Complementary therapies I take in addition to my
medication:
GNC Triple
Strength Fish Oil
$19.99
Serving Size: 1 Softgel Servings Per Container: 60
Calories: 15 Total Fat: 1.5g
EPA: 647mg DHA: 253mg
GNC Mega Men Sport Multi-Vitamins
(Bonus Size)
$34.99
Other Cool Stuff:
Tablet/Pill Splitter
$5.99
GoFit Yoga Mat
$24.99
Homedics LCD Digital Scale $39.99
Attention:
This
website is probably more suitable for people whom are 18
years of age or older. I use vulgarity from time to time,
and I sometimes talk about things that are generally
inappropriate. Sorry you 1st graders. Beat it.
They came back. I knew they would, eventually. The lot of them: all
previous attackers, foes, allies, and yes, a few friends; though not
any of them fits in one place. They can be friends and foes, allies
and
attackers. They are entities-- people, animals, trees, rocks, myriad
entities with spirits and most importantly, are willful.
Today they came back. It was building to this. Most people don't
believe in this hell-- in telepathy-- and in fact I don't, didn't,
and
never will. It doesn't exist. But I did experience its highs, its
joys.
I started the day with a cold drink. Walked into the kitchen.
Bleap.
Someone was waiting there, in spirit. Spirit, how the word doesn't
fit!
In my mind, in the place you can't walk away from, in the place
where
you don't have anything and can, through a second of thought, have
anything. In my mind, a moment before the sense of a punched aimed
at
my face, I saw a short character, a projection of a young guy
wearing a
frown. He caught my eyes for a second. They were hateful,
brows bent,
curled with loathing. His dark hair fell in threatening spikes
over
his forehead. His mouth I didn't notice. His scent was
irrelevant.
But I did perceive another thing, his
feeling, his aura, his type of radio personality. It shocked me
like a
sudden dark, dark blackened by his feelings, and mostly, his
experiences.
The punch came. I didn't feel it. It was invisible in a
way that a
ghost is only perceived with your eyes. Being a projection is
different. The fist didn't go right through me. The projection
was a
sense. The boy reacted like he really hit me, then turned, then
left. In his world he did hit me. In the world where he exists.
Where he
does not thrive or struggle, but merely is.
It flashed through my brain that he hit me. That he tried to hit me.
I
paused while a though was processed clearly. Pause. 'Why?... For
water?' 'That's when he's decided to hit you.' The voice was
soothing,
a masculine voice, relaxed and serene. An ally, but what other
category
would he fall under? His picture was of a youngish, blond,
intellectual
boy. I immediately felt both trust and apprehension. Further
questions from me were answered by his leaving in understanding, and also in a
bit of disgust derived from this understanding. 'You asked a question' The voice was sent with a picture that inspired the brown-haired
boy’s angry reaction. Large, black brows of a middle-aged man.
His
hate was not as strong as the threat of what the sense, picture, of
what the feeling, of what the projection meant. No punch to the
face.
No punch, no.
This would be much worse.
I thought it over. 'You asked a question?' I knew what it meant.
'Don't repeat yourself,' was quietly implied. He had told me before.
The weird phrases were rules, implied by him, my trainer-- The
Master
of Torture, my trainer. The one who drove into my innermost domains
and
tried to make them available to everyone-- all the mind readers.
I was
not them, and this awareness was imposed by abuse, by the trainer,
by
other people. And then by the next thing I turned to, and then the
next, and the next and finally, but there is no end.
The one way to escape it is to-- and yet, if I write it, if I make
it
known, it would cease to exist-- the only way out is to forget your
way. Your way of thinking, your thoughts of escaping-- to forget the
way you were trained, to forget the rules they taught.
I knew what the statement meant, I knew the rule. Don't ask
questions.
Don't repeat yourself.
'Shut up,’ his voice strong and clear. The face was then turning
away
and I thought: Don't think? And the unasked-for answer was “No. Shut
up.”
I went back to my room. I read a book, The Book. It was filled with
rules, and I understood them. These rules, being written by God,
were
stronger. And Iused them.
When the boy, who I called Hero after another character, for his
semblance, tried to hit me the next day, I turned the other cheek,
literally. He got mad, for in his twisted
thinking, twisted by black experiences, I was acting better than
him.
And in my mind I was simply a Christian giving a gift. 'But
being a
Christian IS acting better than
me,' he adds, as I thought, for being a Christian would end this, if
only done correctly.
Done correctly. Those are the keywords. My mind was
conditioned. Do it
correctly. A rule enforced by everything I'd known until this
moment.
