I didn’t know I was going to grow up to be Schizophrenic. I guess the warning signs were there. Depression, anxiety, self-harm, magical thinking, self-isolation, and poor social skills. A preoccupation with death and a delusional fascination with religion. Even so, at eighteen and hardly an adult, the transition from neurotypical to Schizophrenic broke me. But then, no one plans on growing up to be sick. Young adulthood snatched away from me by madness and medication. Frequent psychiatric hospitalizations and a few suicide attempts dotted my calendar. Eventually, my illness changed from acute to chronic. Four years later and I’m twenty-two going on twenty-three. I’m a college dropout. I’m on disability. I take medication five times a day to function well enough to live on my own. But after all the medication I still hear voices all day every day. I can’t read, and I can hardly write.
These days I walk the line between Bipolar and Schizophrenic. I exist in a gray space called Schizoaffective. I spend most days at home with my two tabby cats, while my husband goes to work. I don’t feel young. I’m tired. I’m… sexless, achy, and confused. My brain feels like it’s full of sand. And my psychiatrist says that it’s normal, that it’s all normal. Normal for a Schizophrenic. It’s the anti-psychotics she says. She says that when my brain feels full of under-cooked bread that it’s normal too. And like so many, many Americans, I hate medication.
Or… I used to.
Because while it may have taken four years to find the right medication. I can say now that Seroquel has saved my life. I lost almost everything to Schizophrenia and then Schizoaffective Disorder. Nothing seemed sacred. Not family, not friends, not time or perspective, not school or reputation. Nothing.
The last thing to go was my faith, which I lost right around the same time I started anti-psychotics. In that way I was different I supposed, while most people find faith in dire times, mine was unredeemed. Which meant for me, and so many other Schizophrenics, that God was a chemical imbalance. A product of the over-pruning of the synapses in my brain. A product of delusions and hallucinations. Of my ill-equipped Schizophrenic brain trying to make sense of this tremendous epigram. This transition into a faithless existence happened slowly at first and then all at once. A building reversal in which I found myself back peddling. Scampering away from what had been a fascination with religion.
Yet with this new high dosage of antipsychotics, I felt a calming inside of myself. A settling of the churning psychotic debris. And although I wasn’t free of Schizoaffective Disorder, these days I am less of a slave to it.
So why do I still hate my medication? Why do I loathe my pills as I organize them into weekly and daily sections? Why do I frown as I set alarms to remember to take them? Without them, I would become an incoherent mess. The CDC says that almost fifty percent of us (48.7%) take at least one prescription drug. Strange that antidepressants are one of the most frequently prescribed medications. Yet, it seems like everyone condemns prescriptions for mental health conditions. “Big Pharma,” they say. “You don’t really need those meds.” “You could stand to come down a few milligrams.” “Aren’t you cured yet? After all those medications you take?” “Those meds turn you into someone else.” “Nobody needs antidepressants.” “Get out more.” “Exercise.” “Just be happy.” “It’s all in your head.” “Get over it.”
But to myself, I say “It’s not that easy…don’t you see…it’s not that easy.”
A patient cured is a customer lost…
Don’t you see it’s not that easy….
How can I practice acceptance and accept my antipsychotics in an age of pharmaceutical phobia? From the beginning of my journey with mental health medications, they were always bad. After all, how could I be myself if my medications changed the way my brain worked?
But it’s not that easy. You don’t get to see what an unmedicated Schizophrenic looks like. Unless you’re the one who is going to drive me to the ER in the middle of the night. Unless you’re the one calling 911 because I’ve stopped making sense and I’ve told you I’m going to kill myself. Most people haven’t seen me hiding in the closet. Covering the windows. Tearing apart my living space looking for hidden cameras. Most people haven’t heard me yelling about voices, or aliens, or the things that try and read my mind. You haven’t seen me restrained. Or in the back of a cop car. Or in the psych hospital with bandages covering my forearms. You haven’t seen me getting shots of Haloperidol in the middle of a psychotic episode. You weren’t there the first time I overdosed and you weren’t there the second time either. Few people I’ve let see this side of me… and because you haven’t I’m going to venture to say that you don’t understand.
So, to the people who think that ‘Big Pharma’ does nothing more than create customers, you forget the lives it saves.
You forget that it saved my life.
Though maybe you didn’t forget, maybe you just don’t know..
1. It makes my head feel nearly full with voices. I’ve got to do everything slowly so as not to spill any of them over the top of my head like water. Breathe slow, sleep slow, move slow, walk slow, think slow.
2. It makes my head feel full of with bugs. It makes me need to hold my scalp down with my hands. But every once in a while they get by my fingers and I have to pull them out of my hair, their legs catching in the knots I don’t brush out. I don’t tell anyone when this happens instead, I just flush them down the toilet.
3. It makes my head feel chock full of sand. On those days I’m weighed down by the ocean that surrounds the beaches of my brain, so I don’t get out of bed.
4. It sometimes leaves cobwebs. They are stretched between my thoughts like thread. This makes it hard to come to new conclusions, hard make healthy decisions. These are the days that self-destruction visits, taking advantage of its own spiderweb design.
5. And sometimes it fills my skull full of flashing lights. Strobes erupting surreally in my head. When this happens it makes my arms feel disconnected from my body. Forcing my hands to work on their own. In this space I have no legs at all, just a brain attached to my body like a string, two tin cans on either end. My face isn’t familiar, my skin is alien and nothing feels real.