Control: Descension, a novel by…
I, Dalton Lewis, am almost done with a new novel. I am rewriting my book on my experiences with schizophrenia. I rewrote most of the lines in it in order to write something better, in order to create a lasting work of literature. I wanted to write a novel about mental illness and schizophrenia, and I felt like I didn’t do a good enough job the first time around. I’m trying to fix that.
Imagine this: me, a teenager, not having friends for the first two years of high school. No one talked to me outside of teachers for the majority of those two years, and it did permanent damage to my mind and body. I didn’t show that effectively — show the loneliness of a mind without any connections, just parents who loved me but didn’t know how to help me.
Next, imagine this: I am a student at college, just done visiting Japan and Europe on travel abroad during junior year. I am the most eager that I have ever been: I have written a novel, a masterpiece, the best novel that I can possibly ever write. I am showing my novels to my friends and family.
They hated it.
My family and friends felt that my novel wasn’t good enough for publication. It had good scenes and ideas but didn’t come together as a whole. Sorry, kid, some people are just good at writing. You’re not. That’s another scene that I needed to tell.
Thirdly, imagine this: I am in Las Vegas, a couple of years and one novel later. I am a couple years out of college and have learned that the real world neither knows me nor cares about me. I propped myself up and finished another book, this one supposed to be the genuine masterpiece I’ve always wanted to write. People hate this one, too, even more than the last one: I regressed instead of getting better. I start to daydream, over and over, to get my mind away from the terrible reality of having one friend, one maybe friend, no job, and no direction in life…having failed at the one thing that I really, really wanted to do.
Fourth: I am at home, sitting there, no, standing, standing and pacing and screaming at myself, screaming that I am innocent, being accused of horrible crimes by voices in my head.
The horrible truth is that the voices in my head are often more entertaining than the mundane of a real world in which I don’t work and don’t make millions of dollars doing something fantastic.
Fifth: I stand, at work, as a cashier, trying desperately to pay attention to which code is which vegetable and which grocery goes on the bottom of the bag.
Sixth: I sit, in my parents’ home, drunk beyond drunk, dying inside, no longer with the strength or energy to pace, just ranting in my head while sitting down. I put sausage in the microwave but pass out before eating it.
Seventh: I sit, here, writing, trying to show the world the reality of a world with mental illness, trying to show the world what we feel like.
I wanted to write a novel because I couldn’t express this last time, and I think that I can express that this time.
Thanks, and take care, friends.
