?" Amari's concerned voice brought me out of my stream of thought.
"Oh yeah, sorry," I replied nervously as I struggled to bring myself to my feet. "What brings you here?"
"I just came to see if you're okay, bro," he answered as he towered over me. "You haven't been returning my texts or my calls. I- I was worried you hurt yourself," he stuttered the last part.
"Well I wouldn't even be able to do that since you took all the knives out of my apartment," I said in a deadpan voice as I walked past him, entering the living room.
"That's not funny, Kanaan," he said as he followed me into the dimly lit room.
"Could you relax? I was just joking," I said and without him realizing, I saw his tensed shoulders lower a little. I really did think it was funny. ‘If that's what you call comedy, don't even bother writing a second book' on of the voices said in a hushed tone. I pushed the taunt away for now.
"How are you really? How's writing going?" he asked as we sat down on my aggregation of stains called a couch.
"The same old, same old. I haven't been able to write down a coherent thought in months," I replied. Which I found so ironic because in my head, all I had were thoughts. Good thoughts, bad thoughts, creative thoughts, irrational thoughts.
"You've got to give yourself time. You can't rush the creative process, you of all people should know that." Amari was right, I had to wait for inspiration to come on its own. But I was worried if it came to late, it would have lost me to the voices. I couldn't tell Amari that, he would just overreact.
"Yeah, you're right. I've just got to take my time with it." I sounded almost motivated. Almost convinced myself. Amari looked down at his watch and started to get up from the couch.
"I've got to go to this meeting now, but please call me tonight. Just to let me know you're okay," he urged as we walked over to the door.
"Sure thing," I replied before he gave me a hug. It wasn't odd for us to hug but this one felt different. He held on to me like he wasn't sure he would see me again. And in all honestly, I held him too because I myself wasn't so sure. After he left I sat down at my desk and attempted to write, looking at the clock on the wall. Time seemed to move so fast while I did nothing and now that I was alone once again, the voices seemed louder than ever. I sat like that till the next day, and then the next, and then the next. The only thing that surrounded me was the voices and their cruel mockery.
I was completely engulfed by them; I couldn't write, I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. Every second that passed felt like unbridled torture. I was tired of the pain, of the ridicule. I reached for my almost drawer at the bottom of my desk. The only thing inside was a bottle of prescribed painkillers that Amari had left in my apartment not too long ago. It wasn't the best way to go, but at the time it had to do. I downed whatever was left in it and waited patiently. With time, the voices became quieter and quieter until they eventually subsided. I started to let the darkness surround me and found comfort in it. For a brief moment, I felt free but regret slowly started to creep in. Regret that no one would know how my story ended. But by the time this realization had dawned on me, my eyelids felt so heavy that I had no choice but to shut my eyes.
When I awoke, I found myself in a foreign room. The static was loud and there was a bright fluorescent light in the center of the room that made it difficult for me to open my eyes fully. The only image I could make out was the soft outline of a woman's face. I blinked a couple times and my vision started to clear up. When my eyes opened again, I was greeted with my mother's warm smile. I hadn't remembered the last time I had seen it. Not since she has passed away. I felt her reach out to me and tenderly cup my face.
"My beautiful son," she said to me in an almost whisper. Her umber eyes looked down at me, pleadingly. As if to say, ‘keep on fighting'. Before I could put words together she started to walk out of the room. I motioned to follow after her but I was glued to the bed, unable to move. Maybe this was heaven? Or maybe I was having a hallucination. Either way there was nothing I could about it, except drift slowly back into sleep.
"He's waking up!" I heard someone exclaim as my eyes started to flutter open. Before I could even form an image, Amari had me in his tight embrace. I could feel his tears run down my open back, letting me realize I was in a hospital gown. I hugged him back tightly as well, feeling remorse for the trouble I must have put him through for the past God knows how many days. Amari forgave me, but knew I shouldn't be left alone for a while. Honestly, I was fine with being committed; I could finally start writing my book. I'm not sure if it was the near-death experience or seeing my mother silently urging me to continue fighting, but I had a new lease on life. Yes, the voices still followed me but I was learning to live with them and I had realized they had given me the greatest gift of all; my very own story.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up," I muttered to myself as I backed up into the wall and slid down. I reached to grab my hair, which I had now realized had some patches in it. I tried my best to drown them out, to let the harsh but comforting sound of the heavy metal from the radio push them away, but they seemed to get louder and louder. ‘How are you going to write a book if you can't even take a stupid shower?'.
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" I heard a voice that sounded like mine yell. I hadn't even realized I was screaming until the ridicule in my head has subsided.
