Our minds can defy reality and educate us on the darker side of life. This is a personal story of one such episode.
That club was fucking bizarre. The chick insisted I remove my tie, but what did they mean by "dress code enforced?" The insane car ride was nice. Back home at my sleazy apartment after a long day of job hunting, thank God I'm alone. It's 4 a.m., time to crash. But I can't fall asleep.
I know that I'm going to Hell tonight. My vision of the Lake of Fire is overcast with deep black and rising plumes of dark smoke. Billows of bright fire are foreshadowed by piercing screams of the eternally melting. What remains of their consumed faces shows unfathomable desperation as they shriek for unattainable mercy. Not eyes, but haze crowned orbital sockets surrounded by charred flesh beg me. I feel solemnly warned. I'm about to join them, but I'm not sure why.
I'm freaked out like a bitch. Blood rushes through my veins as I breath heavily and with desperation. I rise to begin an episode of habitual pacing. The bathroom door is open. I pass by the doorway and catch a glimpse of myself in the large bathroom mirror. The reflection shows my face shredded with lacerations of varying depths. Rich crimson flows down my narrow face. My deep-set eyes are strikingly prominent as blood pours around them. I dash away from the mirror. In slight disbelief, I look into the mirror for a second opinion. The same macabre self-portrait confronts me.
I turn on the bathroom light, flatten my palms on the counter and stare hard into my eyes. This is real, and now I know why my face is mutilated. Now, I know why I'm burning in Hell tonight.
I see myself running face first into the mirror. A cascade of glass glitters the linoleum I have tumbled onto. The area is painted by a torrent of dark blood. Lying on the floor, my red hand seizes a suitable shard of mirror. I elevate my jaw and plunge the curved fragment into my trachea and carotid artery.
I am horrified by this vivid sight in my mind. I scurry away from the mirror's stare because I now have the intense desire to follow my mind's suggestion. I desperately want to live but I goddamn well need to rape that mirror. I grab my cellphone and dial "911." I hesitate to press the green button. I pace briskly and breathe frantically. I don't want to leave the apartment for help and risk leaping in front of oncoming traffic. Finally, I decide to ask a neighbor for help, we worked together at the school paper.
First, I dose up on Trileptal and Zyprexa. I walk upstairs to her efficiency with much reservation about heights and the outdoors. I explain the situation while trembling and gasping for air. She welcomes me inside and offers breakfast. I attempt to reciprocate conversation while she keeps an eye on me. It's about noon and I'm still shaken, but ready to go.
Returning to my apartment and pissing in that bathroom is haunting. I settle down and take a two hour nap. Upon waking up, I am overwhelmed with an unusual peacefulness and optimism. Abandoning my usual taste in dark clothing, I put on my lightest shirt and brightest tie. Typically, I love nighttime and abhor daylight. It feels so great to be alive and free that I am delighted to see a blue sky and breathe the midday air. Still a bit shell-shocked, I catch the next bus bound for my college. I hit the computer lab to research for some writing.
This was my first real mixed episode, which struck in September 2003. I had been off my meds for seven days. In my mind, this episode was a precursor of deeper psychosis to come. It seemed like I was living on borrowed time at the outset of my next pill eschewal.