I had been comfortable living my life in the fringe of psychosis. I worried that my art would suffer. But I’ve managed to surprise myself as a medicated man in that my creativity has not faltered. Quite the contrary—my artistic focus has increased, and I feel like I am doing some of my best work to date. Medicine was key in discovering newfound stability.
Then there’s working memory and episodic memory. I can’t hold onto a phone number, much less a name. Storage, retrieval. How am I supposed to recall the details? Just smile and pretend that it’s the same for normal people. I pad my excuses with self-depreciating humor. No one’s the wiser.
As I explore the functionality of loneliness in my life, I also look to accountability. Do I try to put myself out there, and do I do so without expectation of return? Yes, and yes. So why do I feel alone? Is it because others can’t handle the mentally ill guy, or is it self-stigma informing my conclusions?
Sometimes that’s what it’s all about, this life where I work hard to overcome my mental health challenges and blend into the fabric of life. This is where I need to remember that I can advocate for myself as well as others, that we all can, and that the future of how we’re perceived rests solely on our will to be understood and accepted on equal ground.
Is there any other symptom of mental illness more commonly ridiculed than the hearing of voices? I can’t think of an equivalent in the medical world that garners the laughter and demeaning cruelty of auditory hallucinations. Do we universally laugh at a concussion? Does hilarity ensue at the mention of cancer? Absurd to consider, yet we don’t think twice about giggling at a person beleaguered by voices.
I have to remember to be kind to myself. Navigating the so-called real world takes more for some than it does for others; each case is as individual as the person experiencing it. No two are alike. If I can get through any one thing with some semblance of grace, then I deserve to pat myself on the back for have completed a job well done. And that includes a moment out for tears in the washroom.
Semantically speaking, am I schizophrenic? No, I am not. I have schizophrenia and I am a schizophrenic. I choose to address my illness in the most available way possible. I’m comfortable with the terminology because it’s accurate. It’s also my choice. I’m not allowing someone else to define my personality or my contribution to society by labeling me. I’m simply using a word to communicate something about me. If the person I am speaking to is uncomfortable with that, then they’re the uncomfortable party, not me. I stand firm in the knowledge that I am so much more than my diagnosis. Stigma and discrimination might wear me down, but not at the cost of my self worth.
I used to believe that there was nothing wrong with me, that I didn’t have a mental illness. I never looked at my life through the lens of a loved one who wondered why their brother/uncle/son was so eccentric and obtuse, withdrawn and hyper, anxious and depressed, and socially awkward. It was never me, it was them, or so I thought.
While most folks might talk about how well their kids are doing in school, how their vacation plans are shaping up, or how grueling their recent tax audit was, we share stories about therapy, medication tremors, and drooling. And we find humor in it. Because we can. Because it takes out the sting. We find a commonality that we can’t share with the general population, not even our psychiatrists or therapists.
Nine-tenths of what I can’t see is stuff I’m keeping to myself—things I won’t discuss in therapy, fears I won’t express, self-stigma I won’t face up to. If I don’t speak about it, it’s not real. Which is not true. That’s just fear and naïvety. What do I have to gain by sabotaging my mental health? Nothing.