Category: Memoir

On Hearing Voices

I have several theories about hearing voices which I would like to share with other Schizophrenic people and other voice hearing people and those interested.

At first I was afraid. Why did the voices in my head keep telling me to kill myself and that they would come harm me? I came to the conclusion: my voices were opposed.

It took me a long time to come to the conclusion that I am the creator, the almighty G-d of the voices in my own mind: I am the creator of the voices, and everything they think is a part of me. Sure, they were opposed to me, but I created them. Once I declared to them that I was G-d in my own mind, and that they were my creations, things got a little interesting.

No longer afraid, I began to ignore the bad voices and reply to the good voices. Which worked for a while. I then decided to study my voices in this way. I played Dungeons and Dragons, with the voices in my head as player characters. I wanted to study their alignment and their reactions to people, places and things, and in specific: conflicts.

I therefore created an “Emulated Earth” in my mind, in the vein of Dungeons and Dragons. Replete with “Emulations” even “Emulated Celebrities” would talk to me and the voices in my head. I set it to modern day. Some “emulations” got shot at, some died, according to the voices. Are there respawn timers in my mind, in “Emulated Earth”? Decisions, Decisions. None of this was real. But It allowed me to understand that the voices in my head are typically of an Evil alignment, often opposed to good people; selfish and avaricious. In Emulated Earth, Crime and Terror became common, because the voices wanted global dominance, at any cost, for themselves, in this campaign setting.

I then realized that, as a person, I am rather a neutral person, who hears evil voices. I therefore nicknamed myself “Neutral God” or “Neutral G” for the purposes of playing video games. It became my gaming monikor and an alias.

I now knew that: I was that sublime rank, in Emulated Earth, that of G-d; Evil voices were opposed to me; and I was rather neutral, neither good nor evil.

I therefore came up with this theorem: Where there is no Opposition, I am G-d; Wherefore opposed, never G-d at all; Or, was I still G-d, but rather opposed? I haven’t quite decided how to deal with opposition, quite yet, how to predict it, and when to oppose myself, which would lead to conflict, I suppose.

And that’s basically where I’ve left off play in my mind.

I applied my “opposition theory” to real life: and realized, I’m rather fortunate to have a very private life, i.e. I’m rather fortunate that I’m not famous – else I’d often be opposed, and would probably be alot more selfish i.e. greedy. Good things come of privacy; nobody gives a damned about you when you’re humble!

By the way I’ve formed a “Guild” with the voices in my head: called: “Evil Empire” which is part of an Axis, the “Axis Of Evil”, which seeks to control, Emulated Earth at all costs. Emulated leaders from various emulated countries weigh in, and update me with information, all day long. These are the voices I hear: it’s sort of like a game.

Note: I’m carefully distracted by voices, and find reading difficult. That’s why I take just one university course per year and no longer drive a car or operate any sort of machinery where concentration is necessary.

I live a secluded life, write a little, read a little, and play League Of Legends. Much of my time is spent contemplating the League Of Legends meta (Yep, the voices chime in: “Look at the mini map!” or “Pick Amumu this game!” – it’s sort of like streaming in my head to a chat, without moderation however.

EE

GG too.

Heaven Or Hell? 2.0 (Autobiographical; Voices)

Here’s the wierd thing about my life. I live in a perpetual Hell, but never in Heaven, because the voices in my head oppose everything I think.

People who don’t hear voices are automatically never opposed by said voices, because they don’t hear voices: They’re in Heaven by default.

But to make my way back and forth between this Heaven or Hell, I must be in some kind of purgatory. Either that, or I am G-d of my own mind and imagination: creator of all the voices, as I often say.

I like to claim that I’m a neutral G-d; nicknamed: Neutral G.; Neither Good, Nor Evil; but rather, inbetween; rather: Neutral instead.

So in this purgatory I am often opposed by voices I created. Therefore I am often in Hell. But wait a minute, how do I get back to never hearing voices, and never being opposed by them – how do I get back into Heaven?

These rough drafts, ideas, or notes, are the subject of my autobiography; a biopic of a schizophrenic mind.

Hearing Voices; Word Equations; On G-d …

God = Time
“I am not G-d;” saith the artist.
And therefore it was so
“Because I am G-d;” they concluded
And therefore it was not so at all.

-A paranoid Schizophrenic, to himself.

My opposition theory centers around faith, but in a different way, heretofore undefined. I find faith to be an intiger, the quality of which is often unreliable, but sometimes predictable. What if one does not believe in a supreme being? Does one not believe in himself?

Perhaps I should change my oft’ quoted line: “And: we’re all artists, else none of us ever were.”

to: “We’re all G-ds, else none of us ever were.”

—
One argument, often prevalent in literary art circles where one hears voices, is the erroneous conclusion that one hears “the voice of G-d speaking to him” which I find both factually hilarious and theoretically incorrect.

But let us assume, for a moment, that this fallacy is correct. If I hear G-d’s voice in my head, because I am a paranoid schizophrenic, wouldn’t that make me G-d hisself?

