There Is an Ancient Thing Inside of Me.

There are eighteen lives between my two cats. Yet I feel that I’ve Iived more. When will reality and reincarnation disunite? For many lifetimes have been lived inside this body.

Nine lives apiece for each cat which naps placid in winter sun.

Yet I have lived one thousand more.

My bones, old skeletons, rattle when I walk like wind through frozen trees.

Count to five.

Breathe.

There is an ancient thing inside of me.

Ghostly.

Sheet thing.

Tombstone skin.

There is an ancient thing inside of me.

A tiger behind a wall of glass.

Power strongly veiled by fear.

I’ve mistaken sleep for death again.

A cold sun dips below cold hills.

A fistful of nighttime pills.

This ancient thing inside of me is of my own commitment.

And even as it whispers, “you are a but a vision, absent…”

I am stronger than you think.

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Antipsychotics Saved My Life.

I’ve lost my passion since starting Seroquel. The act of writing doesn’t fill me with energy like it used to. I’m not writing to free myself from that intangible thing. The intangible madness boiling over like a pot left on the stove unattended. The intangible Schizophrenia. The intangible Mania. The intangible Depression like a bundle of sheets, wet and heavy and cold, protecting me from the fire as it burned around me.

Or was it was another something that pushed me to write? Was it was writing itself? Either way, I’ve lost that fire now. I’m damp most days. Not depressed, not manic, not even happy sometimes.  Unfeeling, tamed. And while it’s a good thing, it scares me. Medication has felt a lot like a tree being pruned. I know it’s good but it feels wrong. Sometimes I miss being caught in the throes of psychosis. So bright and bold I ended up in the Er with doctors trying to hold me down. Sticking needles in my arms and slipping my wrists into restraints. I miss the enticing delirium. I miss the sugar taste of psychosis and how it made my brain feel like a honeycomb with bees buzzing inside. It’s hard to enjoy being well when being sick was the only thing I ever knew.

Antipsychotics turn you into a picture of what you used to be. A string of metaphors, tangled up like an old bundle of wires. You move from being yourself to being yourself on antipsychotics. Trying to leave your illness behind you like a fog which really never recedes. Remission always haunting you. A fear of getting sick again always at the back of your mind. Because mental illness isn’t like other illnesses, or it is but nobody thinks so.

 

psychotic disordersI remember what it was like to be in control, back before the voices started. Way back before the hallucinations. Before the menu of medications. Before these diagnoses and these labels that burn and burn and burn like hot coals on the soft soles of my feet. Schizoaffective Disorder is so stigmatized it feels like a death sentence. The awful combination of Schizophrenia and Bipolar Disorder, two already highly stigmatized disorders, Schizoaffective Disorder is the diagnosis for the unlucky few.  And while antipsychotics are a necessary treatment for such aggressive illness, and while I often complain about the side effects, the truth is antipsychotics saved my life. It’s been scary, becoming someone else. Not the person before Schizoaffective, and not the same person I was during my darkest days. I’m a new a person now. Someone who can think again, and sleep again, and breathe, and concentrate, and most importantly I’m someone how who can deny my hallucinations and delusions the power to control me.

Psychotic disorders can feel like a death sentence, but they don’t have to be.

But I’m talking in circles here.

 

Scientists discover brain area which can be targeted for treatment in patients with schizophrenia who ‘hear voices’.

Science Daily, September 4th 2017: Scientists discover brain area which can be targeted for treatment in patients with Schizophrenia who ‘hear voices’.

“For the first time, scientists have precisely identified and targeted an area of the brain which is involved in “hearing voices,” experienced by many patients with schizophrenia. They have been able to show in a controlled trial that targeting this area with magnetic pulses can improve the condition in some patients.”

As a person who hears voices often (near constantly) despite medication intervention I’m always looking for new ways to cope with them (the voices). And although I don’t see myself receiving Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS) anytime soon, I think it’s important to keep up with new treatments as they become possible or available.

So what is TMS and how might it help people with Schizophrenia and Schizoaffective Disorder? In a TMS session, an electric coil is placed against the head and a painless magnetic pulse stimulates nerve cells in certain regions of your brain. Right now it’s been used primarily for Major Depression Disorder but with this early research, it appears that TMS could be used to target regions of the brain associated with hearing voices.

“The French research team worked with 26 patients who received active TMS treatment, and 33 as a control group, who received sham (placebo) treatment. The researchers interviewed the patients using a standard protocol — the Auditory Hallucinations Rating Scale — which revealed most of the characteristic features of the voices which they were hearing. The treated patients received a series of 20 Hz high-frequency magnetic pulses over 2 sessions a day for 2 days. Using magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), the pulses were targeted at a specific brain area in the temporal lobe, which is associated with language (the exact area is the crossing of the projection of the ascending branch of the left lateral sulcus and the left superior temporal sulcus).

After 2 weeks, the patients were re-evaluated. The researchers found that 34.6% of the patients being treated by TMS showed a significant response, whereas only 9.1% of patients in the sham group responded (‘significant response’ was defined as a more than 30% decrease in the Total Auditory Hallucinations Rating Scale score).”

This is also highly promising for those people with Schizophrenia and Schizoaffective Disorder who are nonresponsive or resistant to medication and other traditional treatments. But I think what is most important about this is the finding of the anatomical area of the brain associated with auditory verbal hallucinations in schizophrenia. And while these studies have a long way to go before TMS could/would be accepted as a conventional treatment for Schizophrenia/Schizoaffective the results of this study are certainly promising.

