The Country Called Schizophrenia

Nobody tells you when you’ve crossed the border. There’s no sign, no stamp in your passport. One day you’re walking down a street like everyone else, and the next, the pavement is whispering your name and the sky blinks when you look at it too long.

Welcome to Schizophrenia.

It’s not a metaphor. It’s a real place. I live here.

I have an apartment on the fourth floor of a building that may or may not exist. My neighbor is a man with a thousand faces. Sometimes he’s my father. Sometimes he’s God. Sometimes he’s just a sound. He waters my plants when I forget.

There’s a train here. It comes at midnight and runs on paranoia. The conductor wears my memories like a coat. He tips his hat and asks, “Where would you like to go today: guilt, grandeur, or confusion?”

Sometimes I board. Sometimes I hide in the station bathroom and hum until the horn fades.

There are rules in Schizophrenia. They change every morning. Time runs sideways. Gravity is emotional. Thoughts echo louder than footsteps. Some doors open to other rooms; some open to places that don’t forgive.

People in the outside world think this is all in my head. That’s the joke. Of course it is. But everything is in your head, too—your love, your pain, your plans for the weekend. Mine just came with extra architecture.

I have companions here. Some are kind. Some are cruel. Some switch between the two like weather. There’s a woman named Echo who repeats everything I’m afraid of. There’s a boy named Silence who follows me around, eyes wide, saying nothing but making me feel like I’ve screamed.

And then there’s the Choir.

They sing when it’s time to panic. Four voices. Or forty. It changes. They chant my name in patterns I don’t understand. Sometimes it’s music. Sometimes it’s math. Sometimes it’s just noise, but it’s mine.

I’ve tried to leave. I’ve taken medicine that builds bridges back to the other world. Some work. Some crumble. Some just make the sky less bright.

But I’ve learned this:

Schizophrenia is not a trap. It’s not punishment. It’s not a nightmare.
It’s a place.
It’s real.
And I live here.

I’ve planted flowers in the windowsill.
I’ve drawn maps in my journal.
I’ve made peace with some of the voices and told others to get lost.

I live in a country no one visits on purpose.

But if you do find yourself here, lost and scared and blinking under a sun that stutters—
Come find me.
I’ll make you tea.
I’ll show you where the quiet grows.