Right. What voices? Let me explain that. Well, I hear voices. Most of the time it’s a girl’s voice – the Doppler ganger; the evil side. She appears barely clad in devilish red and black, smoking cigarettes; provokingly blowing the smoke into my face. If she sounds like a real bitch, its because she is one. When I first started to hear her I thought, “hey maybe I’m crazy” but then I started to actually SEE her. And she started talking through those unbelievably white teeth. I mean, doesn’t nicotine make your teeth yellow? Well I guess imaginary people can afford crest cigarettes. I guess they can also stick their head up their imaginary ass and talk shit. I mean, one time I told her to go fuck herself, and… she did. I still don’t know how she did, but she totally did. I could hear those sound effects in my brain for weeks.

Okay, so now you’re thinking I’m crazy. And you’re right – I probably am. I mean, I argue with imaginary, self-fucking people in my head. That sounds crazy, right? Well, according to doctor what’s-his-face, I am crazy. I’m bipolar manic-depressive with the implications of auditory hallucinations and other schizophrenic behaviors. I don’t really know how to describe my feelings towards this all; words seem to fall short regarding this lovely diagnosis.

It’s like doing the Bart Simpson slide down the stair case banister and landing with a coat hanger jammed up your ass, followed by four long hours of limping to the nearest hospital and waiting another six painful hours before being called in to talk to someone whom tells u that there is a coat hanger stuck up your ass. Well, that’s what the lady did: “the voices you’re hearing are not real” – Wow! Really? I think I knew that when I went to the doc and said “I’m scared because I’m hearing voices” But hey, I guess they pay you fifty bucks a day to tell people that they are right when they say that hearing evil voices is not normal. Well, thank you for that but there’s still a coat hanger stuck up my ass.

From that point onwards, they get a doctor in the emergency room to look at you, whilst you sit on a dirty dark blue couch, staring at the crappy plastic Monet paintings and faded wallpaper of the psycho “quiet room”. The doctor asks you if hearing voices concerns you and you dryly reply with “I’m here aren’t I…” He asks you if you tried to cut your wrists to get the voices to stop. You smile and say almost crazily “no, I tried cutting my head… The voices are in my head; not my wrists.”

The doctor leaves and in comes your mother, accompanied by a psychologist who drove thirty minutes to come and see you. Sucks to be him. Actually, no. Sucks to be you – you’re the one who is going to have to sit through this and humor him. As Mr. Indian dude starts asking questions, you turn to where your mother sits across from you and quietly ask “hey, can you leave?”. Mr. India nods his head and she gets up and leaves. No, correction: she shakes her head and then stiffly leaves, picking up her purse and walking straight out. Not bothering to say ‘good luck’ as she shuts the door to this creepy hole that you’re still left in. Right then you murmur to yourself “I’ll have to deal with that later” and Mr. Psycho Singh hears you, leaving you to shift nervously on the filthy sofa; wondering what else has sat on this sofa, all the while seeming to dig that coat hanger even further up your ass then that banana hammock last week.

Actually, this whole second person thing in kind of weird and it’s starting to bug me, so let’s be real. You didn’t do any of this. You are sitting comfortably on your ass, still within the realms of normality. This is me. Ok? Me! I’m the one sitting there playing with a see-through marble while this moron scratches pen on paper asking me to repeat several of my words. So I do, for fear of sedation. I start to tell him about the panic attacks I’ve suffered since March and about hearing Satan hissing in my ear. I let him know that I’m pretty sure my family is trying to off me and that there’s poison everywhere, all the while thinking to myself how much better off he’d be realizing for himself that this world is a cruel dog eat poisoned dog shit sorta place.

He doesn’t seem very bright and I’d bet money that he can’t read the chicken crap he’s writing down. No one can write that fast and still have it legible. He continues to write stating the obvious in an extremely asinine way, “Oh, you haven’t slept in a month – you must be exhausted!” Well, no shit asshole. I don’t need a mirror to tell me that the black rings around my eyes are not smudged eyeliner. I’m crazy but not crazy enough to think that I’m turning into a superhuman raccoon girl.

