Vulnerabilities
I don’t write as much as I probably should. If I do the numbers over a year, I’m usually at a little over one piece a month, but drilled down my productivity ebbs and flows. I’m in an ebb right now. I’m not really sure why. I want to write, but I’m just not. I definitely have topics on my list and my go-to fiction prompts. I’m guess I’m not organized enough to sit down and get to it. I wasn’t planning on writing this piece. Other than the topic living in my brain, I have no reason to. I’ve found, though, once it’s out phycially, it’s out of my head too, which is super because I have so many other things I’d rather perseverate over.
I vaguely bring up my diabilities. I’m pretty open about the learning stuff, but a little more roundabout with my mental health things. Some of that is because of the stigma with some it. Other times I think I’m just so used to not discussing details that I simply don’t unless it’s part of a conversation with friends. That’s few and far between, but even then I tend to not give details…circle back to the stigma of it and knowing very well how nervous some of it makes people.
I’m building up to what will probably be a letdown because it’s really not a huge deal…just life stuff like anyone else.
I’m building up to what will probably be a letdown because it’s really not a huge deal…just life stuff like anyone else. There hasn’t been a shooting by someone who shares my diagnosis for a while, which I’m thankful for. It’s incredibly uncomfortable to know that there is someone unhinged with a weapon who is delusional and hallucinating, and knowing that if I shared too much that most would equate the expereince to be the same. I don’t live in the head of a murderer, but I know that I’m a pretty benign person. The sharpest thing are probably my words, but even then I need to be caught in a certain place to be an extreme dick to someone. I’m pointed and direct, but not usually mean…not on purpose anyway.
This isn’t what’s on my mind, but I need to give some kind of background or else my life and worries seem a little more odd with a disconnect. Understanding cause and effect can be helpful from time to time. The sum of it is that the world is a scary place to me, and routines are incredibly important. That’s true with many, but I rely on them to keep me grounded in the now…in what’s real.
So much of life is luck and circumstance.
In my mid-twenties I had my psychotic break, which mostly overlapped with my education graduate program, which was fun. I have a mood component to it, at the time it was a swing into depression. To this day I’m not sure how I managed to graduate because I was in such a bad place. Even with my first job, if I didn’t have my then boyfriend, now husband; I’m not sure what would have happened to me. So much of life is luck and circumstance.
At the time I needed quite a bit of medication to get me through a day. I had drastically reduced hallucinations and paranoia…sort of, but I was too out of it to apprecaite it. Having a conversation was a pretty huge ordeal, and typcially was one-sided. Thank goodness people tend to prefer talking about themselves. My memories of that time are spotted. Eventually my life stabilized, and since then I’ve been on very little medication, which has meant that I feel the brunt of my hallucinations, paranoia, and whatever mood fun is the flavor at the time…these days it’s depression…I miss my mania desperately.
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I have three companions, all non gendered. Two of them are pretty much a constant situation to the point that I can apply either of my two coping mechanisms to tune them out depending on the specific conditions. It’s a dangerous thing to listen to them no matter how compelling they might be. They are more real to me than the actual world. They are more colorful. More interesting. And pretty destructive…probably. One companion pushes me to impulsivity and a high feeling about what I can do. The other tears me down. Both have me question the motives of others and whisper…or scream for me to take some kind of action, which I don’t. As mentioned they are very real to me, but they are so constant that I recognize them as not real, even if it’s hard for me to believe that on an emotional level.
The emotional connection is probably the most powerful aspect of the psychosis because it’s not just a voice, it’s the way it pulls at any insecurity or pride.
The emotional connection is probably the most powerful aspect of the psychosis because it’s not just a voice, it’s the way it pulls at any insecurity or pride. The third companion is the worst of them. They are incredibly infrequent, and sometimes I barely catch what they are saying. Mostly they barely say anything, like only my name…often just my name. But I attach terror with it…that being…hallucination is planning to kill me. Emotionally I feel in danger and out-of-control fright, and because I can’t prepare for it, I don’t have an effective strategy to deal with it.
