What if you ran around screaming and turned into an insidious vapor?

What if you ran around screaming and turned into an insidious vapor?

Answer here

Ad Astra Per Aspera or Regarding Henry

W

Ad Astra Per Aspera translated from the Latin means "To the stars through difficulties."

I will now do my best to explain why I am so damn esoteric most of the time. I must warn

 you though, it may become esoteric. Just kidding. HAHAHA. Ad Astra Per Aspera. I was 

officially diagnosed with a subtype of schizophrenia called "Hebephrenic," or the more

modern " Disorganized Schizophrenia" about fourteen years ago. This implies that my

mental illness progressed due to the Doc's blindness or sheer stupidity. Now that

I am medicated with the proper diagnosis and educated enough about it to keep

the prognosis above ground, I can see better...better than those docs past, or, 

if you will YESTERYEAR. Fancy words eh? Ever think a crazy fuck like me could

vomit out a"high-end" word such as? Well, GET THIS: Hebe (pronounced Hee-bee),

according to Greek mythology, refers to the Goddess of youth: Hebe is used before "phrenic"

to denote early onset and puberty and what not. Yes, my disease has a rough history of destroying 

the lives of blooming youths. No more flowers cowboy! Here comes Hebe! Oh. Am I being

esoteric again....or am I?

      Anyhow, now that we all know what Hebe refers to let us look at the word"phrenic"

which means "pertaining to the mind." "Schizo" means "split." It is not nice to call

someone a schizo. People should know this, but, as can be expected, they refrain from 

reason and respect as usual. ANYHOW again, we now know that Hebephrenic is a subtype

of schizophrenia that corrupts the brain at an early age and that the personality of the

schizophrenic is split. This tells us nothing. Renamed "Disorganized' in the DSM-IV-code

295.10. The dictionary definition pretty much sums up the beast: Hebephrenia n. A type of

schizophrenia characterized by foolish mannerisms, senseless laughter, hallucinations and 

regressive behavior. A wonderful decline of the intellect is also ominous. I had to drop 

out of college the beginning of my sophomore year. I was riding  a college scholarship

with the intent of earning a PhD in literature. Well, this did not happen. Instead, my grip

on reality slowly and steadily leaked from my brain. Yeah. The ripe age of twenty-one. All

my goals ripped from me. This type of schizophrenia is a monster. It turned me into, for

lack of euphemism, "a lunatic." I began to have sensory hallucinations. A smell, best described

as gasoline with a twist of sewage, would infiltrate my nostrils just before "HE" took control

of my mind. "HE" is what I call IFRANKTHEMASTER. HE is pure evil. A sociopath. He does

not often become physically violent-just verbally corrosive, spreading the upchuck of "paint

it black" onto whoever he comes into contact with. I began to have sensory hallucinations

displaying improper or incongruous body language: Volition askew. He laughs when a 

situation calls for sorrow and claps and jumps when there is no reason to do so. Disorganized

in every way. My body becomes his "tool." I make no sense whatsoever and, at times, am completely

inarticulate. I spit upon the Mennonite religion I was brought up with. I attended a Mennonite

college of high regard. Yes, IFRANKTHEMASTER is evil incarnate. He took some time to make

HIS full appearance, but when he did, oh boy! Was I/HE a fucking lunatic!!! Picture yourself as the

opposite of yourself; pissing on your own morals and revealing values that do not correspond with your character. Values. Innocence lost. You are now the Devil himself and you cannot do a thing about it. You fail to communicate with your peers. The line between what is true and what is false is lost in a watercolor

created by an autistic three year old. The colors run into each other confused-indeterminate. 

You are a terror to yourself and others. And then, lo and behold!, comes the silly prankster

that laughs at all the wrong moments and cries incongruent, perhaps, when a situation calls for

laughter -a light-hearted demeanor. You have no idea what is happening. The horror seems as 

if the World has changed and left you behind when all it is-some fucked up chemical

imbalance in your mind. Picture your body or posture, if you will, mutating into several strange nonsensical contortions.

       The deterioration of my intelligence happened at a rapid pace. IFRANKTHEMASTER , however, 

entered me at a sluggish pace: The usurpation of Henry O'Malley was a slow torment, but when 

HE came fully into me, HE came with a seismic thrust of Hell. My intelligence was shamed. My

conversation consisted mostly of neologisms (made up words), or "word-salad" as they say. I

was no longer the scholar, but the young loon that made no sense, sliding into a distorted 

kaleidescope of monologues that sounded intelligent, but something was horribly wrong

with the sentences and paragraphs and diatribes . I spoke as if  intelligent, but, in reality,

I made no sense whatsoever. I was already a loner type of sorts, but Sister Hebephrenia 

injected pure outcast chemicals into my veins. My blood, my wit, my mind-all gone.

