First Chapter:Ch.1My name is Charles. Charlie. Charlie McFly, and my story is unusual. It’s not an everyday rags to riches. But it does contain some suffering. It contains all the elements you’re looking for when you pick up a story like mine. You can judge this book by its cover, because frankly, it’s fucked. It says it all. My story is not from the hood to the suburban life, it’s not immigrants coming to live a seem-so American dream. My story is the casual change of a certain perspective of life. It’s not necessarily what the famous did to become famous as to why they’ve come to the conclusion to do such great things. It is important to note that as in any significant change, the character I am representing has not changed as a whole. Just as an outlook, personality remains the same, taste, desire, ambitions, everything. The only change is why I wanted to do these things. So as a proper introduction I would like to re-introduce myself as Charles McFly, most people call me Charlie. I suffer from schizophrenia. What this of course means is that I have no friends, a twisted yet seemingly creative sense of humor, a deeper intellect that sometimes correlates with what people call being logical, or illogical depending on whom you’re talking to. When really, you could sum it all up by saying I see extreme and life like visions right in front of me that are triggered by sounds I hear and some cases the sounds I make on my own. So you see, it is entirely possible for me to have a conversation with myself, shake hands with the air, and scream violently at polite passerby’s, but the thing is, I’m just not like that as a person. I would never intentionally hurt anyone. In my own regard I even see myself as very polite and highly caring, in some cases, even typical as to how compassionate I may be. I hold the door open and pick up the occasional hitch hiker. It’s just that if we’re talking about the reality of things, in a perspective that not of my own, I scream at kind old gentlemen trying to help me and I tend to cause a scene if my dismay is not approved of. But who’s judging right? You can’t say it was always like this. I wasn’t always finding a balance between being a compulsive liar and telling the abrupt and sometimes blunt truth. I used to never believe in love, I used to think success was a gift at birth and failure just a label. Now it’s all hard work and what you deserve. In some ways I agree but still even as I get older it’s hard not to think how many people are wrong. I still believe karma works in reverse. I have not done enough in life to even suggest that I deserve what has been done to me, and yet how can one not think of all the people that have it worse. What about the babies who are born with a crack addiction, or the soldier who is willing to put his life on the line for his country, but during his first week of deployment, he gets his leg amputated after being hit by a car bomb. Certainly there is no justifiable reason as to why karma would do this. To what extent do we divulge ourselves into Murphy ’s Law; that bastard. It is only bad karma if it happens to you, because at the same time you get your leg blown off, another amputee has just finished his first marathon and a former crack addict has just wrote Scar Tissue. So let’s call it amrak, because really all the bad things that have happened to you, have they not made you stronger? So let’s just get it started here then. There is no class in my upbringing. There’s no wealth, there’s no expectations and there’s certainly no fun. Only my imagination and how creative I could perceive things to be. I guess that seems to be an ironic trigger point to happiness. How one’s head aches is directly related to how someone feels about the subject of headaches. If a headache is a pleasurable aroma, then is not being hit on the head also pleasurable? That’s how I felt the day they told me, “Charlie, what you are experiencing is a type of trauma we call schizophrenia.” No matter how you say it, it just sounds fucked up. To be perfectly honest, it’s really not the fact your brain somehow is able to create and respond to these images, it becomes how it grows from its own creations. I mean, its one thing to say a writer becomes more creative with each story or essay, but let’s agree to say it’s much more profitable to realise that one is creative even when they had no clue they were being creative. It becomes a reflection, and after building upon building upon building it becomes like being surrounded by mirrors. No matter which way you look you can see yourself an infinite amount of times. Schizophrenia is something like that. It’s like watching your pen roll off your desk. You see it roll, watch it fall off and hear it hit the ground. Often times it only takes a split second for reality to come back. The minute you take your eyes off the hallucination your brain automatically realises the truth and is already in place working and sculpting the next shape. Often times it was leaning over the side of my desk to pick up my pen that I realise it had never fallen. The duration of an hallucination often follows the attention span, so I could never really guess whether or not a child with ADHD would even be able to produce such realistic events. Depending on the surroundings, I would find my attention span relatively normal or even with some experiences, much longer than that of a normal person. This means picking up my pen would often require