Psychosis of a schizophrenic. (SS 3)

Though I'd encourage you to continue working on the 1st to clarify that first doctor's visit... 

maybe you can reverse the order of things a little and have the first couple of episodes first, 

so that he visits the Dr because he's a little alarmed? Then, at the end, you say there should  

have been a diagnosis of schizophrenia... but there was... score = 25, on the strength of your 

above and beyond in writing 3 stories!

The following is a diary written by a man recently diagnosed with schizophrenia. He went in for a physical for an international trip and learned he had schizophrenia. The diary follows how he dealt with it 

Day 1: I've never written in a diary before. Is this even a diary? Is that manly to say? Is this a journal? Well, whatever this is, I will be writing in it from now on. My name is Frank Talesco, I'm 23, I live in Stockton, California, and  I rent a little room which has been converted from a cellar. Most would view this as cosy and satisfactory. I most certainly did. It's been about two hours since I came back from the doctors. I'm planning, well, was planning on going to Thailand and seeing where my baby girl currently lives, oh yeah, did I mention I have a daughter? 'Cause I do, but her mother took her away a few weeks after her 10th birthday which was three years ago to the date, because she felt like I was a threat to Mikyla, she said she sensed something was extremely wrong. I, on the other hand, didn't. But that's a story for a different day, lets get back to the doctors. I had my appointment today, and I went in with confidence as I always do. Every since I was a young lad, I've had an immaculate health record, with a few issues, here and there but nothing about today's appointment would've changed that, so I thought. I had to go in to get all my shots, and my physical in order to go to Thailand. I went in and everything was fine. He did a few more tests than usual, but I didn't think anything of it. Now, it's all I can think of. You know that scene in a movie, where the actor finds out he or she has disease, and their face suddenly goes blank and the smile seems to have flown off their face within a split second? That's exactly how I looked, when the doctor told me I was schizophrenic. Me, schizophrenic? How is that even possible? It can't be, there were no signs, no voices telling me to kill my family, so how could can that possibly be?

Day 2 : The landlord didn’t come around today. He does so every Sunday to check up on everything and have a cup of tea. He seems like a lonely fellow so I normally talk to him for a while. I’m probably overreacting. People are busy these days, I’m sure he has a lot of work on his hands. The room is still giving me a weird feeling. Whenever I walk past the small bathroom in the corner I feel like there’s a presence of some thing or someone with me. I’ve always been into my supernatural stuff. Maybe this time I will get to experience it.

Day 3: Haven’t been out of the room for three days now. There’s no need to. The joys of working from home. There’s an eerie silence outside. No cars or people hustling past.   I think I’ve been inside to much. Should probably call someone and go out for a coffee.

Day 4: Nearly finished my report. Good news. Weird thing happened today. Called one of my friends, Kate. As soon as she picked up I could feel the line wasn’t secure. I heard that echo that you hear as soon as someone outside the conversation picks up the phone. I hung up straight away. Went for a short walk. I think the stress is getting to me. I couldn’t help but notice everyone looking at me as I walked by. Weird.

Day 5:  Something weird is going on. The bulb in my room has begun to glow a dark green colour. Got a call today. When I answered I only heard static. I don’t know what is happening but I decided to call the power company of my cellphone. They said there was a storm out east, which had cut out the power lines.

Day 6: My computer and television have turned off. The phone isn’t working. The light is still glowing a light green. I haven’t shaved or slept properly in days. I really need to get out of this room.

Just heard something in the bathroom. I don’t know what it is. This is starting to get a bit creepy. I don’t want to get up. My laptop is on low battery. The power is off. The bulb is still glowing this ghastly green. I can’t stand it anymore. I’m going to see what happened in the bathroom.

Day : My computer shut off. I’m working off my typewriter now. I have to record what is happening. Its fascinating. I finally saw it. The green light, the noises, the silence all finally explained. The truth has finally dawned upon me. I need to get this out. If you’re reading this you can’t trust anyone. Noone. I don’t know why they chose to warn me. At this point the diary gets incoherent. The typist begins to type in some sort of gibberish language.

