Walking through the Murk: ' The Abnormal reality'

"Shut it! Shut it out!" I shrieked and gasped. I felt my lungs corrugated due to the sudden scarcity of air surrounding me, sweat trickling down my forehead. My vision got obscured and a twinge of pain in my figure cause me to thrash around on my bed. The walls of my rooms started revolving and advanced towards me as they let out a baleful laugh. The black and white illustrations hung on the wall of my frustrated self, figures protruding out, swirled menacingly. The murmurs of the walls and paintings were becoming more sharp and clear. I tried to calm my nerves as the gloomy air around me made me struggle to focus and breathe.

'This is just a fabrication of my mind.'

'Not true.'

'Just an imagination.'

'It. Is. Not. True.' I mumbled to myself.

"Not worthy to exist..." a familiar, blood-curdling voice whispered behind my back as tears spilled out of my orbs. I clenched my fists and clung onto my bedsheet for my dear life. All of a sudden, hands appeared on the sides of my bed, heaving me towards the floor. I struggled to shield my eyes with my hands as I put my head down when I felt my hands moistened. Black ink emanated from the ends of my fingers, dribbling on the marble floor of my room. I stumbled on my feet and turned around, trying to scramble away from my room. My eyes widened as I glanced at myself in the mirror hanging on the back of the door. Fingers grazed at my scalp as I felt a white ink oozing from my roots. I couldn't stir from my stance, appalled at the sight. Crumbling down on my knees, I wrenched my hair impassively as the voice dominated my mind, sending shivers down my spine. 

"You are not fit to be loved. Fit to live. Fit to breathe..." the voice trailed off.

I choked on my saliva as I felt a pair of hands strangling my throat. Agony controlled my consciousness as I writhed on the floor and my reasoning and intellect obfuscated. I tried to scream for help but the walls wouldn't budge as they hovered over me. Maybe, this was the appropriate moment to end all my sufferings and misery and attempted to breathe for the last time.

Suddenly, a ray of light entered my dark and dingy room as I heard the door unlatch and swayed open on its pivot hinges.

"Nia" my father croaked. Relief washed over me as he embraced me tightly in his arms. Tears dwelled in my eyes again as I glanced towards my room again. No walls were advancing and the illustrations hung at their place. My gaze traveled towards my fingers and found that they were unstained and cleansed. No white ink emanated from my scalp. No hands under my bed. A sense of serenity took over my frame.

Just a figment of my imagination.

Not real.

I felt safe. Secure.

My name is Nia Mathur, sixteen, from India.

Yes, India.

Specifically from India.

Because India is a country of rich cultures and traditions where most people are vigilant about family honorifics and regards, they are not considerate towards their family. A nation where they vocalize about 'Unity in Diversity' but don't give a damn about one's individual opinion. A state where people are rushed to hospitals and medical emergency for a physical disability but are entitled as deranged in a case of mental inability.

I did not condemn anyone, since these are the notions of my very own father.

Yes. 

I am suffering.

No, not depression.

Schizophrenia. An abnormal reality.

A mental disorder that leads to delusions and thoughts that are out of touch with actuality. Sounds fascinating.

But it is not.

It is possible to cure depressions but once you are subjected to Schizophrenia, there is no turning back. Because it becomes a part of your existence. It is ironic how you struggle to survive and breathe but no one has the guts to acknowledge it.

I glanced back at my alarm clock. 

It was three in the morning, the second of July. One year had passed, since everything changes, my life changed. I still remember the day as clearly as the back of my hand.

I was trudging back along the pavement from my school towards my home when a call intervened in my thoughts. It was from my father. I picked it up. "Nia", his voice was hoarse and tired as if he was holding back his tears. My heart started pounding faster warning me to not listen to him any further. "Grandma c-couldn't make i-it..." his voice trailed off as I stumbled on my feet. My mind went blank, no emotions hurling within me. I stood there, as it started getting...

"Was it the phrenia thing again?" my father's voice broke my train of thoughts. I stared at him, nodding my head in approval. My parents told me they loved me dearly but couldn't accept the chaos in my life. His face changed abruptly from concerned to annoyed. "Look kid, it's her first death anniversary and I want you to behave normally today," he commanded in a stern voice. I nodded my head slightly again as he headed out of my room.