Finally, after what seems like hours but is really only thirty minutes… At least, that’s what the clock on my cell-phone said. Actually, you’re not supposed to have cells in the hospital so forget I said that. Point is, it was a long and boring thirty minutes, of psycho Singh sticking his hand up my ass and fiddling with the coat hanger. At the end of this half hour he tells me he would like to put me on medicine to help me adjust to the coat hangers icy metal discomfort. So here’s some magic pills Zyprexa and Zephram and yes, he’s sure I wont die and you take them at night so yes, he’s sure they wont mix with anything and kill me. The Zephram comes in orange so break it in half, and yes, he’s sure it won’t kill me, and the Zephram comes in half dosages which are usually blue or pink and yes, he’s sure it won’t kill me.

Then he states in an overfriendly, fake, supposed to be comforting tone “if you can’t take these independently then I’m sure we can find room for you in the hospital” and suddenly I’m very enthusiastic. Now I’m the one reassuring him. Yes, I can take these! He’s right, they won’t kill me, and I’ll go home and take one before I go to sleep, because they won’t kill me. I’d much rather take it and sleep In MY bed, and yes… I’m sure they won’t kill me.

My mother comes back in and he tells her ‘oh, how bright’ her daughter is for asking smart questions and being so cooperative. He then tells her that he has these pills and explains them to her; these pills will rebalance the chemical levels of serotonin in my brain, to make me happy. In short, there is a really large and dangerously sharp coat hanger jammed up my ass but these pills will make me impartial to that fact. Oh the joys of modern medicine!

We, we being mom and I, agree that under no circumstances is father dearest to know about the hanger. We lie artfully and say it’s a sleep issue; the doc wants tests done on me to see why I ain’t sleeping. Now I know you’re thinking it’s pretty shit of us femmes to lie to husbands or fathers, but you see, its his own fault. There’s this lady in our household who’s kind of like a computer virus. She’s like the Trojan virus. She hacks into your system, collects all your shit and then spreads it around. Translation: me going crazy would be like Christmas for her. My ten years of experience have just about made me a veteran in the underlying war against this virus. Trojan would give that false sense of private protection while mentally wrapping gifts for everyone to find in their email inbox. Well, fuck that. Dad is infected with Trojan; he never learnt how to block the files or decipher her backwards words, so he is doomed to believe that his little girl has had a fight with Mr. Sandman and thus has no sleepy-byes.

We, once again being my mom and I, conjured up this plan during the six-hour wait. So now we edit our scripts and synchronize our watches, while walking to the hospital pharmacy and getting my prescriptions, AKA my crazy pills. And then I see it. I see it and have two reactions: one is angst that I paid twice as much for half as much from the vending machines at the hospital, and the second is happiness; coming from king sized Bounty, Twix and Mars bars – all half the price and bigger. And as we all know… bigger is better. Although I’m not so sure if I will still say that when my body has actually put the chocolate into effect…

I hand it to mom as she hands my prescription to some broad behind the counter, and I ask her “where’s the expiry date?” before mum can talk the rude broad interjects. “There’s no expiry date on chocolate bars, just a product code” she replies in this incredibly anal tone of voice, the kind that you hear and just know that the speaker ain’t getting any. Honestly, in most cases I would think “hi hater!” but she has my prescription for manic depressive medicine and panic pills in her grubby over sized hand, so I don’t see any reason for her to be hating. I ain’t even looking fly as usual, instead I’m in a baggy black hoodie zipped all the way up and baggier jeans. What’s she hating for? I mean, if anything, I should be the hater; not the hated. She ain’t the one who has to go home wit these disintegrating, can’t-even-spit-out-when-mom-ain’t-looking, tablets. The only way she can hate on me right now is if she’s one of those cry wolf, attention seeking, ‘Munchausen’s’ cases. If that’s the explanation, she probably wishes it was her with the coat hanger stuck up her ass and the escape-proof crazy pills.