 

*I’m planning on doing a write up about new breakthroughs and scientific studies in the mental health/illness field once or twice a week*

Fast and Without Too Much Sadness

   Red curtains move in the wind of an open window. Warm wind then, on warm sunlight, peers through. Long sunlight fingers push aside the air. Dust floats. My cats like to lay in this type of sun and I like to sit with them, letting my socks get warm and warm my feet. Outside there are bugs and branches and leaves turning red. The play-dough scent of apple branches being pruned from their trunks evaporates around me even as I write. The smell of hardwood. The smell of sweet apple flesh and hazelnut candles. Pine trees at the top of the yard are green and settle their stout bodies against the cooling topsoil. People lean on one another in the face of gathering winter. For now, it’s still autumn. For now, we still have to use all our apples up and fix the snowblower and stitch our jeans and prepare the house for colder weather.

   The days grow shorter and darker and before we know it snow will arrive and we will be buried up to our necks in it. The cats will stop shedding and pack on some winter weight.

   The weather allows for hot showers now and I take ones that border on the cusp of being too hot. When I shower I do it at night with the lights off. Letting the water rinse the coffee grinds and chewed nails and dried skin away.

   Odd to think that I still don’t know myself. After all this time alone we never became acquainted. I am an introvert afraid of other people. This includes me.

   When I look in the mirror I don’t see myself anymore. I see a self made new by flesh. By antipsychotics and antidepressants. By new scars and new wrinkles and new stretch marks. I see a new body and a new brain. But I don’t see myself.

   It’s hard, having been so many things. Flashes of an aging young adult who never got to know herself. I was a kid once. A kid who always kept my hair cut short. A kid who needed braces but never got them. Once upon a time, I was a tomboy. An arm wrestler in the fifth grade who could beat the boys. For a while, I was a confused preteen. Baggy pants and tight shirts. A teen who didn’t want to have sex. An anorexic. A kid who, while good reading books, was poor at reading people. I obsessed over spirituality and religion. Questioning everything to the point of insanity.  I was homeless. I was a runaway. I was unhealthy. Underweight. Sick. Bedridden. Paralyzed. Non-Epileptic (PNES). Dependant. A smoker, god forbid. Someone buying drugs in the back seat of a station wagon that wasn’t my own. Having sex without enjoyment. An all A’s student attempting suicide in the middle of the night. A self-harmer. A frequent flyer at the hospital. Psychotic. Manic. Depressive. Confused. Boney. Absent. Schizophrenic. Bipolar. Schizoaffective. Catatonic. A nighttime-midnight-in the dark-showerer. A nighttime-walker. Empty. Lost. Someone who wished they were dead but ended up happy to be alive (well most of the time.) A college dropout. I used to be someone who listened to the voices. Someone who followed the hallucinations.

   And then came the antipsychotics and all the things I’d ever been came fullstop. Now I’m soft and bitter and my brain is full of Seroquel soup. I’m caught between meds having saved my life and having destroyed it. Of course, I should say that Schizoaffective Disorder did the destroying. Sluggish waves with no force behind them turning my psychotic wheels. Caught between wanting recovery and wanting destruction. For being happy for new my health and being spiteful of it. Between being accepting of antipsychotics and believing the benefits to be disingenuous.

   Out of all the things I’ve ever been I’ve never known any of them for very long.

  I want to see that change but I can’t say I know for sure that they will. Of course, this year went by faster than apples are falling from their branches this autumn. If I close my eyes and hold my breath and take my meds perhaps another year will move on like this one did. Fast and without too much sadness.

 

   

 

Writer’s Block

I can’t think of a more doggish feeling than needing to write but being unable to. Pacing, canine. Rabid. An unyielding reminder pounding at the back of my head: write, write, write. But no words present. Only a rushing of blood, muscles tensing and untensing, a too fast heartbeat. Only humanity forms at the tips of my fingers but not a single letter. Nothing to show for my sentience. The one thing I was born to do, is something beyond my control. Words coming and going as they please. Presenting themselves only when they feel it’s best. I don’t get to decide on those words. When they come they are almost always unexpected. At midnight, at work, in the shower covered water. Forming from brain fog into firmness. Always inconvenient. Always when no pen is near. Arriving in pieces which I am later able to stitch together.

The rest of the time I listen to the voices, making up stories and lies until they arrive at some truth.

This is my bane as a Schizophrenic writer. My essays born of illness, while important to me, are never my decision to write. Perhaps I am more a vessel than a captain. After all, Schizoaffective Disorder is like sailing your ship through the roughest waters, without ever knowing what the water really is.   

 

Depression is like Blindness

TW FOR MENTIONS OF SUICIDE

 

Maybe I wanted to die. Wanted to die for real. Collapsed on the dorm room floor. The jar of pills rolling from the edge of my desk and scattering across the floor like candy. In what would’ve been my last moments, regret would’ve filled my body like the pills filled my stomach. Like cement. In those last moments, I would’ve had the will to live but not the strength to pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1.

Luckily, I had both. Coming back from the edge and learning to see again.

That’s how depression works. It’s much like blindness. For it’s not darkness you feel even in your darkest moments, it’s nothingness. As huge and heavy as the entire ocean in your chest, and as silent and empty as a room with only a whirring fan at its center.

It’s soft and quiet and filling and hypothesizing. It’s exhausting like nothing else you’ve ever felt. And before you know it it’s got you and all you want to do is close your eyes and die.

And eventually, you might try. And it will be up to you in that moment to decide whether you really want it. And you will either pick up the phone and call for help or you won’t. That will be up to you, and I hope you make the choice. It will either be the last decision you make or the first one on the path of change. That’s your call, quite literally.

Don’t give up if you can help it. Because somewhere, someone or something is going to teach you how to swim in that ocean that fills your body. And if you want it, you’re going to get better.