      Regarding Henry. Ad Astra Per Aspera. Okay so I understand that my rantings are esoteric

at times, but I CAN assure you all there is a perfectly logical reason for my communication

breakdown that may exist whilst you, or her, or him, are trying to make sense of

what may appear to you all as gibberish, but it makes fine damn sense to me. I AM A 

DISORGANIZED SCHIZOPHRENIC! REMEMBER! I CAN'T FUCKING HELP IT! IF I COULD

I MOTHER-FUCKING WOULD! I HAD A GODDAMN SCHOLARSHIP IN LITERATURE AND

ATTENDED A MENNONITE COLLEGE OF MORE THAN GOOD STANDING! See? I just 

yelled, but I did not feel the sensation of anger. Hebephrenics can be described as 

"emotionless." Hebephrenics lose the sensation of pleasure; the proper term

for this phenomenon is anhedonia: lack of the ability to feel pleasure. So, if I 

seem alien to you, or maybe like a peculiar robot ranting about The Hexastix,

chicks, dicks, sticks....stick-people...wait, I lost my train of thought. I am breathing

rather heavily. It is to my dismay that I cannot attach pleasure to anything-be it

doritos or prime rib or love or...I am asexual. This illness has absconded with my

emotions and sensations that most take for granted. 

           The depressions came mostly at the beginning, but I still do suffer from

them. The depression can be offset by a number of factors: knowing I have a 

degenerative mental illness; feeling extra-terrestrial and not getting through 

to anyone as they just brush me off as a loon and walk away; I feel invisible; I

know there is an evil entity, at present, dormant within me, but very plausible

HE can re-surface when I get really sick. I hate that evil with all my might. I

attempted suicide twice. Once by asphyxiation. Once by hacking my arms with a 

butcher knife. I could have bled to death, but my dear bitch of a mother happened

to open the door to my room as if it were her own. She saw me and began to scream.

She then called the local health-police and they took me, blank-eyed and full of hatred,

to the boring sanitarium for loony buggards. 

     I am alone most of the time because my illness makes communication with

others precarious. People get scared. People think I am a good-for-nothing loon. 

Most cannot handle the dismembered sentences and phrases: the broken puzzle-

language and "invented" words deter them. I am actually quite fortunate to have

"normal" spells. Very lucky. Some Hebephrenics take to the six feet under and

retreat into nowhere land: they become strangers to their best friends and family.

I still have some of my intellect intact. See? I am making sense, RIGHT? It is a vacation

to golden Jupiters not to be in an exaggerated state of delusion and hallucination. 

  The most people know about schizophrenia is the "paranoid" type. Well, there is a 

whole shit-storm that comes with the hebephrenic package. and I am not paranoid.

Not many speak of the type of schizophrenia I have. I find it disturbing because

it is so full of disorder: One would think the psychiatric journal bitches would

pounce all over it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

       Anyhow, I also tend to write alternately in capitals and lower-case letters.

My writing may often appear like, not only broken shapes, not only nonsense, but 

like borderline personality disorder as well. Great. I posted a letter I wrote at the

onset of my psychotic break:

March 28, 1986

Dear Piece of Paper,

I can see the movement of my mother’s mouth. I can hear 

her words. I understand them perfectly. But she is not here or there. 

She wrings her hands, says “Stop grimacing!” I know nothing 

of grimacing. The conductor waves his wand and the 

penetration of wavy grasses and orphan-like trees embrace 

the color red. The penetration is a tattoo. My mother has no tattoos,

 but she knows Jesus and is quite fond of Him. 

The sand causes the house to slide. No one knows, but the stick-people,

 and the barn wears the wind like a cross, He said “You can 

go now,” and so I retired to my room, alone, waiting for the right temperature.

There you have it! A real treasure that one. And yes it is stereotypical that schizphrenics

smoke like five thousand cigarettes with an iron lung. Yup, we Hebes are a chain-

smokin' riot! But, mind you, the disease relies on the already present characteristics

unique to each individual. The individual struck with this sickness own their own

fucked up delusions. No one else can see or begin to imagine them. What it is like.

Ad Astra Per Aspera. The pariah takes over and makes its tool maladaptive. The

more time schizophrenics spend away from people, the more withdrawn: the delusions 

capsize their ship. Devour them unlike a horrid carnivore.In this solitary state, 

there remains only the delusional perspective of the unfortunate brain gone haywire

and the poison eats away at it. Lonely. Loon. Sorry if my grammar is off a bit at

times; I have forgotten some of what I knew when a pursuant of  the great

literature PhD.