While mum ducks out to call dad and tell him we’re almost done I whip out my cell, the one that’s been off the entire time, and dial Yam’s number. The phone rings while I’m thinking “pick up stupid!” Okay, he doesn’t pick up, but I still leave a really sweet message and I know he’s gonna be playing it back again and again and again. I make that boy so crazy he’ll probably end up being the one needing these pills. I hang just in time seeing as mom is back as well. My life is like that old movie Bend It Like Becham… only my dad has yet to make a ‘follow your dreams and be happy’ turnaround. In my life the movie would end up with the girl being locked up in a dusty room and the boy dead, chopped up, and eaten in curry…

We return to the prescription counter and a nice not-so-deprived-of-sex man, explains the pills to me. I realize that they come with directions, as he hands me two stapled A4 pages, printed on both sides. Directions my ass! These are just three pages of side effects, and one page of ingredients and usage. This is not a good thing; you don’t give a list of side effects to a person suffering from anxiety, paranoia, panic attacks and fears of death. You just don’t! I glance over the sheets and notice that these meds have some really fucked up side effects. Zephram, the panic pills, ‘may cause changes in sexuality’. So let me get this straight, if I were a lesbian I’d get less stress? If I were a lesbian I’d have less chances of getting panicked? So if you give Zephram to a gay person does it make them straight? Interesting thought – I might slip some into Trojan’s tea and see if it causes her to stop watching “The L word” and “Nip Tuck”, seen as we all know she only watches those shows to get off. But don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against bisexuals and homosexuals, I actually know a few and I think they are pretty damn awesome. But if you’re out there and reading this, then please be warned that your parents might try to slip you mood pills so they can stop panicking over your sexuality. Really, I’m just keeping the public informed.

My mouth can’t keep up with my mind. Either that or my mind can’t keep up with my mouth. It’s one of those… I’m not entirely sure which one though. Before I can voice any of these theories, mom has paid and is ready to leave. With my bounty bar of course – it’s in her purse. Crazy people need chocolate. The ride home is strangely quiet, well actually it’s not. I’m strangely quiet, drifting in and out of panicked thoughts while sleep tickles my senses. Mum however is not quiet, she’s talking, announcing a random thought every 2 minutes or so. I nod my head to her words while practically falling asleep. It’s been a rough day. Right then my cell vibrates; I reach for it and struggle to slip it out of the case and flip it open. It’s not who I wanted it to be, has that boy called me back yet? No, its dad. He’s calling to see how far away we are. Who the fuck does that? I tell him I don’t care and we’ll see him in two minutes. Okay, I lied. It’s probably going to be five minutes – big freaking whoop! I close my eyes and try to fall back to sleep but it’s not working. I’m hungry. It was probably a bad idea to lace my intestines with two Twix bars, 510 ml of cold coke and a bag of the nastiest Doritos known to man, wing n dip flavored, during that six hour hospital wait. Now I’m hungry; every stomach cell, or muscle, or whatever they are, begging for proper food.

Lucky for me, we arrive at home, welcomed by the smell of fast food pizza and chicken wings assaulting my senses, until Trojan comes along and assaults my senses faster, dramatically exclaiming “oh my gosh, are u ok!” as if she really gives a fuck. Nuh uh, sorry lady, I swallowed a condom. This day is safely protected from the likes of you. So instead of going into a rant about how she’s fucked up my life and consequently my head, I curtly say “no, I’m fucked up and hungry. Where’s the pizza at!” and get rewarded with her signature look, the one she hid when I came in, that look of pure disgust. That look that makes u feel like the lowest piece of shit on earth, but I give her my own look. It’s the sort of look that a crazy person in a psych ward would give you when u steal their pudding. The one that makes you wrap your shawl tighter around yourself and causes you to subconsciously remember to hide all the knives.

