The Marching Boots in My Head: The Story of Schizophrenia and the Real Voices

By Nivekth

Icon Thomas was born into a world of racism and sexism where he uncovers a mass racist terrorist act done to him and his black classmates in his predominantly white elementary school in 1972. Icon discovers as an adult that his whole life had been terrorized every day since youth by numerous computerized lies used to invade his body and privacy, linked to the satellite towers in the county where he grew up. At that, they were being controlled by powerful people with money for ill-gotten gain. In his world of mental illness, he becomes aware of the truth surrounding the confusion of his physical conflicts within his body and mind, which are man-made and are linked to the satellite towers that were designed as a cover-up for fraud, attempted murders and murders, and the deaths of the students that went to his elementary school while he was there and during the duration of his school days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499083484

Nivekth

Nivekth stands for the truth inside of American as well as positive youth productivity in a forward motion. Nivekth hopes that the readers enjoy the street level knowledge as well as the spiritual pathways into understanding the lies that continue to exist in the United States. The Amendments to are Constitution will always be are link to are freedoms as American citizens that controls are future that are in total contradiction to the past backward thinking that made prisoners out of those that were so called free and slaves out of those that were being victimized.

Book preview

The Marching

Boots in My Head

The Story of Schizophrenia and the Real Voices

Nivekth

Copyright © 2014 by Nivekth.

ISBN:      Softcover     978-1-4990-8349-1

                eBook          978-1-4990-8348-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/21/2014

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Contents

Not

School Dayzz

Are You Gay?

GOD (Government of Defense)

Chesterfield

Fun Your Dirty Deeds

School Sucked

Church Was Good

Soldiers for Stupidity

A Mistake

Shift Gears

Backward-Ass Talk

The Navy Sea Cadets

Big Brother Inka

The ’Stang

The ABCs about the White Man

1989

Remove Your Cover

Cops and Robbers

AM to FM

You’re Going to Jail

My Brother and My Sister

Prove It

As the sun began to shine through the dark guarded window, a slow breathing intensified into rapid gasping for air. Now fully awake, I wondered who and where I was, why I had ended up in a mental institution, while at the same moment reflecting on the sound of the marching boots of eighty men with one common cause: food at the chow hall.

At the age of thirteen, I enlisted in the Naval Sea Cadet Corps to become the first black male navy sea cadet in Virginia. My reasons for enlisting at such a young age were simple: to become a leader, a figure of strength, and a success story to my parents. My mother was a computer apologist at Fort Lee Army Base in Prince George, Virginia, and my father was a customs home builder, who also once worked on Fort Lee’s base as a civil servant: they were very good parents to me, my three brothers, and our sister.

As I lay there in my bed on the third floor in Saint No Hope Hospital, listening to my unstable roommate’s erratic breathing as he did his morning push-ups and sit-ups, I realized that I had taken a turnkey elevator ride to my new home for twenty days on the pretense that my stay was going to be short and sweet, and the story was that after an evaluation was performed to prove that I wasn’t crazy and these voices in my head were real, an early release would be inevitable.

Not

What did happen was I watched the clock, counted the minutes, and had more than enough time to think about where the trouble in my head really and truly started, and it wasn’t in the US Navy. It started right where my school days were, where I grew up at Schizville, in the redneck backward-ass-talking county of Chesterfield, Virginia.

I was born September 29, 1966, to Eregra Thomas and Roffi Thomas in Petersburg, Virginia, at the South of Division Hospital, where the foolishness of race was as powerful as a statement as The South shall rise again. Those motherfucking crazy-ass bastards meant that shit, and those words were not to be taken lightly. Some white folk’s view of life back then was that separation of race, as far as they were concerned, was for the best. It was a proven fact at my birth, because they separated the babies: black babies were put with the black babies, and the white babies were put with the white babies.

My mother realized this when she came to see me in the hospital nursery and a white woman said to her, Look, they even have the babies separated. My mother replied, No, they don’t, because that’s my baby right there with the white babies. Because my skin color was so light, I passed for being white, and the hospital staff didn’t know the difference. Now back in those days, that was winning for black folks because of the constant reminders of the past battles and wars fought over the truth about racism, and they lived their lives in constant fear of the destruction of their own families. They lived with thoughts of being terrorized by some smart-ass racist with too much time on his hands—white men sitting around thinking too much about what some black man has achieved in comparison to the white men around his black ass, which was a very dangerous fucking thing in those days. Still today it’s a very dangerous thing on an economic scale.

