Chelsea Lynn LaBate had her first psychotic episode at the late age of 39 in her home in Asheville, NC. She was found by the city police, naked and jaundiced. She had been fighting a great battle of good and evil for days. No one knew why she had suddenly gone "crazy."
Was it something she ate? Possible mold in the house? Was it caused by a traumatic brain injury she got in a car accident just five years prior? She purged the house of items that were affiliated with demons, set traps, performed rituals dictated by "the voice," and ultimately prepared for her own death.
She was taken to the Emergency Room by a neighbor and committed to a mental ward, the first of five she would stay in the following three years. It was there she discovered she was not allowed a pen, so had to write her poetry in large print using a blue crayon.
These poems track Chelsea's journey. Is mania a pathway to God? Why can't it be sustained? What is reality? Do psychosis and shamanism intersect? What happens when someone with gifts goes entirely untrained? What does it mean to be a channel- to, like the crow, be a messenger between the worlds?
While the doctors stumbled to get her meds right, Chelsea was in trance for three years. She met with guides on a daily basis, forming bonds with them as if they were truly living people. She spoke directly to the butterfly, the beetle, her dog, the sun, the stars, the moon, often exchanging jokes, always walking away uplifted. Guides met her on her runs, in the surf, on the yoga mat, driving, at work, cooking in the kitchen, while bathing and in bed.
Is madness the underbelly of euphoria? Can euphoria be sustained without the lows of depression? Is this what's referred to as enlightenment? How can one navigate the unseen with dignity and grace? Can thoughts travel? Is prayer traveling thought?
She received injections in the ward and then on a regular basis while at home. They eventually pulled her out of a trance state and back into the mundane - a state where the unseen no longer spoke to her. The demons were gone but so were the angels. The tormenting had ceased but the ecstasy had been stifled. She then went into mourning. The days were dull and flat. She missed the intoxication of mania, the hyper-color of bliss, the elation of being in an altered state. She missed the constant contact. A cocktail of pills made her lusterless - she didn't sing spontaneously, crack jokes, make silly gestures. The meds altered