 Day : I see them they’re outside my door. In black suites. They want me because I know what they don’t want you to know. “John, you’re not going to get in trouble.” “We just want to help you.” I know their mind games.

Apparently there’s a doctor out there now. He said that he needs to help me before I do something I regret. Do they really think I’m stupid. I’ve blocked the door with the fridge. Theres no way they are getting in unless they dig their way through.

They have my friend. She talked to me or the first time in eight days today. “John. Its Kate. You need to do what these guys are saying. They just want to help you. I haven’t heard from you in so long. I’m so worried.” Who do they think I am? I know the answer to everything. They told me. They warned me about this. They can help me.

Day : They’re infiltrating me from the outside. Probably with radiation. The pain has go so bad. My stomach is hurting. I can’t lift my hands up from the type writer anymore. They are slowly killing me. I can barely keep my head up. They’re getting to me. Don’t trust anyone. 

Epilogue:

The fire department managed to break the door down after police did not hear from inside for two days. Inside, the room was found in a tip. The television was smashed to pieces, the computer too with just the hard drive taken out, The toilet had been cracked with an unbelievable force.  One chair in the room contained a slowly decomposing corpse of a skinny middle aged Caucasian male. Upon investigation the deceased had died for dehydration. In the post mortem report speculation had arisen to whether the man should have been diagnosed with schizophrenia, based on the events that occurred. No loss of power had affected the room. The light bulb was not damaged and when turned on worked as it should. Anyone reading this should note that the man who wrote this was mentally unstable. There was no proof that anything was infiltrating his room apart from the police who were trying to help him. No other people or animals were found in the room. The health history of the man was immaculate therefore many speculate as to what caused this heavy onset of psychosis.

Returning to Sea

Stine, I'd be interesting in learning your story's origin... I'm hearing Hemingway--were you aiming for his brevity, his matter-of-factness?

There was an old man and a young man. The old man sat at his table in a quiet part of the restaurant and the young man was talking to him as though they had known each other for years but in fact they had only met earlier that day.

The restaurant had just a couple others in it and their quiet spot was so because of the way the shadows seemed to keep the rest of the lights from fully covering their corner. The way they sat made it fully their corner and the others in the restaurant would mistake them for regulars. It was close to the docks and the usual clientele were boaters who stopped in along their way to something better.

The restaurant was small with dust on the floor that did not seem to bother the wait staff and the walls were covered in nets for cheap decor. Photographs were pressed inside the nets all along the walls and slightly faded from the sun that came in through large windows. There was a mounted striped bass that flitted sunlight off its blueblack and grey checkered scales and the wind smelt of the sea and salt could be tasted in the air.

“What should we drink?” asked the young man.

“I don’t drink very often,” replied the old man.

“Then we should make it a good one.” He motioned to the waiter. “Two whiskeys, please.”

The waiter nodded and went to the bar. As he poured each shot the two men sat quietly. He came back a moment later, and sat the two shots on the table. He left without response.

The young man took his glass. “What should we drink to?”

“Home. Family, friends. Perhaps the things we’ve done and didn’t do.”

The young man was silent for just a moment. “So we shall.” They both tipped their cups and drank.

There was silence again. The young man found this uncomfortable. “I must thank you for helping me out on that road,” he said. “A flat tire without a spare, and no cell service in the area. How unlucky is that?”

“Quite,” the old man replied. He did not attempt to say anything further. The young man sat there for a bit longer hoping for more. There was none.

“Are you from around here?”

“I am from nearby,” replied the old man. “But I have not been here in many years.”

“Really? This seems like such a nice area.”

The old man shifted in his seat. “Then you are not from here either?”

“No,” he replied. “I was driving through this area on my way north. I have business there.”

“What sort of business do you do?”

“I sell services in the computer industry.”

“I don’t know much about that.”

“It’s a good industry to be in right now.”

The young man motioned to the waiter to bring two more whiskeys. The waiter did not see his motion and so the young man went up and ordered the drinks directly at the bar. The bar man pulled the the bottle out from below the bar and poured into their glasses a second time.