the feel of a cold multi colored tile floor before the realization came to me that what I had just witnessed was not real. The amount of times the same hallucinations happens is also relevant to the size of the event, acquired by the outcome, and realization of logic. It’s not like people who are color blind don’t know which colors are which. If one sees red instead of blue, logically he will most often know the difference when he is faced with a confrontation of colors. However, if the surroundings provide enough outside attention it would be much easier for him to quickly make a false judgement. So an event such as my pen falling off the desk would be almost perfect for such an example, however logic would most often prove that I had just placed my pen down in such a position where it would not roll, so the actual percentage of this happening becomes very low. Not to say it didn’t happen, being a teenager comes with an offset amount of stress and a variety of emotion. Often while my teacher would be talking I would become uninterested and day dream. Whether it was wondering what Suzy Lockner looked like naked or how I was getting home that night, it’s safe to say it was easy to forget that my pen hadn’t been touched in minutes or often times still in my hand.Looking for lost keys was often my greatest challenge because not only every spot I thought they could be, they would be; followed by the disappointment of an hallucination. Although I’m not saying that most often these hallucinations aren’t enjoyable. The truth of the matter was that I am the creator of these such things and for me anyways, there’s only one nightmare between fifty or so good dreams. I was probably fourteen at the time and in the middle of grade nine. The greatest effect of hallucinations was more often an annoyance than anything. Sometimes it would just make me angry to attempt putting my underwear on a second time or finding the same book I was looking for multiple times. But I guess over the years everyone has their version of 9/11. The process f letting go is often the most traumatic. We may be able to live without the trade buildings however knowing that such great structures once stood so proudly is enough to create a sadness from a deeper level.I even remember when that happened. Just a boy still just as shocked at how cool such an hallucination looked with the offset feeling of how traumatizing it actually was for the people involved. You may be able to forget the remembrance of how it felt at the time, however the response to why people were jumping out eightieth floor windows when the building had yet to crumble is enough to stay a lifetime. Watching it happen on live television is enough to make a footprint. Videos in remembrance of such a horrific event really do no justice. Watching a man burning to death jump out the ninetieth floor window just to end his life a little sooner than the burn would kill him is just unspeakable. But just as a child understands the shock of such a traumatic event one does not truly feel the outcome until he sees the aftermath. Just as coming home from school that day, another sort of shock was about to hit a little closer to home. I lived such an ordinary life; it was hard to say I really had such a disease at all. I really regard my illness as both a disease and a blessing later in life. However, for every invention Edison had, he also had fifty or more that were a failure, and if you truly live, this is just as the many paths of life. At that age it was all about the video games and this particular time is was about Call of Duty, and just as every other night supper was around six o’clock. I was called from the den of the basement, which was also my intricately decorated bedroom; I ran up the stairs skipping one step with each step and found my place at the table. The food was already laid out which was unusual enough because we were mostly a self-serve kind of family. My Mom and Dad were already at the table ready to go. Some people say they can kind of realise something is wrong before it even happens, that there’s just something unusual about that certain day before a tragic event, but not today. Routinely normal, from school to supper and as soon as I say my mother burst into tears. “I have cancer.”She cried and my brow furrowed. My father with anxiety and disappointment filled with confusion just sat silent. This had been totally unexpected and just as an hallucination it was so unreal that I wasn’t ready to hear such news, I was in disbelief. My mother just sat there, as we all did, not saying a word, not watching my mother drown her potatoes, we just sat, silent. “What do you mean?”My mother heaved for air as it became too much for her to bear and my father took her to the bedroom so that she could be alone. I’m sure she didn’t want to be alone at that moment but my Dad sure did come back rubbing his face. He sat down at his place with the only empty plate and took one hard look into my eyes. Charles he called me, from the usual Charlie, “You’re mother has an expected three months to live.”Even as a kid, it becomes impossible to find any sort of light in the situation. There were no open windows to this, actually, they were all closed along with the doors on this one, and believe me, and the doors were locked with several locks on each as I sat there and let it sink in. I just got up with such a face of confusion and defeat that I walked as I walked back downstairs