School Dayzz

In the county of Chesterfield, the schools in 1970 were predominantly white, and the word nigger was an everyday expression used by some of the white kids. They were taught that bullshit by their parents as a line of defense against peace, love, and unity in this great country where we were all US citizens, with certain rights under the constitution. The reminiscence of those struggles to find love amid racism is still there in Chesterfield, marked in a time warp. Chesterfield is twisted by a liar’s greed, to cover up the past ill-gotten gains for a false sense of control over the future.

That bullshit took a big chunk of my life away, and it wasn’t until 2010 that I understood what really happened to me while I attended Enon Elementary School. Through the bouncing back and forth in my mind with true voices, I started to remember. I was purposely failed in the school year of 1972–1973 while in the second grade along with about thirty other black students in Enon Elementary School, and I was told that I was going to fail by Mrs. Snibor, my second grade teacher near the beginning of the school year. Many of the days the second time around in second grade were spent planning out how to win at the plight of confusion between love of myself and the battles of racism on the playground. Fighting over the word nigger was the standard reason in those days of black versus white, and that was my normal.

My younger brother Lano was promoted from the first grade the following year and was now in the second grade with me. Many of the days while we were on the playground together were spent fighting with our classmates with redneck parents over the haunting words of racism. I was taught by my parents that fighting was necessary and the correct thing to do if you were bothered while in school during the struggles to be united with white people in 1973. I was really good at it too—I had rhythm, timing, and speed, and I could really throw some blows. I’m pretty sure the teachers witnessed plenty fights among the black and white students on the playground but never once ever stopped it. I was the designated gang leader of four black male youths involved in the battles. Not all the white students were involved in fighting. Many stayed clear of the violence and were my friends, and I also was theirs.

The following year, I was promoted to the third grade, and my brother Lano was retained in the second grade, and this is where I believe I first started hearing voices in my head. As I walked from my third grade homeroom class to my math class in the fourth grade, I heard a soft voice in my head say, They are all getting bigger than you, and you are going to lose at fighting one day. I didn’t understand where this was coming from, and I thought it was my own thoughts that I had thought of in my own mind. I found out later on in life that those weren’t my thoughts and that it’s very easy to turn a child around and against themselves and others when Satan himself has his hands on the steering wheel of your life.

Now fighting was something that came very natural to me, and I wasn’t worried about any kid my age beating me at first, but that voice had influenced my psyche. I was now left with the belief of right and wrong, and I developed a reason to follow truth and faith under the laws of God. A few days after that occurred, I got off the bus in the morning and walked to my homeroom class. I saw two of my black church mates beating the hell out of one of my white teammates from my little league football team. He was a bloody mess and crying like a little girl as the two black church mates busted up his face. I felt real pity for him as I reflected on my memories of him on the football field. My brother Lano and I would laugh at the way he walked and ran while he played the running-back position on the football team. Once again the soft voice came in my head and said, You can help him beat those guys, which was true, so I started putting a plan together to tell him that I would help him fight them if he wanted me to.

I noticed in the following days that he sat in the same homeroom desk that I sat in while I was in my fourth grade math class, and I thought to myself that I could possibly slip him a note letting him know that I would fight those guys with him. So the next day, I wrote out a kite and slipped it in a crevice in the corner of the desk that he sat at in his homeroom class. The note read, I will help you fight them. After writing the kite, I thought to myself about what he might have thought of the note that came from me. Now I’ve always liked girls and had numerous girls like me and wanted me to be their boyfriend throughout my school days. I also had many love letters and was asked out loud many times, I like you. Do you like me? Now the funny thing about what happened was that it wasn’t fucking funny. That same little voice came inside my head, questioning how he would interpret something as simple as wanting to help a fellow teammate fight some other kids, and that was where my first thoughts of homosexuality came into my mind.

The next day, for some strange reason, an overwhelming thought and feeling came over me. I couldn’t shake the idea that he might read the note and think of it as one of those love notes—like ones so many girls had sent me, asking to be their boyfriend: I like you. Do you like me? Check yes or no. I couldn’t explain that I wasn’t gay or a fag or a sissy boy, that I wasn’t attracted to him in any way. How did something so simple turn from sugar to shit,