I scrambled to the washroom and got dressed in a black turtle neck and a pair of faded blue jeans. As I splashed water on my face, my thoughts got blurred as the tap water kept running behind me. A knock on the door brought me out of the haze and I trotted towards the door to unleash it. It swung open on its hinges revealing my mother on the other side. She gave me a weak smile.

"Ready?"

I nodded my head again and walked out of my room to descend the stairs. After performing the Hindu rituals, we got into the car and headed towards the church as she was to be awarded and appreciated as a late member involved in a mental healthcare society. Note the irony.

After ten minutes, we pulled over to the cemetery beside the church. The members of her society performed her last rights again as they buried some of her precious personal possessions in the coffin. I settled myself on the last bench as the bishop read an obituary. My wits suddenly got subjugated and obscured again as her memories flashed through my glistening eyes. A rueful smile made its way on my lips. I did not notice when the event concluded and strolled towards my parents informing them that I wanted to spend some more time with her. They nodded and departed.

I trudged towards the grave with my orbs glistening. Abruptly, my mind got clouded as the cold wind ruffled my hair. The change in air caused shivers of trepidation and anxiety down my spine. A twinge of pain in my head left me writhing on the floor, dominating me completely. I suddenly heard someone banging the door from under the ground. My breath hitched in my throat as I gulped. Eyes widened, I gaped at the coffin plate as her name was completely enveloped by black ink dripping on the coffin door. The bell beside it started chiming and the pain in my head became unbearable. The coffin door slowly swung open on its hinges with a creaking sound and one of the books kept in the coffin fell on my feet. 

I crouched down to pick up the book and cradled it in my arms while an old piece of parchment slipped out of it. It was dedicated to me. I could hear her voice, the way she loved and cherished me. The book was a self-help book. It flipped open to a random page and her familiar fragrance penetrated my nostrils as I saw the entire book was filled in with my memories and pictures. She was always there for me and had left behind a part of herself to protect me against all harm.

Someone tapped on my shoulder and I was baffled to find the cemetery guard looking bewildered. It had already turned dark while I was lost in my thoughts.

The coffin was closed shut. The plate was cleansed. The bell was still. But the book was still in my hands.

"Are you alright, miss?" he asked, perplexed.

I shrugged as I stood on my feet and sauntered back towards my home. On reaching, I ascended the staircase to my room. After shutting the door behind me, I plopped on the bed as I took out the folded letter as my eyes trailed on the words inscribed on the withered page. After scanning it a few more times, I kept the letter safely in an envelope along with the book. I smiled widely. After a whole long year, it felt as if I was worth existing in this world.

....................................................................................................

It has been twelve years. Twelve years since the day I found the letter from my grandma. And I can safely say that it was the best thing that happened to me. I survey the letter again before heading to bed. It reads,

"Nia,

I will never preach to you like a typical old Indian grandmother that it will be alright.

Because I am aware of the fact that it will be not.

You are to suffer and you will have to face them one day or the other.

When the walls hover upon you, screeching, never cower. Listen to them and the negation of each statement will make you feel more constructive.

When paintings threaten to pounce upon you, bear them gently, and observe their perception. It will help you be more progressive.

When hands clutch your feet, trying to shove you down, grasp them slightly to tug them up with you. They will become your pedestal.

When ink trickles down your fingers, canvass ideas on a canvas before they drain. Each day at home, they will welcome your arrival. 

When roots turn white with ink oozing, knead them on your scalp. It will allow you to perceive more notions and seep them through the brain. 

When you feel lonely, don't be scared of tears. Let them out in time so that they become the strength of your subsistence, not the stain.

Always beside you.

Grandma" 

I stepped out on the bustling alley as a light breeze ruffled my hair, sunlight showering over me. A small smile stretched on my lips as my footfalls were deafened under the chaos of the crowd.

I wasn't very successful.

I wasn't very talented.

I wasn't provided with everything.

But I was contented. Contented with whatever I was provided with.

I am still suffering from Schizophrenia. I still wail. I still scream. But all of it has become easier as I made the walls my friend, hands- my support, ink- my pride and tears- my power.

I thank the Lord every day that she existed.

That

Now, 

I exist.

-Swasti Jain