to my bedroom. I could hear my mother faintly crying down the hall and before I descended I saw my Dad, for the first time defeated just remain at the table. It’s really not like you can just be positive and say that everything was going to be alright because the fact of life prolonging for any longer amount of time was only prolonging the inevitable anyways. In some regards, it might have been easier to just have her deceased shortly after mentioning what was going to happen. To me at most times during the four months she actually did stay with us it would have been more like a mercy kill. Except this one was for the family. You can say I was selfish at the time but the horror of watching such a personal figure fall through such agony in unbearable. There’s really only so much you can say even, and after the decease there becomes all the things that you wish you would have thought of that might have made it a little easier had you had the chance to say them, or thought of them earlier. Telling my mother that I would gladly take her place was not going to make the situation any better. Encouraging her that the future is bright without her seems Ludacris. There is no possible spin on things to make it any easier. From day one to D-day it’s rough, and the only way to get by is through routine. For a little while it was just trying to live as routinely as possible. But there’s always that aroma of creativity that circles around you like a vulture. As soon as you hit that depression they’re ready; and they hit hard. It started as outward energy, produced by the enlightenment of other people’s troubles. It was posters, then albums, then lyrics, then books. It became internet forums and poetry. Sooner than later it became raps and creating my own beats. It became writing consistently and not the type of creative writing that keeps the reader asking for more. It wasn’t the sudden turn to Marilyn Manson and readings of the world’s most crazy serial killers. I was the same person I always had been. I had always worn black t-shirts and ripped blue jeans. I always had a taste for nice hats and shoes. I always like to dress appropriately. I never had problem attracting attention from women. Actually it was easy for me. I had just started to develop a slight drinking problem. It really wasn’t until my mother had passed away that things started to really get crazy. You can call it what you want I guess, a sympathy party with everyone in attendance but I knew she was listening to me, she could always hear me. All those nights in her room while I was in mine, even after she had passed. I mean, in no way do I consider myself religious, or attend church on a regular basis, however, having to hear those cries every night, how could one not look at his ceiling and wish there was an easier way. I could see right through my ceiling all those nights. I could picture the stars and I would question the very existence of each one of them. I was never very methodical, I never posed theories that weren’t scientifically backed because that would pose the initial question as illogical, and by all means logic was my basic premise, even though I never attended the funeral. It was a mistake I was willing to live with because at the time I still wasn’t sure whether or not I, myself, wanted to live. It became like when your mother would go away on business trips and it would only take a day for the sink to fill up when the dishwasher was still empty. The hamper was filled with clothes and the fridge never had anything in it. My father started to do some crazy things, not abusive or anything like that but he just changed a little bit. You really can’t understand what they mean by finding your other half until it dies I guess... It seems cliché to say you don’t really know what you have but the result is the same. We knew what we had, and after it was gone we found it. It’s not like we never did the laundry or cleaned the kitchen. But instead of the glasses being placed in the sink it started to turn into bottles in boxes by the back door, and let’s just say I kept my drinking a secret. It was probably the deepest I had ever been and I wasn’t about to start swimming my way back to the top. I never really shed a tear for the first little bit. But after a bit you kind of need that sympathy, you start to feel a little deeper within. It rises a little, it becomes who you are and it eats you. Things started to teeter a little, my father changed. It was unusual at first but the hints became less and less subtle with each hint until it awkwardly seemed as though he hated me. The solution for a teenage boy seems perfectly logical; resentment is a strong aspect to the mourning process. My father was now questioning why he was even here, I had asked myself the same questions for many months now, been going through the same emotional roller coaster and I felt as if we were unified through our struggle. But somehow he seemed a bit angrier than me, I couldn’t figure it out. So I started making a conscience effort to spy on him. I’d listen to his phone calls and I’d sneak around every corner to hear his conversations while his friends were over. The situation became aggressive; it switched my own thoughts about myself. “My boy’s a little gay.”I could hear him talking to his friends. At first it crushed me and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I made myself believe that he couldn’t possibly be saying those words. He really