Morning ain’t never rush me. My mind already runnin’ marathons before my feet touch the floor. I learned that about myself a long time ago. Schizophrenia don’t always look like folks think—it ain’t just seein’ things. Sometimes it’s thoughts stackin’ on top of thoughts, voices loud like a radio stuck between stations.
So I got routines. Doctors say routines help, and honestly, they right.
I boil water first thing. Same pot. Same burner. That sound—the soft hiss before it bubble—tell my brain we safe right now. I reach for the chamomile tea bag. Not ‘cause it’s magic, but ‘cause it’s gentle. Studies say chamomile can support relaxation and sleep, and while it ain’t medicine for schizophrenia, it don’t fight my meds either. That part matters. Mixing the wrong stuff can mess you up, and I take that serious.
I sit at the table, both hands around the mug. Warmth ground me. That’s another real thing—temperature and sensory focus help bring people back into the moment. My therapist called it grounding. I just call it holdin’ on.
Voices still come sometimes. They comment. They judge. But I been learnin’ not to argue back. Acceptance don’t mean agreein’. It mean acknowledgin’ what’s there without lettin’ it run the house.
I sip slow. Tea got a taste like dried flowers and patience. My breathing match the steam, up and out. I remind myself of facts, not fear:
I’m diagnosed.
I’m treated.
I’m here.
I’m not dangerous.
I’m not weak.
That last one took the longest to believe.
People love to talk about “normal.” But normal ain’t real—it’s a setting somebody else chose. Health, for me, look like takin’ meds on time, checkin’ in with my doctor, and knowin’ when to rest. It look like tea instead of panic. It look like sayin, Yeah, my brain different—but it still mine.
When the cup empty, I don’t rush to refill it. I sit in the quiet I earned.
That’s acceptance. Not loud. Not fancy.
Just steady hands and one calm moment at a time.
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