Deschroma is creating Videos And Stories About Life
0

patrons

$0
per month
Hi Patrons!
 I spread awareness of mental health issues on youtube, as well as document my own struggles and triumphs.

It's been my dream since a child to publish a book! I'm now ready! Help me improve the quality of my mental health videos and self publish the fictional The Soporific Sheep and the autobiographical Enough to Make You Crazy, based on my own experiences, and yes adventures, with mental illness!

 Your support would be rewarded with special prizes and infinite thanks!!!

Here is a synopsis of The Soporific Sheep:

In a world enveloped in literal and figurative darkness, the Journalist documents existence under the omniscient eye of the Prophet. She tells the story of the Guards, the Doctor, the Nurse, the Chef, the Artist, the Scavengers, and lastly, but most importantly to the Prophet, the Messenger Delilah. In a tale based on life vs death, society vs chaos, and sanity vs insanity, the Journalist struggles to find her own meaning.


And here is a never before seen sample of my work, Enough to Make You Crazy!


The bed frames had edges sharp enough to accidentally slice my wrists during another uncomfortable night, a fact somewhat at odds with my inability to wear the original pair of pajama pants I brought due to their soft, waistband string. Just in case it could somehow end up around my neck.
The absurdity got pointed out on a regular basis.

"Ya know, you can make a shank out of toilet paper," Mike said to a tech while using a spork to eat out of a fruit cup, who agreed with him. "Man, you can make a shank out of anything."

We weren't allowed pens, so instead I used a dull pencil to journal, creating lines so soft the letters faded before the sentence could be complete. It made Nathan crazy too, but for a different reason. "You can break open a pencil and stab yourself with it, ya know. Easier than a pen."

I couldn't have my "Under the Dome" Stephen King novel, and they kept it behind the nurses station, because it's a hardback, and I "could hurt someone with it."

Yes, I could. Specifically the tech who refused to hand me over my one source of entertainment. I couldn't have my magic cards either. Or a chapstick. You had to wear shoes at all times. You couldn't sit cross-legged on the couch, or rest your eyes for a minute, unless you were Tom, on suicide watch, who slept on the couch regularly. You also couldn't go to sleep in your bedroom until after 12. You couldn't take a shower before 7, or after 10, unless you were sick, or charming, or begged, like I did.

Once my roommate and I, Laura, laid on our beds, the door wide open, chatting after breakfast, sleepy from another restless night thick with sounds of the police station and vomit withdrawals, and the tech pops her head in, and says, "not yet."

Then she tells me to make my bed. Then 15 minutes later, its 12, and we can go lie down if we still want to. "Lauren, don't you want to get under your covers?"

It's enough to make a person crazy. As it were, I'm fairly confident only so-called crazy people could handle it.

They were really particular with clothes too. If I wore a shirt which revealed a fleeting glimpse of bra strap, they straightened it for me, as if being asked to perform such a task rested somewhere beyond my comprehension. My hospital bracelets irritated me, and so they were removed in a quiet fit of rage. Not attempting to be too clever, I hid the bands underneath the paper-thin sheets; my now naked wrists concealed by a long-sleeved shirt. Not an hour later and he's re-strapping the bracelets to my arm as I watch TV.

"Did they fall off or something?" everyone wanted to know.
"Yea. Or something," the tech replied.

Perhaps as a strange coping mechanism, for fleeting moments you could almost forget you were locked involuntarily, with this sudden burst of camp-like comradeship and freedom from any responsibility. But then...then it would happen.

Someone would twitch, or shake, they'd get that look in their eye, and you would know.

Questions would repeat in an infinite loop. I asked every day, or maybe every minute, "Why is Tom on so1? What does that mean? What's he in here for? He doesn't seem crazier than the rest of us? Right? Right?"

Anorexic Martha would say, "I can't eat this food? Do you like it? Do you guys think this is good?"

The selections of mixed veggies and non-identifiable meat at a safe temp of 97 degrees could not be described as "good". I lost 7 pounds during my stay. At first, we all complained about the food, but after fully appreciating our proximity to someone who weighed 70 pounds, everyone acted as though they couldn't wait to get their sporks into another glorious meal. Of course, it had no effect. Martha might have been delusional, but her taste buds worked fine, and she'd wrinkle her nose, and spread her food around and eat nothing, and say once more "Do you guys think this is good?"

