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.
I 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.