Certainly, therefore, I am ill and conjecture.

“I am not G-d at all” I tell the voices, so that they might accept that I needn’t be. (Very ‘frenic. Very suave).

But what if the voices disagree? I’ve thought very little on this, and conjecture. Some humorous responses and conclusions, which I shall keep to myself for the moment.

“The G-d Paradox: The Not-G-d Theory/Debate” -Steve Mini from the 6.



Memoir fragments: “Two years all but homeless”

From his notes that might become a memoir: “The ‘Frenia: Neologisms & Word Equations”. Steve Mini from the 6ix.

I remember spending two years all but homeless, because I adamantly refused to take my medications for paranoid schizophrenia, and was absolutely out of my mind. What did I do? I hopped on a bus in Toronto and transferred cities and got out of the bus, a few hours later, in Ottawa, broke and crazed, and checked myself into a homeless shelter in a new city.

I knew nobody in this new city, but I was adamant: no to meds. I also thought that secretly someone was trolling my mind with synthetic telepathy via satellite somehow: that they could read my thoughts and communicate with me telepathically. I was hearing voices that I thought weren’t my own.

Maybe it was the Russians. You ever think about that? Perhaps I was an enemy on foreign Canadian enemy soil. There is no such thing. But when you’re ‘frenic, you come up with a few dandies sometimes. At least, that’s what I did.

I ended up changing my name to a travel alias. George Ohwell. What had happened to me was certainly Orwillian; The joke was on me. So for two damned years, nobody knew my real name and everybody called me George. George Ohwell. Perhaps I was safer that way; only G-d knows.

At the shelter, absolutely refusing to show ID, I was helped regardless by a kind old soul, who took me in, wrote down George Ohwell, and helped me get government issued documents by that name, without any identification papers.

It was official. I was all but George Ohwell in practice as well as in theory. I even had a library card with George Ohwell written on it. I was going places. And fast. As fast as I could walk, that is. I don’t drive and recycle everything and keep a low profile, as well as a low carbon footprint.

2.0

From Ottawa, it was easy to walk into Gatineau Quebec. It was right across the bridge. I had a couple of girlfriends in and around the area, I was fortunate to be quite charming in my yout; Some were from Gatineau, QC and some were in Ottawa proper.

… (fast forward past the homelessness part): I used to walk to Gatineau by crossing a bridge, and drink a beer there. Eventually, the most curious of things happened. Somebody from Quebec invited me to live with them and co-rent a room; which I accepted, having had, thanks Heaven and G-d hisself, just enough for the rent every month and a little extra for myself. I was poor; I would eat at the soup kitchen in Ottawa, then walk all the way back to Gatineau, every day.

Somewhere, in either city, I can’t recall, I met a young’un, a bambi, as I often called them, someone too young to sleep with, someone that could only really be your friend. I was all prim and proper, and fretted about such stuff. Heck even if she were of age, what’s that, 16 in some parts? I still felt it proper to only sleep with women 18 and older. We became great freinds, and chilled together, but I suspected that young bambi wanted something more than what I could offer her, that is to say, she wanted more than a friendship. Now I’m not sure, because I made sure nothing happened, and never advanced anything, but I always did wonder: did this young bambi have a crush on me?

I always figured, because she would come around with two best friends, two young men, that one or the other would have made an excellent partner for her. But no, she always seemed to suspiciously want to hang around with me, which I, being paranoid, suspected.

One or all of these fine young folk were indigenous, and we ended up calling ourselves “the wolf pack” for some reason, don’t ask me why. At any rate, I’ve always been a lone wolf, so I took to this monikor, this wolf pack, rather well.

Perhaps I was never officially inducted into this pack, perhaps the pack lives on, today, without me; it’s membership closed even to my own persons, who may or may not have named the whole shabang. I don’t really remember. But hey, wolfpack, if you’re out there, and remember me from Gatineau QC over in Ottawa, Ontario. Say hello. Gosh you’re probably adults now. Are all three of you still friends? Were those two male friends, your cousins, or brothers? I’m confused.

Sincerely,

George Ohwell

(Steve Mini from the 6ix).

647 986 6324 text me.

—
Fragment 3:

One day, I was “fortunate” according to the voices in my head, to be served a heart in the soup kitchen. At first, I thought nothing of it, and almost bit into it; but then I realized, nope, it is, literally speaking , the heart of an animal that I was served at the counter, over in the soup kitchen. I might still have a picture somewhere; for I was an amateur photographer, though not many pictures survive, if any. I’ll have to look.

But anyway, a heart. In my soup. Who would have thought?

I would have taken it, and held it high, and allowed all the other patrons to know me by my real name, and bang my chest, et cetera. but I did nothing of the sort. In fact, I said nothing to the soup kitchen, and deposed of it ingloriously. I am paranoid schizophrenic at times, and laugh curiously to myself, about jokes nobody understands, but I never did act on impulse. I don’t obey the voices, and thankfully, I was never dangerous. I’d like to think, after all these years, that me and my voices have a working relationship, and that they have rightfully subordinated. I’m still wary.