Call me crazy.  

Maybe I am, but such as life.  That's how I am.  

I am not proud of it, but I can't help it.  My illness has taken control of my mental faculties.

My name is W.  I can't reveal my true name.  Privacy matters, you know.

I am fifteen years old.  Feel more like a hundred, especially on days where my schitzoid behavior is in full force.  

For example, I suffer from panic attacks.  Severe, unrelenting panic attacks.  Something as simple as a change in routine or in the weather can bing it on.  

Forget stress.  Stress is one of the main factors why I am the way I am.

If anything, stress only worsens my symptoms, as do certain medications.

In my case, I hear voices inside my head.  These "voices" tell me what to do.  I can be asleep and the voices oftentimes wake me up from a deep slumber.  The last time this happened, I killed the cat.  Kicked it in the spine and choked the liver out of it.  Of course, Mom and Dad were not pleased.  

Ended up in the tank for that one.  Was there for a week, 'til the psycho doctors could alter my meds and have me talk about why I murderlized the damnfool cat.

I don't know why I did it.  I did it because the voices told me to do it.

My type of schizophernia runs in my family.  I'm not the only one who has it: my uncle Gladden and my aunt Tata have it as well.  They are as crazy as I am, if not even more so, if that is possible.  Both have been in and out of mental hospitals for years and end up in treatment time and time again.

Nothing seems to work.  They are as off the deep end as they ever were.

Educationally, I am off the charts.  I'm a full blown genius.  A member of MENSA, an organization for us intellectual beings.  Sometimes we get together and "talk shop" and talk about life in general.  It is very interestng, to say the least.

Besides going to the shrink every week, I am on medications to keep my symptoms (and the voices) at bay, but they don't always work, so I end up in the mental jail cell, like last month, when I snuffed out the last of the cat's nine lives.  Was there for a week, as I mentioned earlier.

I was also very depressed, so I had nothing better to do than to kill the cat.  Took my sadness out on the poor creature.  It didn't make me feel any better, especially when I had to have ECT, but since I had that done, I'm a lot better off.  Still sad, but at least I no longer want to hurt anything (or myself) and don't want to kill myself.

Well, I hate to run, but today I have to see Dr. Shrink in an hour.  O, joy!!  I will write in here again another day; hopefully my mind will behave itself.  I hate living like this!

Take care!

~W. 

To be continued.~