"Are you talking to me?" I heard another familiar voice say. I turned my head to find my brother, Amari standing in my bedroom. He couldn't even bother to hide the look of worry that was plastered on his face. Come to think of it, as long as I had known Amari, which was my whole life, he was always worried about me. His face reminded me of when I first got diagnosed with a schizoaffective disorder. When I had first discovered the voices, I brushed them off as just being my anxiety, but when they had started getting louder and crueler, I had told Amari and we decided to go see a psychiatrist.
"Kanaan, are you even listening to me?" Amari's concerned voice brought me out of my stream of thought.
"Oh yeah, sorry," I replied nervously as I struggled to bring myself to my feet. "What brings you here?"
"I just came to see if you're okay, bro," he answered as he towered over me. "You haven't been returning my texts or my calls. I- I was worried you hurt yourself," he stuttered the last part.
"Well I wouldn't even be able to do that since you took all the knives out of my apartment," I said in a deadpan voice as I walked past him, entering the living room.
"That's not funny, Kanaan," he said as he followed me into the dimly lit room.
"Could you relax? I was just joking," I said and without him realizing, I saw his tensed shoulders lower a little. I really did think it was funny. ‘If that's what you call comedy, don't even bother writing a second book' on of the voices said in a hushed tone. I pushed the taunt away for now.
"How are you really? How's writing going?" he asked as we sat down on my aggregation of stains called a couch.
"The same old, same old. I haven't been able to write down a coherent thought in months," I replied. Which I found so ironic because in my head, all I had were thoughts. Good thoughts, bad thoughts, creative thoughts, irrational thoughts.
"You've got to give yourself time. You can't rush the creative process, you of all people should know that." Amari was right, I had to wait for inspiration to come on its own. But I was worried if it came to late, it would have lost me to the voices. I couldn't tell Amari that, he would just overreact.
"Yeah, you're right. I've just got to take my time with it." I sounded almost motivated. Almost convinced myself. Amari looked down at his watch and started to get up from the couch.
"I've got to go to this meeting now, but please call me tonight. Just to let me know you're okay," he urged as we walked over to the door.
"Sure thing," I replied before he gave me a hug. It wasn't odd for us to hug but this one felt different. He held on to me like he wasn't sure he would see me again. And in all honestly, I held him too because I myself wasn't so sure. After he left I sat down at my desk and attempted to write, looking at the clock on the wall. Time seemed to move so fast while I did nothing and now that I was alone once again, the voices seemed louder than ever. I sat like that till the next day, and then the next, and then the next. The only thing that surrounded me was the voices and their cruel mockery.
I was completely engulfed by them; I couldn't write, I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. Every second that passed felt like unbridled torture. I was tired of the pain, of the ridicule. I reached for my almost drawer at the bottom of my desk. The only thing inside was a bottle of prescribed painkillers that Amari had left in my apartment not too long ago. It wasn't the best way to go, but at the time it had to do. I downed whatever was left in it and waited patiently. With time, the voices became quieter and quieter until they eventually subsided. I started to let the darkness surround me and found comfort in it. For a brief moment, I felt free but regret slowly started to creep in. Regret that no one would know how my story ended. But by the time this realization had dawned on me, my eyelids felt so heavy that I had no choice but to shut my eyes.
When I awoke, I found myself in a foreign room. The static was loud and there was a bright fluorescent light in the center of the room that made it difficult for me to open my eyes fully. The only image I could make out was the soft outline of a woman's face. I blinked a couple times and my vision started to clear up. When my eyes opened again, I was greeted with my mother's warm smile. I hadn't remembered the last time I had seen it. Not since she has passed away. I felt her reach out to me and tenderly cup my face.
"My beautiful son," she said to me in an almost whisper. Her umber eyes looked down at me, pleadingly. As if to say, ‘keep on fighting'. Before I could put words together she started to walk out of the room. I motioned to follow after her but I was glued to the bed, unable to move. Maybe this was heaven? Or maybe I was having a hallucination. Either way there was nothing I could about it, except drift slowly back into sleep.
"He's waking up!" I heard someone exclaim as my eyes started to flutter open. Before I could even form an image, Amari had me in his tight embrace. I could feel his tears run down my open back, letting me realize I was in a hospital gown. I hugged him back tightly as well, feeling remorse for the trouble I must have put him through for the past God knows how many days. Amari forgave me, but knew I shouldn't be left alone for a while. Honestly, I was fine with being committed; I could finally start writing my book. I'm not sure if it was the near-death experience or seeing my mother silently urging me to continue fighting, but I had a new lease on life. Yes, the voices still followed me but I was learning to live with them and I had realized they had given me the greatest gift of all; my very own story.