A longform essay exploring the firsthand experience of Jonathan Harnisch—artist, author, and advocate—living through schizophrenia, dystonia, akathisia, and chronic neurological agony. There are no good metaphors for what Jonathan Harnisch feels. That’s because pain—real, disfiguring, mind-consuming pain—burns through metaphor. “It’s not that I’m suffering inside a prison,” he says. “It’s that I am the prison. I’m the cell, the bars, the locked door, and the scream no one hears.” For decades, Harnisch has written with startling clarity and poetic fire about living with schizophrenia, CPTSD, and various movement disorders, including dystonia and akathisia. His novels ( Sex, Drugs, and Schizophrenia , Pervo – Third Alibi ) and film projects ( Living Colorful Beauty ) are, at once, raw memoirs and surreal diaries—documents of someone trapped in his own nervous system, yet lucid enough to transcribe the nightmare in real time. “There’s this assumption,” he says, “that schizophrenia is...
TESTAMENT OF A DYING NERVE, A BROKEN SOUL Jonathan Harnisch (Georgie Gust) There is no mercy here—not from the flesh, not from the world, not from God. It begins with the smallest cruelty: my glasses slip from my trembling fingers and jab me in the eye—nothing, yet everything. A shard of this broken world made manifest. Then the remote stops working, the lamp won’t turn on, the phone screen freezes like it knows I’m begging for connection. Every electronic—haunted. Every object—conspiring. Each moment—taunting. I drop things constantly now. Not just objects, but pieces of myself. Memory, balance, hope. I can’t walk. I’m not sure I can speak. I’m immobilized in body and paralyzed in spirit, watching from behind my eyes as I vanish, piece by piece. There is no gentleness in this death. It is not peaceful. It is torture disguised as time. And it mimics the end-of-life signs that hospice whispers about in soft pamphlet pages: Weakness and fatigue. I can’t lift my arms. I can’t hold a ...