used to be such a gentle man, he loved me and now I can hear him say even to Grandma that he’d be better off without me. To a boy the assumption from such a role model as your father makes one question his own moralities. Was what I was wearing a little homosexual? Would gay men rather be interested in my looks than women? Questions so unbearably unanswerable that even the most confident of men would spiral into an assault of depression. Soon these accusations of sexuality became scorns of abuse. Violent talks with friends about expressions of anger towards me, I couldn’t possibly live up to his standards. The reflections from his conversation were that of fear. I was scared to continue living with him. Soon there were bottles everywhere and it became had liquor and cigarettes. The dishes were piled high and the laundry was never done. Our household had been ripped apart at the seams. Our strongest support beam had collapsed in the middle and our structure had been decreased to zero. It was always after these conversations that my eyes started to sweat, turning blood shot from the shock of hearing such accusations. However, although one can question his sexuality through physical attributes and emotional conduction, the truth of who a person really is lies within his dignity, his pride. Only so many tears can be shed before a prayer becomes answered. One morning before school I had asked my why the bottles had been piling up for weeks, and he responded with,“What bottles?”I told him all the ones in the kitchen, in the mudroom. There must have been dozens of twelve packs, and still he had the nerve to tell me there was none. I was becoming agitated by his play at ignorance and I demandingly asked why he had been smoking. “I haven’t smoked in years!”Appalled I told him I could smell it. I saw the carton and lighter on the coffee table. I could see his confusion begin to rise. “Charlie… What are you talking about?”I almost thought he was becoming angry at me for pointing out something so blatant. I screamed at him,”“Dad! Ever since Mom has died all you’ve done is talk shit about me and smoke and drink!”He asked me again what I had been talking about and I began to cry. Tears dropped from my eyes and he leaned forward towards me. “Why are you saying these things?”I closed my eyes and blurted in sobs,“Why can’t you see it?”“What Charles?”I opened my eyes to explain what I had seen but it had disappeared. I’ve never cried so hard before in my life. “I don’t know.”And I didn’t. Confusion was erupting my body with a tornado of emotion. What I had thought was logic, a natural solution to a traumatic event had just turned into a fairy tale, and not even ashes from cigarettes were on the coffee table. Some people say they have wake up calls, they have ‘near-death’ experiences that change their outlook on life. This alternative view often helps them realise a sense of potential and alongside the initial shock of the event the people are able to go along living relatively normal lives, in some cases even better lives, in some cases, even owing success to that very event. I’ve seen it in Olympians with leg amputations that were once before in the military. Car crashes, burned down houses, through miscarriage and the loss of relatives. But the feeling of reality striking the moment after the most brilliant audio and visual hallucination ever created is an experience all in its own.I’ve never cried so much as I did that day. It was an all-of-the-sudden kind of thing and I wasn’t prepared for it. It’s just with everything that had happened already, everything I had thought. It had been months of suffering than weeks of constant self-destruction. The sigh of each box rise one by one each day and the unusual characteristic changes my father had been making have made my self-esteem crumble into pieces of sand. I was left there hanging onto nothing in the midst of the unknown. I could feel gravity pulling on my soul as if I had been falling for days, and the impact has finally made itself apparent. The first time I went to the doctors, later that day, after a few hours of discussion and replacing my memories from the past weeks with legitimate material I was able to paint a realistic portrait of how things were. After my father had explained to me all the suffering he had endured just to ensure my life would remain as normal as possible. As it turns out, it actually had been the opposite of all my thoughts. Anyways, the doctor, the first time had told me I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. From what I was able to get out of it, because my mother had passes away at such a sudden speed, the impact at that stage of my life was too much for my brain to handle, and there I was, left producing images of unrealistic tragedies because in a sense that was my way as a kid to deal with the stress. What I had experienced earlier that day was the climax and I would be able to move onto the next stage of my life from now on. What the doctor had just forgotten to mention was that this was only the beginning to much more stress in my life. That being at such a young age already, with that amount of stress, it would only continue to build. He just forgot to slip in that becoming a young man was already a rather large depression in itself, the constant questioning, and the becoming of sexuality, the pressures and the worries, the care free and the care too much. Akuna Matata… It just ain’t no passin’ craze.