Thirty years of life and I’ve been taken hostage – twice.
The first time, my mind was the culprit. The doctor said it was paranoia. I didn’t leave my home, convinced someone (or something) might murder me. Or even worse…
I spoke to no one. But the voices came for me. The shadows, the furniture, the walls, doors and windows, the conniving wind. They sang to me, repeating my name, promising to ruin me.
Even family became my enemy. I trusted no one, not even the pale woman in the mirror. Her bloodshot eyes haunted me. I felt no hunger or thirst. My eyes refused sleep, my body shriveled, a soul sucked into an unsparing black hole.
They came for me. I went kicking, spitting, and screaming. White walls, white ceiling, windowless room. One tiny bed and a horribly sick woman. The pipes fed me liquids and a concoction of medicines. Night, day, night again, so much time passed in a blur.
My mind fought hard before surrendering its psychotic behavior. I was released from its madness. Free to go, returning to the woman I had once known. No more voices, gone were the threats.
I wish I could say I was my biggest enemy. But humans hunt each other. They are vicious and also the easiest prey.
I’m not alone. The room is filled with other people. They cry and pray. Where is hope when you need it? I wish they knew hope is an overrated commodity. It’s an illusion, a worthless feel-good factor.
I’m a hostage again. My mind has taken over. But these people don’t know it. They believe they’re the victims. Just because I point a gun at them. I don’t want to do this.
The voices forced me. I stopped taking my medicines a month ago.