LISA
like a gunshot in the dark, and it was all in a fraction of a second - jerked out of the bed, fumbled for the lamp, almost knocked it over; whirled around to face the empty room; glanced down the hallway toward the bedroom, where my friend slept; my heart galloping. The sound of my name rang in the room, bouncing off the walls with physical presence.
I had heard it; it had been there.
It was my stalker's voice.
It was the fourth time I'd heard it.
I hadn't seen the stalker in six weeks.
____________
I've written about it before, but I can't recall if I've shared it: When I was in my 20s, I wanted to be diagnosed with a mental illness. The desire wasn't as crappy as it could sound; part of me knew that something was "off" with me, that any treatment I sought for the weird, intense come-and-go depression I suffered wasn't helpful; part of me hoped that a diagnosis might bring about some kind of structure, a way to "live better."
I was wrong. I thought a definable mental illness diagnosis would make life easier. I thought it was all clear-cut. I, in my 20s, with no major health problems, had never considered the delicate, artistic side of medicine, only the black-and-white science of it, neither of which I had ever experienced. I just wanted to find what was wrong, fix it, and make it go away; and I wanted the fix to be life-wide. Broad strokes; not happy little trees.
____________
I didn't stop to linger on those aforementioned auditory events. I'm Hearing Voices never crossed my mind as a possibility, because only crazy people Heard Voices, and I wasn't crazy.The first time the word schizophrenia was uttered by a doctor, five months ago, I burst into horrified tears. I cried for three days. I ruminated on every mass shooting, every widespread criminal act about which reporters solemnly intoned words like mentally ill and unmedicated and delusions. But I am not crazy. I am not one of them. This is not me. So they had to be wrong; my experience had to be more like dealing with extreme stress and maybe I was just starting to fall asleep, and I'm sure I was just dreaming, because if you're Hearing Voices, isn't it something...undeniable? How could I be that actually crazy? How could you ever Hear Voices and be able to pretend you hadn't?
(How could you suffer any number of things and pretend you hadn't. Lisa. Drink up.)
Before I sought medical help, it took three years to recognize that something might be truly wrong. Because the symptoms grew slowly, in the dark, away from anyone in my life, and the worst of it, for me, is that every symptom I've experienced is rooted in a sometime-truth, or a previous experience, all of which double-down and compound on themselves; very little of it has ever felt truly foreign, and none of it resonates as crazy or irrational.
I'd suffered deep depressive episodes before, so that I could convince myself that the near-catatonia of coming home, crawling into bed, and staring at the wall until morning was simply a more intense version of what I'd already experienced, while not prioritizing the facts that I couldn't shower for over a month, or ate only oranges and buttered bread, or staggered through days as though in a coma, or drank to frightening excess when I couldn't calm the frenzy in my brain.
I'd been stalked, part of which involved several forms of surveillance, so that it made sense for me to assume that there were cameras everywhere, specifically watching me, gathering evidence of some wrongdoing I must have committed, or might commit.
I'd been assaulted, and I never saw it coming; it made sense to assume every single person I knew was capable, that my life was in danger at any moment; it made sense to avoid people as much as I possibly could, to avoid any change in the routine of home/work/therapy so as to minimize the chances of any new "exposure" to strangers.The personal nature of the assault made me squeamish, phobic about germs and contamination; why wouldn't it?
I'd lost so many close people in a matter of weeks, so it made sense to assume that people hated me, that even people of whose love I was assured were merely tolerating me, were rolling their eyes and wishing I would just go away forever, and I could point to the distance between us to prove it.
So I just went on with it, and figured, as always, I'm just not dealing well enough with these things, and I should be doing better/trying harder/being stronger/talking to God more/going to church more/doing something more. normal people do not fall apart like this, as if that were evidence of wrongdoing on my part and not potential illness.
I still can't fully wrap my mind around what I'm told: a version of schizophrenia, coupled with other things. A mixed breed; a 57-variety; the ketchup of mental illnesses. Sometimes, I can objectively recognize things like paranoia and delusional thinking for what they are, or I pull myself back from a freakout and review evidence for why those beliefs are unfounded; sometimes I can adjust and feel better, and sometimes I just have to ride it out, but the nagging belief that they are real never goes away. Visual hallucinations saved my life: okay. this is not any kind of normal. something is wrong. Though they are the most unsettling part of this, the hallucinations, surprisingly, act as a buoy, a reminder, for when I begin to feel self-critical to the point of paralysis: you are apparently, actually ill (stop calling it "crazy"). this is not a weakness or a wrongness; this is an illness, for which you receive treatment. do not succumb to self-criticism. it is not real.
It's an oversimplification, but part of it is somewhat like learning, at the age of 30, that the color of the classic stop sign has always been called "green," although you've always known it as "red." And now that you're aware of this discrepancy, it's incumbent on you to spend time and energy conforming to the "fact" that the color of a stop sign is called "green," even though you know, to your core, that the color is called "red," but that doesn't matter, because that color is called "green" by the rest of the world. When you talk about it with other people, or when you're thinking about it by yourself, you have to consciously adjust, every time, to calling it "green," but you know, in your heart, that that color is called "red." Some days, you make the adjustment, and it isn't a huge deal; other days, when you're depleted or volatile, you know that bastard is called RED and why are you trying to make me look like an idiot and why are you being so cruel and I have an ENTIRE LIFETIME'S INVENTORY OF EVIDENCE TO BACK UP THE FACT THAT IT IS "RED" but nobody cares, because it is irrelevant, and your "evidence" may or may not even be real.
It's paralyzing. I do a pretty good job of paralyzing myself, sometimes, even when I'm not dealing with crippling anxiety or deeper things. Even when I'm just overthinking, or doggedly plumbing empty depths for gold. Even when it's diagnose-able.. even when a doctor-person can point to things and say I think this is what this is, and this is why. Even when I started taking the meds and things lifted a little. The shock is just more than I can comprehend sometimes. Never saw this coming, ever.
And I don't really have a pretty ending, or even a real reason for why I'm writing this. Maybe you feel crazy, too. Hi. Let's have cookies together. Would it be weird to crack a joke about how I won't shoot you? or to laugh about how Satan doesn't sit on my shoulder and whisper to me about cooking kittens or building satellites out of mercury, or whatever?
Sorry.
Heh.
This was a very brave post to make. I am utterly amazed by you. (Hugs )
ReplyDelete