Self-care is the most important way to manintain my reasonable existence, which…best laid plans. Sleep is probably the most important self-care I need to attend to. When I’m sleep deprived, everything is so much worse. I can’t control the nightmares, though. I can have them nightly for months. I think it’s part of the psychotic disorder. It’s like a carry over of the hallucinations I spend my life simultaneously listening to in the background and ignoring. I think my companions are peristent, though, and bleed into my subconsious. That’s my theory anyway because I have a good life, realtively stress free. I really hate to complain about it, and I’m not trying to here. All of this is just a background.
We traveled a few weeks ago to another state to see my parents, among other family things. I hate traveling. Hate it. It messes with my routine. It messes with predictability. That means my companions get extra noisy. Or at least it’s harder to tune them out because I’m so stressed with uncertainty and lack of structure. I’ve been to my parents’ place twice in easily fifteen years. I hate their state. I hate their house. I know I can expect to get a visit from my third companion there. They have this big house that’s dark and overly decorated with windows everywhere, shadows, catacomb hallways and corners. Terrifying. I’m already so constantly afraid that it gives me anxiety issues that would usually be its own diagnosis if it wasn’t rolled into a psychotic disorder, so the traveling and their place and everything else is absolutely horrible. I try to not talk about it because it feels like whining…Who laments a vacation, right? Or as much as a parent can call a trip a vacation when kids are along for the ride.
When I know I’m unavoidably going to be in that situation, I lean into small things that provide comfort, which is not particularly groundbreaking.
I go into our trips having nighmares all night every night…sleep deprivation, and just plain ol’ fear for weeks and weeks. The trip itself is usually managable. I know it will be going in, but emotionally I don’t get the memo, especially when not all trips are the same. Going to my parents, for many reasons, is probably the worst situation for me, mental health wise. When I know I’m unavoidably going to be in that situation, I lean into small things that provide comfort, which is not particularly groundbreaking. How many people (besides me) eat our stress and feelings? There is a whole fucking industry that capitalizes on that dynamic. At my parents’ place I don’t have access to those things, and extra stressors that push me into a more vulnerable place than I can comfortably manage. Strange descriptor because none of it is comfortable. Maybe more apt is that the experience in my head and what’s happening around me is completely outside of what I can predict and manage easily…or relatively easily.
It made finding that comfort frustrating and disappointing because it wasn’t close to meeting the need I desperately wanted it to.
I drink tea, and a lot of it; though my habits would probably horrify someone who is British. I’m definitely not a snob about what I’m consuming, especially when I don’t really have a sense of smell. But I love my tea. It was one of the few things I could access with my parents, but it was just wrong. All of it. The mugs were wrong because they are much smaller, meaning the proportion of sweetener and milk, that was the wrong kind, was off. The water needed to be microwaved, which fucks-up the steep time and the ability to keep it hot enough. The mugs are heavy, clunky, and hard to hold. There isn’t a place to put the mug down, and the sofa is awkward and uncomfortable. I’m short, and it’s not a short person’s furniture with way way too many pillows. Even if my back wasn’t fucked at the time, I’d have trouble getting comfortable. Wrong. All of it was wrong. It made finding that comfort frustrating and disappointing because it wasn’t close to meeting the need I desperately wanted it to. But I got through it all, as one does when life moves forward regardless.
The next morning after returning home was amazing. Amazing. I boiled my water. I had the right proportions and a sofa that’s old and falling apart, but I wasn’t in Alice in fucking Wonderland’s big chair with dangling feet and a tushie that kept sliding forward. It’s been weeks and I’m still thinking about all of this. It’s nighttime. I’m steeping yet another large mug of tea, because caffeine doesn’t affect me; and it’s all wonderful. I’ll probably have more nightmares tonight, as I have them more than I don’t. I’ll also probably be tired tomorrow. My companions will do their thing, but my routine and predictablity will also do its thing. And that’s it. I love my tea, and I was thinking about that today…and apparetnly felt compelled to write a piece about it.