The most damning repeat had the vibe of a bad trip with no roads leading out.
Nathan would suddenly stare at me and simultaneously we'd proclaim, "we gotta get outta here." It was a dangerous thought, a growing, unreachable itch underneath our flesh. We have to. Could we escape? No. That's a bad idea. We would stop shaking our legs and calm down momentarily, and then a second later, it's someone else's turn: "We gotta get outta here!" And it would start all over again.

"No one's ever jumped the fence," a tech told us, noticing on one outside visit my stare at the low tree. perfect for climbing, to the fence, perfect for jumping. Perhaps a broken ankle, what with this stiffness especially, but I could manage. Nathan could call one of his friends, ok, one of his dealers, and he could pick us up. We could do this.

I told the plan to Nathan, but he just shook his head. "I'm wearing flip flops." He dangled his arm, recently sutured up and held together with butterfly tape. "I can't climb."

With no one to call, well no one that would help me break out of a mental facility, I set aside the plan.

To pass time, we played countless consecutive Uno games with ever-changing guidelines, especially by the alcoholic Ronnie. He laughed manically and skipped people, and then mocked me when I took my correct turn. "If you lie down a 7 that is the same color as the other one, you can add all your numbers of that color. But you have to have the original same number and color."

Nathan shook his head at this, and Martha complained he was cheating. I enjoyed myself though, my competitive spirit silenced with amusement. I cheated like crazy and still managed to lose every time.

"It's madhouse rules!" Nathan announced, and we all laughed, sounds that started off merry and then slowly distilled into desperation. 


Tiers
Pledge $1 or more per month
0 patrons
Special thank you message for your kind donation!
Pledge $5 or more per month
0 patrons
Loooooooong personal email with lots of fun surprises! 
Pledge $10 or more per month
0 patrons
Other rewards, plus the ability to make a video request! 
Pledge $20 or more per month
0 patrons
Your pick of one previous reward, plus your choice of a poem, short story, or piece of art emailed to you! 
Pledge $30 or more per month
1 patron
Your choice of 2 of the previous awards!
Pledge $50 or more per month
0 patrons
Your choice of 3 rewards!
Pledge $100 or more per month
0 patrons
All other rewards! Plus a shrine next to my bed thanking you for your donation ;) Thank you!!!!
Goals
$0 of $100 per month
With this amount I could devote more time to youtube videos! 
1 of 3
Hi Patrons!
 I spread awareness of mental health issues on youtube, as well as document my own struggles and triumphs.

It's been my dream since a child to publish a book! I'm now ready! Help me improve the quality of my mental health videos and self publish the fictional The Soporific Sheep and the autobiographical Enough to Make You Crazy, based on my own experiences, and yes adventures, with mental illness!

 Your support would be rewarded with special prizes and infinite thanks!!!

Here is a synopsis of The Soporific Sheep:

In a world enveloped in literal and figurative darkness, the Journalist documents existence under the omniscient eye of the Prophet. She tells the story of the Guards, the Doctor, the Nurse, the Chef, the Artist, the Scavengers, and lastly, but most importantly to the Prophet, the Messenger Delilah. In a tale based on life vs death, society vs chaos, and sanity vs insanity, the Journalist struggles to find her own meaning.


And here is a never before seen sample of my work, Enough to Make You Crazy!


The bed frames had edges sharp enough to accidentally slice my wrists during another uncomfortable night, a fact somewhat at odds with my inability to wear the original pair of pajama pants I brought due to their soft, waistband string. Just in case it could somehow end up around my neck.
The absurdity got pointed out on a regular basis.

"Ya know, you can make a shank out of toilet paper," Mike said to a tech while using a spork to eat out of a fruit cup, who agreed with him. "Man, you can make a shank out of anything."

We weren't allowed pens, so instead I used a dull pencil to journal, creating lines so soft the letters faded before the sentence could be complete. It made Nathan crazy too, but for a different reason. "You can break open a pencil and stab yourself with it, ya know. Easier than a pen."

I couldn't have my "Under the Dome" Stephen King novel, and they kept it behind the nurses station, because it's a hardback, and I "could hurt someone with it."

Yes, I could. Specifically the tech who refused to hand me over my one source of entertainment. I couldn't have my magic cards either. Or a chapstick. You had to wear shoes at all times. You couldn't sit cross-legged on the couch, or rest your eyes for a minute, unless you were Tom, on suicide watch, who slept on the couch regularly. You also couldn't go to sleep in your bedroom until after 12. You couldn't take a shower before 7, or after 10, unless you were sick, or charming, or begged, like I did.

