“I’ve seen Schizophrenics do great things and then crash,” he said, a quiet voice in a quiet room. Quiet dust settled on a thin sunlit window sill. Hot tension settled, “Avoid anything that gives you any stress at all.”
I looked at the doctor but didn’t say a word, angry words trapped behind my teeth.
Great things aren’t done by avoiding hardship. I thought about the upcoming school year. It’s wasn’t going to be easy. But then, to defeat your diagnosis is a brave thing. It’s scary, and all along the way, people will like to tell that you can’t overcome what you have set out to do. Schizophrenics being gravely disabled aren’t only faced with challenges that any disabled person might face, but we are stigmatized too. Most recently I’ve been told I won’t be able to be aggressively intelligent, a skill I will apparently need to do well in college.
The first time I was ever told there was something wrong with me it was third grade. The smell strawberry scented markers filled the air. I held my marker clumsily in my hand. I don’t remember what I’m writing with it but I remember the wind blowing lazily through two purple curtains. The breeze is warm so it must still be September. The class pet, a white mouse, is sleeping in his cage. It’s close to the end of the day.
There is a fuzzy nagging at the back of the head. Like a string being tugged on. Then there is a voice. A voice which only I can hear. Creeping up my body like a ghost and leaving thoughts in my brain.
There was a great stillness in my throat.
I couldn’t draw a straight line. I couldn’t adhere to the margins of a page, all my writing coming out crooked. Mixed with my poor handwriting it became a problem for the teachers.
An Occupational Therapist came twice a week and tried and help. Holding my hands still and making me solve mazes. She thought that maybe there was a disconnect between my brain and my hands. She always wore skirts with animals on them. Blue skirts with dolphins and pink ones with pigs. By the time I stopped speaking the school didn’t know what to do with me so they decided to hold me back. I guess I was awkward socially. I don’t remember a whole lot of that year, just that the voices started.
By the sixth grade, I believed I had magical powers that my friends didn’t. Most of my school day was spent staring at the classroom door and wondering what might come through it. Monsters, aliens, a demon sly on two black wings. Math was an issue for me, the voices reciting lists of numbers as I tried to work through problems. I saw a six and all I could hear were lists of twelves. A thirteen and I could only hear sevens and eighteens. I never had a problem with the written language though, the voices inciting phrases and words for me. Helping my sentences to flow.
The third time I learned there was something wrong with me I was looking over the shoulder of a police officer. I was watching a grainy tape of myself, interacting with nothing. My blue Rite Aid work uniform black and white. Surrounded by shampoo bottles. Not a person in sight, though apparently, I thought so. I was in high school and although I had started speaking years ago, so had the visual hallucinations.
The fourth time I ever learned that something was wrong with me. I burst into tears in the middle of math class. Unable to breathe. A pale darkness surrounded me and outside the classroom window, I saw the same man I had seen at Rite Aid. Suddenly I was being escorted down to the Social Worker’s office. Then an ambulance with giant lights and loud sounds. Then a hospital. But this hospital was a different kind. It had doors that locked you in. In this hospital, they take the shoelaces from your shoes. All of your belongings are tied up in plastic bags. There is an old pay phone on the wall. Grimy from years of use. There are empty rooms. And there are crowded rooms where all the patients huddled around windows that looked out onto empty parking lots. Nurses come by and give you medications. Food gets brought up to you. There is a security guard with a taser. And a nurses station behind a wall of glass.
It wasn’t a healing environment.
I stayed there for three weeks.
That fall I went to college. I’d been living on my own since my first hospitalization. After six more hospitalizations, a bad psychiatrist, and a dozen or so medications I had grown accustomed to how many things were wrong with me.
“You’re sick, you need to be here right now.”
“Take this med or we’ll make you take it.”
“There won’t be any beds for a week, but you’re too sick to go home.”
“Don’t tell anyone about your diagnosis.”
“You’re not safe to be on campus.”
“You’re a liability in the classroom.”
“You’re diagnosis is a death sentence.”
Dust settled on my textbooks, heavy doses of anti-psychotics dulled my mind. Turning it to a beehive, amess with chatter but sticky with honey. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move. So I dropped out of college. And became the image of the person my doctor claimed I would become.
For three years I let myself heal. Body and mind. I found a dose of a medication that worked for me. Finding that medicine was the catalyst that calmed the storm. A riled sea slowed inside of me. I could now pick up the debris which littered my brain.
I turned back to writing for the first time in years. I used writing to create a reflection of myself that I could understand. Coming to terms with being sick. Even though Schizoaffective Disorder is life-long, it’s still a life worth living. I learned that I could use my voices as a gift, letting them express themselves through words. After a few publications, I realized that it works. I started a blog to allow my voices to stretch their legs. They’re part of me, I can’t keep them cooped up forever.
As my brain slowly clears, I’ve made the big decision to return to school. To pursue something which I’ve was told I’d never reach. I’m braver now than I’ve ever been. Any life is a life worth living, and any knowledge is knowledge worth learning. I learned in Dialectical Behavioral Therapy that to function properly one has to balance rational mind with emotional mind. Doing this creates a calm that exists between the two: wise mind. A place we can all find peace. School teaches me the same thing. I’ve learned to balance my school work with my illness. The best example of emotional mind and rational mind that I encounter on a daily basis. Academia and Schizophrenia, place in which I find peace.
Chronic illness, mental illness, an illness which endures is indescribable. It’s made up of pain which cannot be fully understood without actually experiencing it. People with illnesses and injuries, people like myself, aren’t placated into inaction. It’s not as if we don’t strive for the same things you do. It’s not as if we don’t want to excel. It’s that, to no fault of our own, one day we were thrust into a world inept to meet our challenges. This world wasn’t designed for us. The dreams we once had are dashed when we are told what we won’t ever be able to do again.
After my diagnosis of Schizophrenia, it was a death sentence. I’d never do anything worthwhile for the rest of my life. Called ‘profoundly disabled’. It was suggested that I live in a group home until I might end up in the hospital for a long-term stay. But almost four years later I’ve bought my own house and work part-time. I’m a student about to embark on a four-year program to a masters degree. I’m a published author and advocate for other people with psychotic disorders.
I’ve come so much further than any doctor would’ve dare predict. I am not afraid and in fact, I feel powerful. Like I have power over myself and a mind which doesn’t have my best interest at heart. Battles waged against ourselves are often the scariest. And certainly, they are the most difficult. But, when we face ourselves we experience a transformative journey. One which spurs us onward to wellness. That journey wasn’t easy for me and at times I lost myself. Those closest to me, those who were with me at my worst, know that at times I came close to losing the light. But I’m here now and ready to help those who find themselves on the edge like I once did. People with Schizophrenia are told there is no recovery. But I beg to differ. Hard work, harder work than you’ve ever done before, determination, and support dictates your own journey. Everybody’s recovery may look different in the end. But what’s most important is that you didn’t give up. Even when your symptoms were at their worst. And that you pushed yourself as hard as you possibly could.
The message here isn’t just, “don’t give up!” It’s, “recovery is possible, don’t lose hope.”