The young man considered this for just a moment. “On the rocks this time.”

The bar man nodded and pulled two pieces of ice out of the icebox and put them into new glasses.

Then he took the shot glasses and turned them over the new glasses onto the ice. The young man nodded and took the glasses over to his and the old man’s table.

The two men did not drink them as shots but the young man brought his glass to his lips and sipped on it slowly. “And what do you do?” he asked still holding the glass.

The old man did not respond for a moment. “I am old and have not worked in a long time. When I was young I lived here with my family and worked in town.”

“How far away is the town? Is that where the tow company is?”

The old man was quiet again and then “No. The tow company is from one town over. It will be some time before they are here.”

“How long has it been since you have been back here?”

“Very long. I was a young man when I left.”

“Why did you leave?”

The old man was quiet again and the young man shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Long ago when I was here, the coast was further out than now. The town stretched out further than where the beaches and the port are now but it was small and quiet. My family lived there and I worked as a fisherman on a boat called Thetis. Every day I would go out to sea and put my nets out and wait for the fish to come in and then bring them on board. I would sell the fish in town every day and go out the next and do it again and you may think that now it might have been a boring life but I was happy and my family was kept well by my success on my boat.

One day there was a storm as great as I had ever seen and while I was out in the boat it came in and flooded the town and all the buildings and roads and everything was covered by the sea. I was on my boat while it happened and it was as if Hell had become ocean and wanted to devour the world. When I washed ashore the city was gone and I left and didn’t come back, until now.”

The restaurant was quiet now and only the young man and the old man sat there. The waiters had gone into the back and the bar man was reading a paper quietly in the corner. The young man sat and said nothing and did not seem to know where to look.

“I must return to the sea,” said the old man. “The sea owes me, and I owe it. But they are not debts that can be repaid or settled.”

The young man glanced out to the sun as it was setting on the ocean off the docks and with the masts and sails of the ships crosshatching the orange and teal colors that reflected through the bar windows with the light slightly skewed by the imperfect glass of the windows and wondered how it was that he came to be in this restaurant with this man and how it was that his car hit the pothole that blew his tire and why he was so far from home at that. There was luck in this, he knew, and there was bad luck in this as well.

The phone rang at the bar and the barman answered. A moment later he came to the table with the old man and the young man and told the young man that there was a tow truck waiting for him. He thanked the bar man for that and paid up his tab, and then left the old man there as he stared out into the sea, ponderous and regretful.

"Story of my life"

Friday night I went to the liquor store over by my house to buy a six pack of Angry Orchard. It was my first time there even though I’ve been 21 for almost 5 months now. I don’t drink at home because I still feel a lot of guilt and shame when I do anything that my parents might look down on, especially in my house. You see, being an alcoholic is a reoccurring trend in my family, so any time I 

Anyway, I walked in and said, “How are you doing tonight, sir?”

“I’m fine, man.”

The formidable man was hunched over the counter in a stance much like a buldog’s. His slightly open green plaid shirt made his chest seem bigger than it probably was. A tarnished gold cross dangled from his neck. The chain had probably been with him since before his head had greyed, a time when his face was less touched by time.

Doubt set in my mind, as it always does when I purchase alcohol. Where’s the Angry Orchard? Wait, do I want wine? Pinot Grigio, Riesling, Chardonnay… I should just stick with Mike’s Hard. I love lemonade, after all. Then again, I haven’t had one in eons and I must have stopped for a reason. Heartburn or something. Maybe I should try something new. Variety is the spice of life, after all. Oh God, so many choices. I just want something to drink that doesn’t taste like it’s going to kill me.

Grabbing the Angry Orchard and walking to the front of the store felt like stepping on top of the podium to receive a medal. Instead of celebrating any sort of academic or athletic achievement, I was celebrating having made a choice of what I wanted to drink that would make academic and athletic achievement more difficult.

I handed the man my ID.

“Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”

“It’s alright, don’t worry about it.”

