I feel like I have failed. I feel useless in a dynamic world. I feel like I am stopped. Stopped. The world on its axis tilted and turning. I stay. Rooted. Reluctant. I breathe because I am made that way. It doesn’t feel like a jolly choice these days. I fell from on high. Directly down. Naturally down. Flat splat on the pavement. The sound of extreme grief, an undignified and messy landing. I grieve. A wild and unabashed grief. The type of grief that almost gets you arrested. The type of grief, that when the fury has passed, changes into a dismal miserable quiet. A sadness of large mass. My body heaves against this mass of sadness. Breathing is all I can do. I detest gravity and all its pitiful laws.
I like my psychosis. That was said to me recently.
Liking a mauling tiger. This is a suitable analogy. Great excitement and thrill and danger. Until it turns and eats itself.
Combine this with grief. Psychotic grief. I found my brother dead in a pool of his own blood. The ‘anger’ phase has been truly sensational. A lifetime of hatred and injustices soared through my soul.
The tiger leaping through time. A regression of sorts. The eye of an enraged tiger. Bouyant in a spiritual dimension. Floating, soaring and preying in my mind as a multitude of lensed spheres.
Eyes. Cameras. The unenviable vision of a half assed clairvoyant. To be offered such a spiritual gift and not to be able to use it, begets a very specific style of incompetence.
Some things you are not meant to know. I hear my dads words repeat in my head. Then why have I been offered the sight? For what purpose? Mental illness? The cursed blessing. The blessed curse.
I feel a very particular kind of ineptitude. A rage of emotions. Socially destructive behaviours. Fury in a local street is particularly humiliating. I now shrug sad shoulders about the politics I was ranting about and feel indifference again at the people who in my deluded outbursts had the audacity not to even know who I am. My grandfather survived the Battle of the Somme. In my heightened deluded state, my grandfathers’ sacrifice in two world wars was to bring me a status in life. A staus that eludes me still.
I am psychotic again, but sadly, I am not able to recognise my symptoms. The terrifying nature of this particular beast. Shouting, swearing and screaming does nothing to endear me to the locals of the town. I am refused a glass of water in a bar. I am outraged. Every cell. Every neuron firing out anger. Grief. Anger. Grief. Furious grief.
I notice I have pissed myself from the exertion. The bliss of the involuntary. A work out of sorts. Psychotic screaming and shouting. I sit in the back of the cop car. I lock the back seat so the friendly cop can’t sit next to me and talk. I am done talking. I am bored with talking and not ever being able to express the magnitude of my pain.
There is a moment of levity between the cop and I. I locked you out, I say with a smile. I’m naughty like that. Meanwhile the whole town stares. My cousin speaks with the cops and then they drive me to the cop shop. The officer says I am to be searched for weapons. I find this ludicrous. You don’t want to be touching my knickers, I say, I’ve pissed myself. The cop smiles again and let’s out a giggle.
All the while the cameras and lenses record all the details. As do the cops with their variety of digital recording microphones and cameras. In the raised intensity of the situation, I can no longer tell who or what is recording me, it is a complicated digital paranoia array. They drive me home. Kindly.
Grief. I have talked to counsellors, psychologists and shrinks. I have approached those who walk close to spirit for their wisdom and guidance. I have given up my soul to those and to all whom I believed who would heal it or simply have it. The job too excessive for my wit alone. The job nobody wants. I neither.
All the sense I can make is this, there is no cure for love. A simple and pure lyrical sentiment from Leonard Cohen. Fool I am. Fool I was for not accepting the fact.
Grief is excruciating. Facing the pain is excruciating. Acknowledging how my brother died and living with that memory of him has been excruciating. Extreme grief is excruciating.
I grieve for him and my soul and spirit feel oddly cleansed. The tiger naps in the quiet jungle, but I now live with the after math of yet another psychotic episode. This is the official terminology used for the freaky shit that is outside of regular human cognition and inexplicably difficult to describe.
The flat splat on the pavement of life is the inevitable come down. The ground. The gravity. The living on the earth. The comparatively uneventful three dimensional space.
The goodbye grief.