A chronicle at daybreak - Patience in getting up.
Understanding his morning blues when he wakes up and how he gets up was key to Bob's salvation.
"Its a delicate, vital process" He admits to himself not to be taken lightly.
The sorrow he feels when he awakes is like a mournful cockerel crowing, where long , black, thin shadows prevail and there is a surreal sunrise to overcome with reality to embrace later.
He feels defeated before he opens his eyes. It is not a joyous , happy moment. However he gets up none-the-less. There is 'baggage' lying there . It has to be sifted through to avoid depression and tears .
He must be patient and accepting to ensure a healthy motive for the day . A reason to live." What a strange life", he muses .He can hear the business of life everywhere as others conquer and subdue the world around them.
" I must accept this lack" , he wails with feelings of guilt and humility.
He fears being judged by all the 'right' people. He keeps apologising for himself . "I am like a mouse" he winces, "and nobody likes mice", he concludes.
Somehow the day begins and the engine sighs into action. Melancholy loses its grip and the day does start for him. "Its like having to get up twice", he explodes to himself.
"Once for the body and then once for the mind ! "
He imagines he needs just the 'right' conditions to set himself up for the day.
"Where are they" he grieves . "They are no where to be found." He feels like a
drowning man, an elephant in quicksand. He reaches out but there is nothing to hold on to.
Reflecting, he knew he would turn a daily corner , he would get through the sloth of medicinal side-effects. He would live and have the morning he so desperately asked for . Even if he had to struggle through the years to find it. One day he would see clearly all day long as he knew he ought.
The blues could blow away everyday with moods that dissipated and did not value themselves so important as the day took hold. There would be happiness at being able to choose a healthy lifestyle. The right life for himself. Feelings which would lead to a daily recovery. Good days.
The weighty scales of his personal justice system hovered between his lack and this goodness. The righteous narrative or the doom and gloom of it all. Loaded with an incurable dilemma at the beginning of the day it was hard to shrug off despondency.
He felt that it was all wrong not to have the certitude of some immediate positive action when he opened his eyes. Yet wake he did for better or for worse.
Focusing this morning myopia was excruciating . It was easier to let go than to start getting angry with himself. He had to wait for his head to clear up from the mess sleeping had made of it.
He needed to find sufficient independence in himself to last a day without buckling to the pains of schizophrenia. That was the 'right' attitude and not to talk to anyone about this thing which no one else could relate to anyway. That was common sense. Five gold stars, he reckoned, resolutely.
An affliction was just that an affliction and who was going to care about his affliction in the everyday world where there was no time for phantoms or hallucinations. His thoughts resounded triumphantly but then they were thoughts that gnawed at him like a rash.
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