Me & My... Voices... My Schizophrenia
I walk, breathe, eat, and sleep in severe pain every single day because of what happened to me. My body carries memories it never asked for. My muscles hold tension that never fully releases. My chest tightens without warning. My stomach knots at the smallest reminder. Even when nothing is happening around me, my body screams like everything is happening all over again. Pain is not an episode for me. It is a constant companion.
And my mind… my mind is loud. Loud in a way that never stops. Loud in a way that makes silence feel impossible. Thoughts collide, memories flash, voices rise and fall, and even when I look calm on the outside, inside it feels like a million things are happening at once. There is no off switch. There is no quiet room in my head. There is only movement, pressure, noise, and the constant work of trying to stay grounded in a world that does not see the storm I am fighting.
And because of the way my brain works, because of my autism and ADHD, I do not just think about things, I hyper fixate on them. I hyper fixate on being hyper aware. I notice everything, every shift in someone’s tone, every twitch in their expression, every pause that lasts a little too long. I know how I look to people. I know how I sound. I know my clicks, my whistles, my twitches, my stims, all the little things my body does to cope, can confuse people, annoy people, even bother people who do not understand. Trust me, I know. I have spent my whole life watching the way people react to me before they even realize they are reacting.
And inside all of that noise, there are the voices. The ones that have been with me for years. The ones people misunderstand the most.
The first voice I ever heard was Gavriʼel. I remember the moment with a clarity that still shakes me. I was small, curled in on myself, trying to survive something no child should ever have to survive. The world had shrunk to fear and impact and the instinct to stay silent. My body was shutting down. My mind was slipping away. And then, in the middle of that terror, when everything in me was breaking, I heard him.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady. Powerful, but gentle. Cold in clarity, warm in presence. A voice that did not demand anything from me. A voice that did not hurt. He said only two words, spoken low and calm, like someone placing a blanket over a shaking child. Rest now. And for the first time, I did. I let go. I slipped into unconsciousness with a voice beside me instead of fear.
Gavriʼel has been with me ever since. He is the protector. The one who stands tall in the middle of the storm. His presence is sharp, disciplined, unwavering. He speaks with authority, but never cruelty. He is the one who steps forward when the world feels dangerous.
Then there is Yochanan. He is quieter, calmer, grounded. If Gavriʼel is the shield, Yochanan is the steady hand on my shoulder. He speaks with warmth, with patience, with a kind of truth that feels like light. He does not push. He guides.
There is another voice that sounds like me, but sharper. More direct. More assertive. He is the part of me that refuses to break. The part that stands back up even when everything hurts. He is blunt, honest, sometimes harsh, but always protective.
There are two voices that never speak to me directly. They speak only to Gavriʼel. Their words come through him like echoes. They speak in riddles, in warnings, in wisdom that feels older than anything I can explain. They are quiet, but their presence is unmistakable.
And then there are the two who speak as one. A masculine voice and a gentle feminine voice, always together, always in harmony. They are the guardians. They keep me aligned with who I am. They step in when I am distracted or overwhelmed. Their tone is firm, but comforting, like hands guiding me back to myself.
These voices are not strangers to me. They are not monsters. They are not the villains people imagine when they hear the word voices. They are parts of my inner world that have shaped how I survive, how I think, how I move through a life that has not always been kind.
Sleeping is not rest for me. It is just another place where the pain follows. When my eyes finally get heavy and my brain finally slows enough to drift away, that is when the past comes back with full force. I relive every word that was thrown at me. Every hit. Every threat. Every moment of fear. Every second I thought I would not survive. All the pain I push down during the day floods back in the moment I lose control. I wake up shaking, crying, sometimes screaming, but always in fear. Morning does not feel like waking up. It feels like surviving something all over again.
And I know what people are going to say. I know exactly how they will take this. I have lived long enough in other people’s reactions to predict them before they even open their mouths.
Some will hear this and think I am exaggerating because their world has never held this kind of pain.
Some will think I am being dramatic because it is easier for them to question my truth than to face the reality that a child can be hurt this deeply and still be expected to function like nothing happened.
Some will say I am seeking attention because they have never had to carry a story that hurts to speak out loud.
Some will try to fix me with simple answers because they do not understand that trauma does not disappear just because someone else is uncomfortable hearing about it.
Some will stay silent because they are afraid of saying the wrong thing.
And some will quietly decide I am too much. Too complicated. Too heavy. Too broken.
But I also know how the positive people will take this. The ones who actually listen. The ones who see past the noise and the labels and the misunderstandings. The ones who look at me and do not see a problem to solve, but a person who has survived more than most people ever will.
They will call me strong, even when I do not feel strong.
They will call me brave, even when I am shaking.
They will call me honest, even when the truth costs me something.
They will call me compassionate, because they can see that everything I share, everything I fight through, everything I speak about, comes from a place of wanting to help instead of harm.
And that is the truth at the center of all of this. I just want to help. No strings attached. No hidden motive. No agenda. No performance. Just help. Just care. Just show up in the world in a way that makes someone else feel less alone, less afraid, less unseen. I do not want to hurt anyone. I do not want to add to the pain in this world. I want to be the opposite of what hurt me. I want to be the kind of presence I needed when I was younger.
And honestly, the positive people will see that. They always do. They see the intention behind my words. They see the heart behind my actions. They see the way I carry pain without passing it on. They see the way I try, even when trying feels impossible. They see the way I love, even after everything that tried to teach me not to.
They see me.
And honestly, I know I sound crazy to some people. I know people believe I am crazy. I have heard the whispers, seen the looks, felt the judgment. It hurts. But I have grown used to it. I have learned to live with the label society tries to slap on people like me. I have learned to breathe through the sting of being misunderstood.
But here is the part they never expect. I still refuse to stop. I refuse to shrink myself to make other people comfortable. I refuse to let the labels they gave me stop me from trying, from caring, from loving, from showing up in the world with everything I am.
I know all of this before I speak. I have learned to read people the way other kids learned to read books. I can see the doubt forming behind their eyes. I can feel the discomfort in their posture. I can hear the judgment in the pauses between their sentences. I know the script by heart. I have lived it too many times.
But I still speak. Not because it is easy. Not because I expect people to understand. But because this is my truth. And I refuse to let the fear of being misunderstood silence me again.