So, like usual, I’ve taken a long hiatus from posting. I’ve gotten complacent about managing my symptoms without the constant voices in my head. But I watched a short video made by someone across the pond who is dealing with a lot of the things I typically deal with and felt inspired to start writing again. There’s been a lot going on since we last talked, deaths and births, joys and sorrow, and stress. Oh, the stress. At some point in my life, around the time I was diagnosed with schizophrenia initially, stress grabbed me up and swallowed me whole. The world closed in. The ceilings seemed lower, walls closer. I ceased to understand how anyone could just keep living. There were the endless days, those endless numbered days (to quote a line from a song I particularly like by Iron and Wine). The days were numbered to my own destruction, either by my hand or someone else. I am surrounded now by a considerable amount of stress and I am managing as best as I can right now. It’s not the stress it was then, in a sense, but the pain of discovering a large part of my life may be an absolute lie.
My therapist and I had a frank discussion the other day about my feelings about and understanding of the beginning of my illness. She would like to try EMDR therapy at some point soon to address some of the very traumatic events in my life, this not being a trivial number. Part of our discussion about my perception of the origins of my disorder was going over the initial phase of my illness, which I have persistently believed that was not a quirk of my own biology. I won’t get into the details, as surely they are too complex and painful to include here (maybe some other day), but apparently I am still living with a persistent delusion. I struggle with delusions because, well, they are delusions. Like I’ve always said, I never imagine myself to be famous or important. I fear persecution. I feel like the world is designed specifically for my own torture and that of those I care for. I know I am not unique in this respect but my understanding of the role I play in the world, in my secret and mysterious world, is decidedly different than the average person’s. My therapist suggested I not share with anyone my understanding of why I act and feel the way I do. For this moment, I will exercise restraint. It’s not because I think it’s going to change how people look at me, it’s because I don’t want to experience the pain of people not believing me again. I’ve kept it to myself for over 10 years now and it took a lot to bring it into the light of day, even with just one person. She didn’t believe me. She believed that I believed it, but she didn’t. I was crushed. That’s the problem with delusions. Deep inside, somewhere, I know that there are real biological reasons for the way I act and think. But the rest of me feels controlled, constrained, with a path already chosen for me that I will walk without any sort of deviation or delay. I am walking towards an eternity of pain, for both me and the ones I love, and I can barely stand it. It’s not intrusive thoughts or hallucinations, be they auditory or visual, that really get to me. I have learned to accept that most people don’t see the same things or hear the same things I do, but the concept that my overwhelming understanding of my world and all the things in it is in some way flawed is truly disturbing. For now, I will try to keep living in that bizarre and unbelievable world I’ve always inhabited, without the fear that it may implode any minute. I will blindly hope that my life is constructed of the same building blocks it always has, I will go back to the basics. I do not have schizoaffective disorder. I am you and you are me.
Thanks for listening.