                         My delusions occur less frequent now as a result of proper medication that,

because of  progression in the world of pharmaceuticals and the generosity of science

(cough), I have been granted the gift of some normalcy and coherency. I am grateful

for this. Ha! Not really. Just testing you. I know intellectually I should shine like a giant 

beam of gratefulness, but I feel nothing. It is like wind through a tunnel of humid apathy. 

The Mennonites play a major role in my delusions. I remember one doctor told me

I had rewritten "The Sermon on the Mount" and I made IFRANKTHEMASTER the Sermon.

It was bloody ugly. I will share that with you some other time.
                           When IFRANKTHEMASTER surfaced for the first time, he did  make
me shout violently; I FRANKTHEMASTER is more cunning than to use violencee as His only weapon. HE did, however, pick up my mother's crystal lamp and crashed it upon
the fine oak floors because he lost patience with the police who were rather simple minded.
THE POLICE WERE NO MENNONITES: THEY DID NOT UNDERSTAND THE FORCES OF EVIL. NOT TRAINED TO HANDLE  THIS RATHER ACUTE DELUSION. "MY WILL BE DONE!" SCREAMED IFRANKMASTER FROM OUT MY MOUTH. HE PICKED UP MY MOTHER'S FAVORITE CRYSTAL DELUX LAMP CONTRAPTION AND CRASHED IT AT THEIR FEET. HENRY, AT THIS POINT, VERY CONFUSED, COULD NOT RESIST THE STRONGHOLD OF THE FORCE. THE POLICE FORCE. AS THEY CLOSED IN, THEY BRUTALLY MANHANDLED ME TO A SCRAGGLY HOSPITAL STRECHER AND FASTENED AT LEAST 20 BUCKLES TO PREVENT VOLITION . MY BODY WAS IN AN IRON MAIDEN...OR SO IT SEEMED. THIS DID NOT MAKE IIFRANKTHEMASTER HOLD HIS BREATHE AT ALL, RATHER, HIS MOCKING TENOR BECAME AN AWFUL DEATH-Shriek AND HE BEGAN TO NAME ALL THOSE THAT SHOULD NEVER BE NAMED.: 

“I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE!!!!!” HE screamed. “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM!!!” “DO YOU KNOW WHAT I AM!!!” “DO YOU KNOW WHAT I AM CAPABLE OF!!!” “I AM FRANK THE MASTER” “Abaddon! Accuser of our brethren!  Adversary! Angel of Light! Angel of the bottomless PIT! ANTICHRIST! Apollyon ! Beelzebub ! Belial ! Crooked serpent! Devil! DIABOLOS ! Dragon! Enemy! Father of lies! God of this World! LEVIATHAN! LIAR! Lucifer! Lying spirit! Mephistopheles! Murderer! Old serpent! Piercing serpent! Power of darkness! Prince of the devils! Prince of the power of the air! Prince of this World! Roaring lion! Ruler of this world! Satan! Serpent! Son of the Morning! Spirit who now works in the sons of disobedience! Swine! Tempter! UNCLEAN Spirit! Wicked one!”

            BOY! WAS THAT A DISASTER, THAT ONE, yEAH, rEGARDING HENRY, THEREFORE AD ASTRA PER ASPERA. HENRY HAS A LOT OF FIGHTING TO DO . HE IS A WARRIOR AGAINST  HIMSELF. oH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD...I HAVE SUCCEEDED MY TIME SLOT FOR YACKING ABOUTMYSELF AND OTHERS. tHIS STORY OF MY LIFE WILL BE CONTINUED. I HAVE ABOUT FIVE LIFETIMES OF MATERIAL TO MAKE THE WAX IN YOUR EARS FLOODS OF THAT WHO SHOULD NOT BE NAMED X 10,0000. ROUGHLY. 
   I RETIRE NOW, VERY BORINGLY, TO A GAME OF CHESS WITH CLANCEY THE LUNATIC. hE SURE KNOWS HOW TO PRESS MY BUTTONS IF THAT BE ALL HE IS GOOD AT. IT IS LIKE PLAYING RUGBY WITH A THREE YEAR OLD. I AM SICK OF TALKING ABOUT ILLNESS. I WILL TAKE MY ORANGE JUICE AND MY LEAVE AND SPEAK TO YOU CURIOUS FOLK NEXT WEEK? sAME TIME? hOW ORDERLY! tHANK YOU. nO, THANK YOU.-hENRY o'mALLEY