I keep my world small, contained. That way I never lose sight of the social cues of the normal world. When I talk with my therapist I allow myself to speak openly and honestly about whatever’s on my mind. I explore the words and watch as they tumble out and form clusters of sentences, pockets of meaning. I talk about things that I wouldn’t share with anyone else. It is the safest place I know.
When it comes to experiencing new or possibly uncomfortable things, there is usually some element of risk involved. For instance, do you share your diagnosis with a recent acquaintance before they level up to friend status, or do you wait for the elusive Perfect Moment to divulge your secret? Do you ask your doctor about the side effects of a new medication they recommend, or do you simply go on faith that everything will work itself out?
For most of my life, I lived with unmanaged schizophrenia, believing that I was “normal” and that my reality was no different from the generally accepted one. After years of therapy, I came to believe otherwise, learning to accept my fears of medication, fears based on a negative experience with meds when I was a senior in college. Having so recently lived otherwise—however briefly—I can safely say that being med-compliant is perhaps the single most important decision of my life.
Fifteen years into my son’s schizophrenia, I stand at the place where the sand meets the water, my bare feet planted firmly. I still cannot retrieve him, but at least he hears me now. I play a kind of call-and-response game with him, like Marco Polo. He will never lose me; I won’t allow it.
I’m not consoled by statistics. I am, however, overwhelmed by defeat. It seems that all I can focus on lately is hopelessness, either how to combat it or how to subsist within its limits. Usually I focus on hope and solitude, believing that this affords me some solace. But I sense that an outside pressure is at odds with my internal fortitude. I’m losing my optimism. I want it back.
I have PTSD from my manic episode of 2014, because of how severe the mood swing was, how long it lasted, and the damage I did to my family and myself without being fully cognizant of my own actions until it was too late to undo or take back everything that happened.
Mental illness can wreak havoc on our memories, but we can learn to live with that. Sometimes it’s like waking up from a dream and trying to reassemble it, never quite having all the components on hand. It’s a challenge, but one I’m willing to face to feel whole, complete, integrated, and stable.
I decided a long time ago that I didn’t have the energy for the tap dancing that bowing to stigma requires. This wasn’t a bold or noble move on my part. It was the need for efficiency. The stress and maintenance of this circus requires everything I’ve got. Superfluous activity and emotions are discarded to make room for problem solving.
My anxiety is through the roof. Left unchecked, it’s a tsunami of emotion. I’m prescribed an anti-anxiety medication at the maximum dosage, yet some things still get past the pharmaceutical firewall. To cope, I depend pretty heavily on my therapist.