Do it correctly, but then, after trying, you won't be able to.
Being Christian didn't work. Doesn't work. Won't work, not the way I
had thought.
I would not degrade myself to go that far, though seeming so short
and
close, so easy to get to, but I would not use their rules against
them,
these entities. I would not begin to imagine that I could fight
them,
that I might fight them and hurt and
humiliate and kill their spirit the way they had done mine. I wasn't
high enough. But this thought was compromised like any other good
idea
thought out in my head.
And I was punished, punished in a way that disgusted me: to imagine
fighting as one of them. One of them! I was told to do it.
Told to
train them. Why? Because they had done so to me. And to
prove myself
as worthy, I must reciprocate.
Maybe a lesson? A lesson that I couldn't do it correctly. Fight them
like they fought. Now, the thought sends me into depression, deep,
into
an abyss of some asylum for my soul, some place dark and twisted by
black experiences.
I adapted. I changed. I was... not thinking, I was acting. My
thoughts
became an act. Not me, no more than a local thespian shows her true
self on the stage. I came to forget myself, to forget the way
I used
my brows and laughed. This hell was a sitcom that played forever in
my
head. There are multiples, sure, and they are not altogether
ignorant
of each other. Ah, telepathy. The mental state of continuous
hell.
I moved. I came into a life where everybody except me was,
well,
different. Different how? It can be answered in a thousand
pages, or
in one word: Aware. I was scared. Everything learned from my rule
book,
everything I had memorized and slaved over to learn would become
gone--gone from my mind and replaced with darkness. And the dark is
what I feared. In the dark I would die. Like a plant that's kept in
the
closet for a science experiment, I would just die. I would become
aware
of the way it is to them. I would disintegrate into their whirlpool
of
awareness. No, of blackness.
"I'm getting tired of listening to you." A voice from a girl.
A voice
filled with the sense of a picture with sound.
"me too. I'm getting tired of listening to you." I answered,
angrily.
Of course I knew that this action, considered a revolt against the
Aware, would bring further trouble. What was I punished with but
more training. I was asked if I need a refresher course. I panicked.
I acted
so, but the fear was real. Horrified, I cried NO! into the folds of
my
mind. The fear was the darkness. The fear was the real result
of this
charade.
Then it came, a look. The dark eyes and the brows that inspired my
to
spin webs of protection in my heart.
Try sending it to the back What?... The back of your mind. It was said on one level, but another
level shone through with the picture, a thought that was unusual,
downright weird. "I'm here to save you." Save me? Then, on the
louder
level it was repeated. And I will not repeat myself. I looked
at the
man. He informed me that he was a renegade, that he normally didn't
do
stuff like this. For the first and only time, I experienced a
lesson,
but in the way a teacher would have it experienced. I had had many lessons in my life-- this life. I failed. I had
learned
the lesson: Try, and when you do, you won't be able to, at least not
now.
I try to focus on my thoughts-- my life, but I find that I use a way
of
coping that is just too much like being in stone. The fact is, when
I
try to convince myself something, I convince them. It hits like a
sledge to my confidence. My confidence that this will
end someday, and that this world, will someday end. I read something
that grounds me, and then I realize I'm not thinking to myself, not
anymore. I'm not some hero who's conquering this, and I never will
be. The stone, the concrete, imprisons my innocence.
I think about normal things.
It stopped today, for seconds. Minutes. A minute. I wasn't
chastised,
wasn’t punished for being too loud, or for thinking about them.
Anything I could do, that I wanted to do, I did. I did plenty.
That
minute lasted only seconds. I thought-- freely! But out of
fear I
restrained myself from thinking about them. They left. But will the
cats come back tomorrow?
ZacharyOdette.com
Name:Zachary Adam Odette Birthdate:06-06-1985 Location:Swartz Creek, Michigan USA Diagnosis: schizoaffective Medications Taken Daily: 40mg of
Abilify at night, 300mg of Wellbutrin in the morning, 600mg of Trileptal at
night, 50mg of Revia at night Complementary Therapies: talk-therapy
once every two weeks, 4g of omega-3 EPA fish oils taken daily, 1000 I.U. vitamin E taken daily,
1000mg of VItamin C taken daily, Mega Men Sport multi-vitamins taken daily,
Magma Plus Green Foods supplement taken daily, animal-assisted therapy (dogs), go running and
exercise daily,
taking two classes at local college, no street drugs taken since year 2005, and
I'm tryin' to give up cheap booze...
