I’ve lived through enough pain that I don’t need the drama. My illness is unpredictable, which is why I take medicine to handle the heavy lifting that self-knowledge can’t.
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After the three-week stay in the hospital, where they changed up his meds because he had become psychotic, he hasn’t settled yet. I implored them to keep him through the transition. I mean, changing serious, anti-psychotic meds after ten years is no small thing.
Short and long-term memory is challenging for me; the memories in between are where I live, when I can. I perform daily activities based on patterns I have set up. If my routines get disrupted I have a hard time staying on task.
My mind is continually creating an existential puzzle, the solution to which will invariably leave me under yet another layer of loneliness.
Take a few minutes and read. I know how much you need to hear from a mother who is completely honest about the missiles and darts of motherhood, mental illness; impossible teenagers, and the fact that, at night time, all that holds true is that you love them so completely, so ridiculously…
Stability is subtle. If you knew me when I was sick and struggling, you’d see enough of a change in me today that I might appear normal. Not pretending to be normal to blend in, but less awkward, less preoccupied, more present. That’s what I want, to be free to be mentally ill and still be a part of the landscape of human connection without the pretense of convention.
I believed that it was somehow normal for insects to live under the skin. I was too embarrassed to seek help because I never thought anything was wrong. Even after I was diagnosed with schizophrenia, I kept my bug problem to myself. It’s only recently that I’ve opened up about it in therapy. I’ve dealt with it since my first break at twenty-one.
Since getting my medications adjusted sixteen months ago, I’ve become incrementally capable of responding to the common reality despite schizophrenia’s influence. I’m more keenly aware of the difference between what I think is happening and what is actually happening. I’m growing more adept at handling reality as it comes to me, carefully sidestepping any mental pitfalls that might otherwise derail my ensuing thoughts and reactions.
I cannot accept that there isn’t a doctor out there who can help my son. My husband says I have to accept it and I scream NO, I’M NOT ACCEPTING IT. He shakes his head and says something softly that I can’t hear. Don’t want to hear.
When I was fresh out of college and struggling with my symptoms, my brother was there for me, listening without judgement as I shared my stories of paranoia. His compassion and strength helped calm me down. He was an anchor in the chaos of my volatile youth. A lover of life, he thwarted my suicide attempts and helped me rediscover my own will to live.