This is one topic I have avoided across this entire blog. I may have made cryptic references in some posts, but I have not yet written the word “schizophrenia” because, as the title suggests, it still carries a heavy burden of stigma. Many people automatically associate the condition with being dangerous, unpredictable, or even violent. As with most things people don’t understand, fear grows from the unknown. Over the centuries, people living with this illness have also shown remarkable creativity and intellect. Only about one percent of the population receives this diagnosis, and it’s fair to say it carries more shame and misunderstanding than many other mental health conditions. Most people can empathize with a broken leg because it’s visible and straightforward, but it’s much harder for them to grasp what’s happening inside the mind. Too often, the term “schizo” is used casually to label someone as a little “nuts” or behaving out of character, and issues with drugs and alcohol further complicate and burden those living with this illness more than the average person.
I have schizophrenia. There I said it! Now it’s out in the open, and by admitting it I’m opening myself up to even more people treating me differently. I’m sure my family knows — I’ve lived with this for over twenty-five years now — but it is NEVER brought up. In all that time I can’t remember one person outside of my parents, my brother and my health professionals ever talking to me about it. It feels taboo. It’s not contagious and I don’t bite. If you asked someone who knows me well, they could honestly say I’m a chilled, friendly, calm person who keeps the same demeanour and wouldn’t hurt a fly. The only person I’ve been violent to is myself. Along with schizophrenia comes overwhelming anxiety, and I go through bouts of depression — and those are only my mental health issues. I also have my fair share of physical problems to deal with too..
I have been hospitalised more than twenty times, and I’ve also been to rehab on two separate occasions. I have been a guinea pig for pharmaceutical companies and have spent a small fortune on private psychiatrists. I’ve been through both public and private hospitals and clinics, and believe me, you don’t want to spend extended time in the public system. I have gone to the same hospital for my last dozen visits. Having said that, I haven’t needed to be admitted for over twelve months. A few weeks ago I found myself back at the Frankston psych ward and I very nearly died. I don’t say that lightly — everyone around me was prepared for my passing. I’ve written a few blogs about these experiences.
I hear voices, and this isn’t the same as when someone says “the voice in my head told me to do something.” These voices are external — not in my head at all. When I was a young man, before my diagnosis, I believed what I was being told; they would instruct me to harm myself, and I sometimes acted on those commands. Over the years I’ve done plenty of damage to my body, but I’m now at the stage where I don’t listen to their orders. The reality is that about ninety-nine percent of the people talking in my head say only nasty things. Why is that? I can’t clearly describe where the voices come from. They utter things I have never thought and, at times, can even be disturbingly clever. Some people who have experienced this say the voices keep them company, but for me it’s like an AM talkback radio station that never gives me any rest. I even underwent TMS (Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation) therapy as an inpatient at the Epworth for three weeks, but it brought no relief.
There’s nothing anyone can do. Medication only takes the edge off, and I refuse therapy because I don’t respond well to psychoanalysis. I’m left to live with this affliction for life, and only I will ever truly understand it. It’s an isolating, lonely condition.
And then comes the paranoia. This can be intense and unsettling. It is a difficult thing to put into words. I don’t like or trust the police; when I’m psychotic I get the persistent sensation that they are looking for me. I become acutely aware of cameras, feeling as if they are recording my every move. Sometimes I think I’m dying — this often ties into my reflections on mortality, which is more about facing a real fear than just a symptom of paranoia. I worry that the government is tracing my internet connection, and I feel as though messages are being sent directly to me through the content I watch online. When I’m in the car listening to the radio, song lyrics can feel like they are aimed at me, and even the TV — which I deliberately avoid watching — seems charged with meaning. Occasionally I am overwhelmed by the belief that people can read my thoughts, though that only happens sometimes. This is only part of what I have to deal with. Oh, and you won’t find me in a shopping centre or supermarket. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you. Have I scared you away yet?
I’m not constantly thinking these things. When I do, I can usually remind myself that it’s just my head playing tricks, but sometimes some of the above feels so vivid and convincing that I can catch myself beginning to believe it. I have fairly good insight into my illness, and I know how important it is to keep perspective. There would be nothing worse than convincing myself that all this nonsense was absolutely real.
Wow! Haven’t I just shared a lot. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about posting this publicly. Like I said, I usually only talk about these things on a need-to-know basis or when someone directly asks. It’s been my little secret for the last twenty-five years, tucked away and rarely spoken of. I may well delete this blog later — it feels strangely okay to put it out into the world right now, but then again it’s 2:45 in the morning and I’m running on very little sleep. This is exactly what I used to do when I drank beer and wrote blogs: it would read like a masterpiece in the moment, and the next morning I’d spend hours re-reading and deleting each entry.