RealMental

People call me/I call myself Jen/Jenny/Jennifer.

I see myself as a feminist, a person interested in progress (and sometimes politics), a sister, a friend, and a survivor (and though, I’d prefer a different term for that one, it fits).

If I thought you cared and you were listening, I would tell you how lonely I really am, despite the smile on my face.

I am struggling with self-hatred…Schizophrenia…being an “other” in a world not built for “others”…wanting to do so much that I lack the clear mind required to accomplish…feeling like a failure because I haven’t. finished. college. and I’m 34. years. old. and it’s pathetic.

Something I have been keeping a secret is I hear voices while I’m at work, and no one at work knows.

I am trying to think positive and something I’m good at is keeping a blog (does that count?), taking care of my little apartment and my cat (housework being something I couldn’t manage in the past, for great lengths of time), being a true friend.

I love activism, writing, laughter, and having hope.

I want people to know the world is not a fair or equal playing field for people who live with mental illnesses, but we are still an integral part of this great, big human experiment, with much to offer.

Guest post by Jennifer

“It’s been a long trip with little days in it, and no new places” ~Anne Sexton

It started when I thought I had been molested and blocked out the memories. This made sense when I read books on the subject, and talked to a therapist or two. It made so much sense, I had things I thought were “repressed memories” and I became completely sure that they were real. It made so much sense, I destroyed some familial relationships that have never been repaired completely since.

The first time I hallucinated, I thought there was a bat flying around my bedroom. Another night, a giant frog was on me.

The CIA didn’t start to follow me until a few years later. I thought I was followed by the mafia, the Masons, the CIA, the FBA, the NSA, and Satanic cults, and became convinced I had a connection to all these groups.

I saw the same color, everywhere I looked, some days. I’d see red-white-and-blue on everything from someone’s clothing to the paint on a wall. Everything. And I didn’t know I was hallucinating at all.

I heard the voices first as if they were from people behind a wall. I thought I was overhearing people in another apartment or room. Then I heard people tell me how I was going to die. All the time, every day, people were telling me I was going to die. They were telling me how horrible I was, how much they hated me, that I was worthless, and that I should be dead.

I came to believe on alternating days that I was Anne Frank, Jesus, and L. Ron Hubbard. During one hospital trip, there were three of us who believed we were God. “Hi, I’m God,” one said to me. And I thought, “What?? She is obviously confused,” as I was Jesus that day.

I thought Anderson Cooper was my husband and that we were part of the “Illuminati”, I thought that he talked to me directly when he spoke on TV. I heard him. I watched him. Everything was directed directly at me. I thought the same thing about Ani Difranco’s music. It gave me messages.

One time I went to New York City because song lyrics and voices told me to. I didn’t know anyone there. When I got there, the world was ending. People were being shipped off in trains to concentration camps because the Holocaust was still occurring. I took a bottle of pills in a hotel room and cut my leg open with a piece of glass, trying to get the implant out – you know, the one the CIA put there. I woke up in some hospital in New Jersey. They wanted to send me to the state hospital. My family saved me from that fate.

I’m better now. I work part time. I live alone, with my cat, and I have lived in the same spot for three years, which is a rare thing for me. I take my meds, every day, without fail. I get injections of an antipsychotic every other week, without fail.

But I still hear voices. You wouldn’t know it if you met me. You can’t always see psychosis.

From Dodo

I was diagnosed schizophrenic about nine months ago, and had moved into a new world with antidepressant and antipsychotic medication since then. It was a slow and frighteningly revealing journey. I found out I was pregnant after we took a long vacation in the States over December. My psychiatrist advised me to quit all meds over two days, which I did. Then a week or so ago I miscarried. But the hospital wasn’t sure I had. I had to go in every day for four days for bloods, scans, examinations, internal scans and, eventually, ‘the talk.’ The one where they say that there’s nothing you could have done differently. Being off the meds made me feel different about the prospect of having another baby. Made me feel different about the strength of my relationship with S. We had a very difficult year last year. While we were away, the idea of new year, new start, new baby, new house seemed natural. Obvious. Now I don’t know. I don’t feel any particular connection to the baby I lost. Or to him.

“small and still and undisturbed. its what i want. and what i’m afraid of. wanting because of the absolution that’s bound to it. turn down the lights, muffle invading sounds. be still. and inside. and quiet. trying to find a way to let go without letting go. to be able to achieve distance from the outside for the hours i have to myself. lose the time that’s mine to lose. now that i’ve walked away from my job i have three whole days to indulge myself. with solitude. not solitude. a kind of comforting vacuum.

but the show must go on. P has to be taken to nursery. Adult conversations must be had. dinner made. dog walked. How much of the outside function can i maintain while secretly willing myself further and further away.
the longer i leave it, the harder it is to get back. one day without brushing my teeth, two days without washing my hair. deliberately not taking the meds in case they strengthen my fingernail grip. stop me from disappearing. but not committing, medicating intermittently. enough for ” and how was your day?” and putting on clothes. enough to take P to the park with a neighbour. enough to take the cat and talk to the vet. joke even. enough to give S a plausible account of a productive day. so he doesn’t despise my sloth. seek pastures greener. again.
outside is jagged edges and piercing sounds. clumsy intrusions. it’s too bright, too loud. too personal. abrasive. other. too much.

so few tools to challenge myself to consider the inevitable conclusion. yet here i am. what would happen if i disappeared completely. i’ve backspaced over that line twice. can’t answer my own question. except I can. i know i’ve felt this way before. i know i’ve lived through it. i remember this feeling – that S is a great father and that there’s lots of people who love P. that the clouds would soon pass. how ridiculous. how indulgent i sound. such melodrama. how pathetic.”

Previously posted here.