Once my roommate and I, Laura, laid on our beds, the door wide open, chatting after breakfast, sleepy from another restless night thick with sounds of the police station and vomit withdrawals, and the tech pops her head in, and says, "not yet."

Then she tells me to make my bed. Then 15 minutes later, its 12, and we can go lie down if we still want to. "Lauren, don't you want to get under your covers?"

It's enough to make a person crazy. As it were, I'm fairly confident only so-called crazy people could handle it.

They were really particular with clothes too. If I wore a shirt which revealed a fleeting glimpse of bra strap, they straightened it for me, as if being asked to perform such a task rested somewhere beyond my comprehension. My hospital bracelets irritated me, and so they were removed in a quiet fit of rage. Not attempting to be too clever, I hid the bands underneath the paper-thin sheets; my now naked wrists concealed by a long-sleeved shirt. Not an hour later and he's re-strapping the bracelets to my arm as I watch TV.

"Did they fall off or something?" everyone wanted to know.
"Yea. Or something," the tech replied.

Perhaps as a strange coping mechanism, for fleeting moments you could almost forget you were locked involuntarily, with this sudden burst of camp-like comradeship and freedom from any responsibility. But then...then it would happen.

Someone would twitch, or shake, they'd get that look in their eye, and you would know.

Questions would repeat in an infinite loop. I asked every day, or maybe every minute, "Why is Tom on so1? What does that mean? What's he in here for? He doesn't seem crazier than the rest of us? Right? Right?"

Anorexic Martha would say, "I can't eat this food? Do you like it? Do you guys think this is good?"

The selections of mixed veggies and non-identifiable meat at a safe temp of 97 degrees could not be described as "good". I lost 7 pounds during my stay. At first, we all complained about the food, but after fully appreciating our proximity to someone who weighed 70 pounds, everyone acted as though they couldn't wait to get their sporks into another glorious meal. Of course, it had no effect. Martha might have been delusional, but her taste buds worked fine, and she'd wrinkle her nose, and spread her food around and eat nothing, and say once more "Do you guys think this is good?"

The most damning repeat had the vibe of a bad trip with no roads leading out.
Nathan would suddenly stare at me and simultaneously we'd proclaim, "we gotta get outta here." It was a dangerous thought, a growing, unreachable itch underneath our flesh. We have to. Could we escape? No. That's a bad idea. We would stop shaking our legs and calm down momentarily, and then a second later, it's someone else's turn: "We gotta get outta here!" And it would start all over again.

"No one's ever jumped the fence," a tech told us, noticing on one outside visit my stare at the low tree. perfect for climbing, to the fence, perfect for jumping. Perhaps a broken ankle, what with this stiffness especially, but I could manage. Nathan could call one of his friends, ok, one of his dealers, and he could pick us up. We could do this.

I told the plan to Nathan, but he just shook his head. "I'm wearing flip flops." He dangled his arm, recently sutured up and held together with butterfly tape. "I can't climb."

With no one to call, well no one that would help me break out of a mental facility, I set aside the plan.

To pass time, we played countless consecutive Uno games with ever-changing guidelines, especially by the alcoholic Ronnie. He laughed manically and skipped people, and then mocked me when I took my correct turn. "If you lie down a 7 that is the same color as the other one, you can add all your numbers of that color. But you have to have the original same number and color."

Nathan shook his head at this, and Martha complained he was cheating. I enjoyed myself though, my competitive spirit silenced with amusement. I cheated like crazy and still managed to lose every time.

"It's madhouse rules!" Nathan announced, and we all laughed, sounds that started off merry and then slowly distilled into desperation. 


Recent posts by Deschroma

Tiers
Pledge $1 or more per month
0 patrons
Special thank you message for your kind donation!
Pledge $5 or more per month
0 patrons
Loooooooong personal email with lots of fun surprises! 
Pledge $10 or more per month
0 patrons
Other rewards, plus the ability to make a video request! 
Pledge $20 or more per month
0 patrons
Your pick of one previous reward, plus your choice of a poem, short story, or piece of art emailed to you! 
Pledge $30 or more per month
1 patron
Your choice of 2 of the previous awards!
Pledge $50 or more per month
0 patrons
Your choice of 3 rewards!
Pledge $100 or more per month
0 patrons
All other rewards! Plus a shrine next to my bed thanking you for your donation ;) Thank you!!!!