(I don't usually do this, but this time I'd like to put a disclaimer of sorts. I do not personally struggle with schizophrenia, so if I've written anything that comes across as ignorant, malicious, or misinformed, please correct me. It is in no way my intention, and I admire and appreciate you all very much... I'd also like to note that this is a jumble of words coming straight from my brain, with very little editing. So, if schizophrenia/mental health in general/swearing is triggering for you, please don't read this. It's also pretty long, so apologies for that)

**schizo/phrenia**

DEFINITION: "_shouting, crying, unusual babbling, mothers screaming: _**_what the fuck is wrong with you?!_**_ Crying, metallic tastes in the mouth, seeing creatures, paranoia, crying, crying, _**_crying. _**_Blood on walls painted in peanut butter and jelly from your little sister's lunch. A little girl sobbing, sitting on the rug that looks an awful lot like her, but _**_can't _**_be her. Your little sister wears socks in the house, always. Her feet are bare. The girl, clearly an alien, screeches: _**_Zach! _**_Clearly scared-your sister, clearly scared. Of you. What's gotten into you? Guilt, shame. But what if those are crocodile tears? What if she's faking? She's not real, you aren't real, you aren't _**_real_**_. Sleeping in the corner of your room because there are _**_eyes_**_ all over your bedsheets, spying on you. Your mom- or maybe _**_a_**_ mom, sniffling quietly at three A.M. Four A.M, you're still here, five A.M.-still here, six A.M. Asking yourself A.M. I human? God, maybe? Something else, likely. You have to be, because you don't feel real. Slinging a backpack over your shoulder as a mother stares at you with worried eyes and tells you to have a good day, love. Walking to school-in class, breaking a fountain pen third period because you're _**_sure_**_ it's a bomb. Ticking, clicking, ticking, clicking-Zach's best friend, who sits next to you, goes: _**_what the hell, Zach?_**_The teacher, pissed because you did that on purpose, sends you to the bathroom. Yellowed vomit residue and sentient toilet bowls, swirling angrily, crying, crying, _**_crying. _**_Making excuses for yourself because you messed up, _**_badly_**_, and you can't handle feeling guilt, so is it even genuine? Of course not, but you want it to be, so you write a letter. You tell the world how badly you messed up and everyone calls you a dick for your mistake. Zach is crying again. You wanted people to side with you, to give you reassurance you _**_aren't _**_a horrible person, but at the same time you want them all to hate you-hate the way you acted, because you deserve it, deserve to feel horrible even if none of it will matter in a few years. Feelings are a double-edged sword, you freeze as you remember the kid in science class who wants you dead. He wants the metal blade in your throat, and if you're being honest with yourself, you want it, too. You go to the counselor, because that's what she's there for, to help you feel safe, but as you pull open the door handle and enter the room choking itself in lavender incense, cheap, probably half-off at Walmart, and see the middle-aged woman with thick square frames and a messy bun, you know she's not really a counselor. She asks you: _**_what's wrong, Zach? _**_And you smile weakly at the woman and reply that you just need some staples, thanks, Mrs. Green. You exit the room and crawl back to your house and rot. Rotting, screaming, your mother, your father, friend, teachers, speaking to you, all at once, and you beg them, beg them to _**_shut up_**_. Crying, crying, crying, trying desperately to find a synonym for crying, crying, _**_crying_**_-lying, feeling guilty again because the boy with a ring of mountain dew around his lips, who's _**_supposed _**_to be Zach's best friend, is yelling at you at lunch again, yelling at you for texting the girl he likes, calling you a bad friend, but you only texted her because she's in love with God! You've seen it-seen the cross around her neck-and that's what you are, isn't it? God? You cringe as he walks away, upset, and as you watch him leave warily, you panic because he _**_must_**_ want to kill you now. Classmates calling you slurs, you won't say them because they're unholy, classmates calling you an addict, elderly family members calling you an attention whore. The girl Zach's friend had a crush on walks up to you and says she'll pray for you. You tell her to _**_fuck off_**_ but what you really mean is _**_thank you_**_ because she's the first person to pray for you beside yourself and praying for yourself is selfish-and you want it all to stop-and the girl walks away, weeping, and your classmates glare at you and tell you to _**_kill yourself_**_ and you glare back because you can't tell if it's really your classmates who said that or the voices screaming at you whenever you try to eat, convincing you your mom is trying to poison you, and you say: "_**_that's stupid_**_" but you can't help but believe them. Counting things, assigning them numbers because numbers are the only thing that can't _**_lie _**_to you at this point. Reading the Bible in the kitchen while a mother washes the dishes-getting angry because she sprayed soapy water on it accidentally. One morning your parents corner you in your bedroom and say they're worried about you. You tell them not to, because you're not Zach anymore, you're the ruler of the universe-you are grass blowing in the wind-you are anxiety in a pair of parents as they tell their son to _**_get in the car_**_. You're arguing, you find yourself in a car, find yourself breathing in oil, dripping down your lungs, tire tracks under your eyes, shoving your body into the exhaust pipe, exhaling along with the engine, find yourself with the adults who have taken you an awfully long way. Unusual babbling, promising you're fine! You'll stop acting like a maniac! The man driving sighs, parking in front of a mental hospital, and you find yourself sniffing pill dust, staring into the gooey, lost eyes of your fifty-year-old roommate, moments of clarity, a funny sounding word called therapy, the urge to die, the urge to live, crying, crying, _**_crying_**_ in the middle of the night because you remember how you forgot your parents loved you, forgot you loved them, feeling guilty again, feeling ridiculous and idiotic for ever thinking badly of them-stupid, stupid, _**_stupid_**_, you aren't _**_God. _**_You're a _**_boy_**_, and suddenly the medication you're taking and the sobs of your mother, hacking up her very _**_soul _**_for you in a hospital chair, reminds you that your name isn't God, it's _**_Zach_**_. And you realize you like being Zach much more than God. _