I started to worry about living today.
I was worried before about surviving.
Food.
When will it run out? Where will it come from? At what cost? At what risk? For how long? Who will it feed?
Water. Soap. Medicine. Toiletries.
Today…
Will I pretend everything is okay enough that I can write? Read? Crochet? Make a font, make something fun to eat?
Even some of the worst apocalypse novels are told via diary.
What if I run out of yarn and electricity and paper and pens and books?
Before I run out of food?
…
I dream about Dad a lot, dead or alive.
It’s not usually really him, if dead.
Sometimes it’s Mom.
Sometimes it’s Grandma.
I think about the email he sent my mom about fleeing, about the box in his garage with outdated first aid gear.
And he said, “It’s irresponsible not to be prepared,” about living and dying both but—
Bold words from a man who died without a will.
…
Sometimes Dad’s alive in my dreams but I know he’s not; sometimes I dream about the grief itself.
I fall asleep in my bed; I wake up standing next to the body again.
I zone out in my room, snap out of it in a flashback, standing next to the body again.
Standing next to the body again.
And again.
…
How do I tell Mom I’m finally starting to fall asleep with my eyes closed, that I jump just as much when startled but I’ve never screamed, that when I blink in daylight it’s usually okay, that white linens aren’t as frightening now, that I went into the bedroom while my girlfriend was sleeping without thinking, that I don’t sleep on the couch as much?
If I talk about getting better, she’ll say the same, “It should’ve been me,” and I’ll say:
“That’s a noble game,” or, “But it wasn’t,” or, “But I’m glad it wasn’t,” or, “No, Mom, it really shouldn’t have been you.”
…
Mom’s never seen me cry over it and she’s not going to.
…
I’m still trying to think my way out of that room.
…
There’s a dead bird I’ve passed on my walk at the curb for a few days now and I keep thinking I’ll walk the other way or not look and then I don’t, and it’s decaying into liquid, decaying, decaying, and I think of Dad, and how I thought I wouldn’t sit with Grandma’s body, either.
…
Morning. It’s sun warmed, bright, sunlight patches on light carpet, sunbathing cats, warm fur, stretch, purr, yawn. Smells like sunlight on light dust. Sun, sun, sun.
…
My walk—everyone else is in pairs—you can tell who dragged whom. It’s almost cold out. Crisp. Fresh. No hot pavement scent yet.
…
Brunch. Clear glass bowls of chopped fruit still wet from washing. A few flowers remain alive in the vase. Stripes of sun through the blinds on the tablecloth. Sweet strawberries and Nutella, the crunch of toast. My best friend is bedheaded and in pajamas. My wife to be is dressed in black. We all talk and laugh too much and too loud.
…
My fiancee and I cook dinner together. Evening slats of sun. The broiler, the frying, the oven, the stove—hum. It’s hot. Everything smells delicious. She is so beautiful. The potatoes are colorful, the pork chops shaping up to the right hue.
…
Today’s the kind of mental health day where you listen to Evanescence and hope for the best. Time and space happen to me strangely.
…
It’s 9:30 AM and I’m nonverbal, and it feels like I shouldn’t be—it’s too early, too much of a problem. Nonverbal, like drunk, happens at more like dinner. But I woke up like this, and I don’t drink.
…
My dearest fiancee,
It is May 2020.
The world is ending.
And you have asked me to marry you.
…
It’s late afternoon, hot, dry, the sun just starting to cast long shadows. The pool water is cool and clear, has to be eased into, but refreshing. Mom is drinking white wine out of a Dixie coffee cup. All of the neighbors are in their pools too, cannonballs and voices carrying over. My mom and my best friend and my fiancee and I splash each other, blow water through pool noodles, throw a ball around. Everything smells a little like chlorine. My fiancee and I lay on the bed in the afternoon and cuddled and talked about the future earlier. Later, we all eat dinner still a little wet, but in dry clothes, and pick at desserts knowing we’ll sleep well. All the people I love are happy. We talk about the engagement. The AC isn’t too cold. The food is good and plentiful. I stepped out of the pool and started dinner wet and still in my underwear. And life is good.
…
I have started to hallucinate a golden retriever puppy regularly. Her name is Farrah.
…
The smell of heat on pavement. Sweat. Water getting warm in bottles. Swings creaking. Gas station snacks eaten on the side of the parking lot in a patch of shade. Kids yell in the distance. My best friend’s voice. The chime of the gas station door opening and closing.
…
I woke up from my first dream where people were just… wearing masks. How weird is it to adjust?
…
I wake trying to scream and batting at a corpse that isn’t there.
…
The Christmas tree with rainbow lights. Wrapping paper, stockings, pillows, blankets—everywhere. The fireplace is on. Games and snacks line the table, brunch abandoned. Instrumental Christmas music plays. I lie in the pile of wrapping paper and blankets wearing my Santa dress, head on a bathrobe gift, my wife next to me, my best friend next to her. We laugh. Mom is close by. I’m home. It’s Christmas morning.
The Schizophrenia Diaries 