Schizophrenia, and the related illness, schizo-affective disorder, which I have, is generally misunderstood and sometimes people react with fear when they discover you have it. What probably comes to mind when normies do think about it are the banner symptoms like hallucinations – hearing voices – delusions and magical thinking, and paranoia. I’ve had all those things but generally speaking, since I was hospitalised a decade ago and put on a depot injection of paliperidone, an antipsychotic medicine, every three weeks, I’ve been stable and able to lead a productive, fulfilling life. I haven’t heard voices in years and, while the paranoia comes and goes, it’s generally manageable. But there are things about schizophrenia the meds don’t treat. Many people who have been diagnosed suffer from anhedonia, or the inability to feel pleasure. We also have flattened affect, so we don’t emotionally respond to things because we don’t feel them, and we also struggle to make connections with
I had black, multi-faceted beads I'd bought at Glebe markets around my neck. Cream coloured corduroy jeans from an op shop and a grey tee I'd home screen-printed with a Sonic Life logo, along with black Chuck Taylor All Stars, completed the look. It was January 28, 1993, and we were at Sydney Uni to see Sonic Youth, who were touring their 1992 album Dirty. The place was packed, and me, Dudley, the Wonder and Eliminator jr huddled in a small group waiting for the doors to open. Looking back, the sheer number of people there surprises me. I'd come to Sonic a few years earlier, reading about them in a magazine, buying some albums (EVOL, Sister, Bad Moon Rising) and having my mind blown about what was possible with guitar music. Their politics also opened my mind. I began to develop an understanding of inclusion, of difference, and why so many people fear the ‘other.’ Sonic Youth changed everything for me. And yet, here we were, two major label albums in, and it seemed like
I stood in the darkness looking out over the smooth, inky waters of Broken Bay, the streetlights on the headland at Palm Beach reflected below. I could make out the silhouettes of moored boats, some with illuminated cabins. “There are people in those yachts,” I thought, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer mass of humanity. It hit me that every one of those folks has their own hopes, fears, and dreams for the future. We’re unique, but in some ways the same. As I gazed at the streetlights across the water, the realisation came upon me: those lights spelled out a message from God, a personal communication from the creator to me. I lingered a little longer in the shadows thinking about what I’d seen before walking back to the low stone wall at the West Head lookout where my friends sat passing a joint back and forth, chatting in low voices. My turn came around, I took a deep drag and held the smoke in my lungs before slowly exhaling. I didn’t tell my friends what had happened. It seeme
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