By Keke Shelton
Twenty-four hours ago you are what society deems normal…somewhat. Today you are anything but. Everything seems fine until a voice or voices start “chatting” with you. The only problem?
No one but you seem to hear them. Or you see people…creatures even, that watch you and feed you false information about those around you. Those who you thought you knew. Or perhaps you have a “itch” that won’t go away until you scratch past muscle. Pain? Only minimal or not at all until the episode stops, if it even does. This is only a fraction of what I deal with on a regular basis.
This is what it’s like for me to live with schizophrenia. I can’t account for other’s like me. However I can account for myself. For half my life I have been an experiment first, a number, a paper, a code of information, but not once was I a human being. This past year, after my 30th birthday, I discovered I did
have autonomy, that I can advocate for myself and be heard. I can choose what medicine I can take and have a say in how/what I eat. For once in my 30 years of life, I am living. The prior 15 years that went by, I can’t recall because I was just a mindless-walker (think about a still alive zombie that doesn’t eat humans. I didn’t get to say my medicine isn’t working, I can’t say no I don’t want to be around depressing people in group that had long given up. I wasn’t allowed to be anything but a subject that had to obey.
The side effects of treatment for taking my schizophrenia medicine was more harmful than actually swallowing a pill or taking an injection. I have uncontrollable shakes, and an unhealthy binge eating habit. A lazy mind-frame due to brain fog. The other options were much worse considering that most anti-psychiatric medicine causes loss of motor-function, urinary retention, hyper/hypotension, and so on.
Can you imagine trusting someone who is supposed to put your health first is just legally poisoning you? Perhaps not on purpose, but in order for you to continue treatment you have to take medicine. And yes, you are required to take a blood test in order for insurance to see if the meds are working.
The only emotion I knew was anger, the only feeling I carried was aggression. I am sick and This doesn’t feel right. This isn’t my body. Why are people looking at me? Why won’t they make the “things” go away? These and more are the questions that plague my every day.
I am tired of always being sick and tired. My days were sent in bed…scrolling or sleeping. Never having the energy to be “human” or to function. Besides sleeping I barely made it in time to work. This was torture. The worst part, wasn’t the medicine or therapy. It was the realization that. I was alone.
I had no-one. No family, rarely any friends. And the medicine did little to calm my psychosis. This wasn’t as traumatic as I had originally thought. No. What made it the most traumatic was learning this disorder (my schizophrenia) I carried washereditary. It wasn’t fair. I had lost so much just to please a society that could care less about me. I lost my health, I lost myfreedom and I lost my identity. The breaking point was when I had to wait on my psychiatrist who wouldn’t approve my medicine until I saw her. Mind you I had missed my last appointment due to work. So, to reschedule I had to wait another month out. That would mean being without my monthly injection for two whole months. I left that therapy office and never looked back.
Technically the “medicine” that my former psychiatrist was hyping up to me, was not only eating my brain. It forced me to eat well past my limits because of the side effects (the side effect for most was increased appetite). It caused me so much confusion. Taking it drained me more than not taking it. But not taking it meant that the voices hit back louder. The beings are solid and demand to be seen. The “itching between the skin” feels worse every time. This time tho, there are more hallucinations; my nose smells smoke that never clears (most of the time there is no smoke, and if there is it is nothing of concern. My tongue is constantly filled with a phantom taste, that even toothpaste can’t get rid of. The pain was just a comfort tool at this
point.
The psychosis (my schizophrenia comes back with a vengeance. And each time I lose more and more control. The last time I decided not to take it I only lasted six weeks before the paranoia started to consume me. By this time I was up to almost 9 pills a day, two of which I had to take twice daily. None gave me the energy she (my former psychiatrist) promised that would. Idid my own research the past six months since only to discover that one of the two daily pills I had to take only enhanced the side effects of the monthly injection. Which meant my getting better was never gonna happen at this rate.
When I left that therapy office for good, I decided while in my right frame of mind to not lose my autonomy ever again. This lead me to where I am now (a higher level of care therapy office). I have a therapist who listens despite my aggression towards them (only in the beginning,we talked and came to aunderstanding. Also they have helped me a lot. I can not think of anyone better than them…for now). I have a psychiatrist who was willing to hear me out about my concerns, my fears and what I want as an outcome (taking less medicine with minimal side- effects). I did research into my diagnosis. I cut out out people who weren’t helping me heal. I discovered me again. I am more energetic. I am creating art projects and finishing them. I am reading books again, and I am not limited to just a specific genre. My thoughts are more organized. I leave my house and walk daily. I am working (I am actually early or on time, but rarely late now). I am in college and succeeding. I am doing more than “coping”. I have never felt more…alive.
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