Before grabbing any of the pizza from the counter, I wash my hands 4 times with loads of soap – I have no idea what I touched at the hospital! Could be some person’s HIV! – and dry them with a paper towel. I use the towel in my left hand to open the dish cupboard and grab a plate with the other hand. Mom reassures me that she has washed her hands before moving to grab some pizza. I don’t trust her on that and I make her scrub them again with extra soap. Just in case. Then I re-wash my hands and grab a slice of triple cheese greasy heaven. As I’m repeatedly sinking my teeth into it, deeply enjoying the taste of real food, Trojan opens her trap. “Did they give u sleeping pills?” she sneers. “Yeah, they did! What’s it to you?” I growl. If I was as much of a bitch as my friends say I am then my hackles would be raised at this point. But I’m not a dog. I’m a human and humans don’t have hackles, so I settle for two clenched fists. “Give me one” she replies in this bossy Kelis wanna-be voice. I turn and glare at her; “why would I give u my pills! I don’t even like you! Do I look like a drug dealer to u! Go and get your own pills. Either that or pay up. Cuz shit ain’t free!”. she turns her head silently not bothering to reply. The Trojan has been blocked. Wow, that felt good. Damn, crazy people, or ‘sleep deprived’ people in this case, sure get away with a lot more.

There are some obvious downsides to being crazy. Number one is the fact that you are now clinically and legally crazy. What does that word even mean? “Crazy”? I’m not asking for the bullshit Urban Dictionary definition. I’m saying where does the word come from? It feels like a combination of “crap” and “Z’s” as in ‘oh shit, being crazy is complete crap and I needa go catch some z’s…’ This theory is brought to life when I’m sitting on my bed staring at the little yellow bastard. It’s not a pill so to say, they called it a ‘wafer’, but this doesn’t look like a fucking cookie to me, man. It looks like pee in solid pill form. I’m staring at it and my eyes glance over to the instructions, AKA side effects. By now I’m saying out loud “I DON’T WANNA TAKE THIS SHIT!” And can u blame me? I mean what if Dr. Psycho Singh has diagnosed me with the wrong illness. He didn’t seem too bright to me at all, he said he thinks I’ve developed an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to germs and chemicals. I think I already independently realized that I’m obsessive in March. A bit after I started wearing whole outfits of one color and color coordinating my drinking straws to match. So do I really trust his opinion when he’s giving me shit that will either kill me or turn me into a lesbian? Or turn me into a lesbian and then kill me? As my cousin Deazy would say…HELL TO THE NAW!!!

Problem number two is my mother, whom sits opposite from me on my unmade bed, watching me carefully while pretending to look at the mess in my room. I know she can see me clearly from the corner of her eyes. Hell, she’s a mother. She’s got eyes at the back of her head and who knows where else. For all I know she lets out eyes. Shits them out. Little micro eyes that tell her where I am and what I’m doing at all times of the day and night. Point blank, I know that she is watching me at this very moment as I carefully pop the little pee pill out of its protective silver bubble and lower it carefully over my tongue. It comes in contact with my tongue and sticks there as I pull the silver away and taste the medicated piss. It’s sugary piss, as if u were to drink a gallon of glucose water, piss it out, stick the piss into little freezable pill moulds and then digest it. It reminds me of when I was younger and I used to keep coated Tylenols in my mouth until the sugar coating got sucked off and then I’d spit them out. Because after the sugar there is the bitter taste of disgust. Suddenly my heart is racing, the room is spinning, my head is splitting, and I can hear that evil bitch laughing her evil ass off. My chest tightens begging for air, my mouth is tingling and my throat is parched. The voices are mixing in with her laughter. The walls seem to have faces as they scream out death death death death death DEATH!

I see my mother’s confused expression through the blur. It’s a shaky blur as my body is trembling. My chest burns, I can’t breathe and my eyes are closing as I drown in the darkness. The feeling gets worse and worse as I feel like Rose did when the Titanic sunk. Nah, scratch that. I feel like jack did – he’s the one who didn’t make it out alive. How could he be so stupid to think he would be saved, how could we be so stupid. No, it’s not me who was stupid; it’s the pills! Stupid pills. I can’t move my mouth to the words and I can’t form thoughts. I can’t see through the darkness and I’m left silently screaming. I feel like that David Usher song, so I start singing it in my head, in a daze as I fall further and further away from reality…

Jamie’s on the bathroom floor she don’t know why
She’s shaking underneath the sink, can’t feel a thing
She’d love to live a life, she’s afraid of failure
With all the voices in her head
Now what was that I thought I heard you scream?

I think we’re alone here you and I
I think we’re alone left wondering why
I think we’re alone here you and I
I think we’re alone in the universe tonight….