I had never seen the man before, I didn’t expect him to recognize me. Did he recognize my name? Does he know my Dad? Or my mom? Does he realize that I live two streets away from here and he’s a neighbor that I’ve never paid attention to? Is he a distant relative that I had never met before? That’s it, he’s an uncle that disappeared when my Dad was young and they never talked about it because it was too painful and he’s here now and he’s been preparing for this situation his whole life. Don’t cry Luis, don’t cry. Wait, he looks Irish, not Dominican.

“You know, if you’re an asshole, I can be an asshole back. If you’re nice and polite, I’m a nice guy.”

Uncle I-Don’t-Know-Your-Name, why? I’m not an asshole! It’s the Yankees hat. He’s going to beat your ass because you’re a fan. I knew getting the Yankees logo on my debit card was a bad idea. How am I going to pay for this? I don’t have cash! Say something, say anything Luis!

“I know what you mean, man.”

He smiled. It worked! Or he’s disarming you. Prepare your face. They say you should play dead if you see a bear so they don’t think you’re a threat. Maybe if you play dead he’ll stop beating you. Then, when he’s distracted by the bags of food on the shelf over there, you can slither out.

“$8.78.”

If he had said $100 I would’ve paid it just to get out of this really strange transaction. I carefully slid my card, making sure to hide the Yankees logo from his field of view.

Approved. I let loose a sigh of relief.

“Have a god one.”

“You too sir, have a great night!”

He quickly extended his arm.

Oh God, HERE COMES HIS FIST! I almost made it out! Oh, wait a second…

We fist bumped. He smiled as I scuttled out of the store, more confused about this interaction than anything in my life. I had this feeling that I had missed something crucial.

As I got in my car and prepared to recount the whole ordeal to Laura, I found the missing puzzle piece in the form of a sign that read, “Have your ID ready upon check out.”

He was, in his own way, acknowledging that I handed over my ID without hesitation or prompting.

I’ll never doubt my new uncle again.

101 westbound

101 westbound takes me to many destinations
Firstly west where the neighborhoods suddenly seem more tidy
The roads more smooth
The landscapes more neat.
The people look so secure and happy
Tax dollars spent on preserving this superficial wealth
While the 101 eastbound takes me to different destinations
Where you leave sunny Miami-Dade and enter into Mangonia Park
Where neighborhoods are a little more gritty
Roads have a few more pot holes
Brick walls exist with lame graffiti
That wishes it were as good as the kind in California or New York.
101 eastbound is the journey I take every day,
To the east where the money is to be made.
Where I'm from.
Where I remember that one day I will get out.
101 westbound will be my escape. 

There is a freeway in Miami called the 101 west, and everyone who lives there knows that it runs through the worst part into the best part. 
For the people, like me, the 101 westbound, is an escape. 
Now, I am proud of where I came from but people define me by where I come from and I always felt that even though I was from the Eastside, the 101 westbound was what gave me hope.  

I wonder if this uploaded the way you wanted it to? There are a lot of lines run together in what I'm seeing--I'll check with you in class...

Raw

I can feel your absence in everything 

that reminds me of you, 

in the book you left, 

lying on my dresser 

underneath the lamp where we used to make

love. 

In the language 

I never realized was ours 

until we stopped speaking it together. 

Even in the men

that I force myself 

to feel something for, 

but I never can

because in them, I see parts of you, 

a deep voice

(that lacks your conviction)

a mess of curly hair 

(that never suffices my longing for to run my fingers through yours)

but they are only parts of you 

and they are never enough. 

In every lonely cigarette I smoke 

and in every corner of this city, 

I find you taunting me

reminding me that you’re not mine anymore. 

but you’re not really there

You are just a memory,

slipping through my

shaking fingers. 

It is in this realization that I suffer the most.

you are going, going, gone. 

there are no more words. 

I am incomplete. 

I was inspired to write this because I was recently talking to one of the girls I work with and she told me her story of how she had to grow up quickly at 15, and how she was always scared of someone leaving her. She felt like she never had anyone to lean on, she was just raw material. How every time she met someone new, it hurt her, because she was so scared of the uncertainty of their motives

some powerful lines here, Stina--