High-functioning from Esme Weijun Wang's book "The Collected Schizophrenias"

“… I find myself uncomfortable around those who are visibly psychotic and audibly disorganized. I’m uncomfortable because I don’t want to be lumped in with the screaming man on the bus, or the woman who claims that she’s the reincarnation of God. I’m uncomfortably uncomfortable because I know that these are my people in ways that those who have never experienced psychosis can’t understand, and to shun them is to shun a large part of myself.”

When I first started going to therapy and wanting to uncover what was truly going on in my head, I spent a lot of time in denial with the thought of “but I’m not like them, I’m not crazy like that.” I have a college degree, a BSN at that! I graduated with a high GPA in high school and with honors in college. I would say most people think that I am highly determined and focused and I’m not crazy... Until you ask me if I hear voices throughout the day that tell me to do things I shouldn’t do. Until I say that there are shadows of people moving around my house that aren’t really there or that my house is infested with ants that don’t exist. Until that time that I wanted to take my life and take my baby with me. Until I have days where I can’t get up because my body doesn’t feel like it’s my own. Maybe I am a little short of insanity, but does that mean that it should become my identity?

She mentions that when someone is diagnosed with illnesses such as diabetes or cancer, that person is usually described as, “Mrs. X has been diagnosed with cancer” rather than, “Mrs. X is a cancer patient.” But for people with mental illnesses that have experienced a period of psychosis, it’s usually the other way around. “Mr. Z is a schizophrenic” and not, “Mr. Z has schizophrenia.” Kind of like it suggests that there isn’t a normal person under the diagnosis, which makes it really hard to not be in denial of a mental-health diagnosis.

So does it really make it any better if you’re classified as a “high-functioning schizo"? I don’t really think so. Or any other kind of mental illness for that matter. Personally, I feel like I have to make it known that I do suffer from mental health illnesses and exaggerate how normal I actually am. Because in reality, I think I’m a pretty normal person until I experience a volume of hallucinations and dissociate from my body because of reliving a trauma or being paranoid. I’m a normal mom, who needs time away from her kid when my senses are overloaded. I’m a normal wife, who loves her husband but sits a couple feet away when I need my space. I’m a normal nurse (not at this time though because medication stability), and I’m a very strong advocate for maternal mental health. I’m a good friend, who slightly obsesses over whether I’m giving enough of my time to make sure they know they’re cared for.

I don’t know where I’m going with this anymore. I just want people to know that people with mental illness are still people, and that they should be care for… Whether they’re going through psychosis or they’re having a better-than-most-days kind of day… Whether they’re yelling on a bus or they’re in the office doing award-winning work. People are people whether they’re crazy or not.

"You don't have to earn the right to get help."

It’s not unusual to think that you need to be in combat to be diagnosed with something like PTSD. Being brought up in the military community and entering the force myself, it was common to think that PTSD = Combat. End of story. You can’t be hurt because you’ve never seen war. You can’t be hurt because you’ve never seen someone die. You can’t be hurt because you’re doing so well.

Today, a lot of people opened up about feeling ashamed at first for seeking help. They felt as if they didn’t deserve it. I was in this boat for the longest time, and I think that’s something that I opened up about recently. For the last 17 years, I felt like I didn’t deserve help. I was always told that “things happen for a reason.” Pushing my trauma aside like it was meant to happen to make me who I am today. It’s so far from the truth though. Anything that caused you trauma, anything that you relive over and over that hurts you, that’s valid. You woke up today, you’re human, you deserve help. That’s it. Point blank.

You being you means you deserve help, no matter what your story is. It took me a really long time to finally seek help and pretty much demand getting help from the Army for all the shit it’s caused me to relive. It hurts me to know that so many other people are feeling ashamed just like me for seeking help just because we compare our trauma to other’s trauma. Especially those who have experienced combat trauma. “We don’t deserve help, they deserve help.” No man. You deserve help because you need help.

Today was that gentle reminder that I’m really not alone in what I’m going through. It’s sad that it takes a group of broken people to feel like you’re capable of healing. We’ll all heal together.

One of my grandmother's died today.

I don’t think I was really ready for that kind of news so early in the morning prior to starting my day. I was so caught off guard that it affected my morning pretty significantly. Usually when I’m encountered with someone’s passing I’m met with shock first. The disbelief that someone who was breathing is now a person waiting to be buried or cremated. I usually don’t have any emotions attached to that shock. I’m normally numb and it takes awhile for it to really hit me.

Today was a little different… well, very different. It hurt instantly. I could feel my heart drop, my body become heavy, weakness seep into every muscle fiber… But I overcame that feeling with becoming angry. I was angry this morning. Mad at everyone and everything that wasn’t going my way. Because anger is an easier emotion to deal with than sadness. It’s easier to yell and scream than it is to sit and cry and feel hurt. So I was angry. I was aggressive.

I’m thankful for people in my group and my extremely patient therapist that helped talk me through a lot of what was going on in my head. Because today I did have a craving to drink and I did have a craving to smoke, and instead, I went to group.

I guess that’s growth.

why did my seventh grade self want to die so badly?

I don’t know all the reasons why, but I’m trying to figure myself out. I am the type of person to keep track of everything by writing. I’ve always been a blogger, a journal keeper, a fiend for memories. That’s why it’s so hard for me to understand why reflecting on my seventh grade self, why was I so damn suicidal? How old would I have been, 12 or 13 years old? Meeting with 12 years old now, I can’t imagine any of them wanting to feel that way or having a reason to feel that way.

Then I think back to my first trauma as a child, I was 11 years old. I was 11 years old when I was sexually assaulted by an adult. All the feelings of worthlessness before that all happened were then fully engraved into my brain. I constantly (and still do) feel unsafe. I feel the need to hide myself. I hate myself. I want to peel my skin off somehow and throw it away. As if I could start new again that way. I’ve always pictured just carving chunks of myself away because I felt disgusting. Like a snake shedding it’s skin.

That’s almost 20 years of trauma that’s just living underneath everything I have. Every success, every happy memory, all built on top of a broken foundation of trust, self-worth, and love. Three things I have to consistently work on to feel something other than shame and guilt and disgust.

Why is it the norm for my culture to judge and belittle young children for what they look like? Why are we constantly judged by what the number on the scale is, or how well our clothes fit, or how light our skin is? Why is this the topic of discussion for every family gathering after not seeing each other for so long? How can one feel like they’re worthy of living if this is what goes through their head every day? I’m not good enough for my family because of how I look, but I’m good enough to be molested, but I’m also not good enough for help, so I have to maintain this image of perfection by hiding away the things that have hurt me.

“You have to forgive them, so you can heal and move on.” What if I don’t want to forgive them? What if I want them to suffer the consequences of their actions NOW, and not wait until they’re up for their judgment day? Why do THEY have to get away with it for me to move on? Can’t I heal and not forgive them?! Can’t I heal and still see them brought down to their knees for the heinous things they did? Fucking irritating.

God. fuck my life.

What am I trying to accomplish this year?

Honestly, I’m so tired of the question, “what’s next? what are you going to do? what’s your next move?”

Don’t get me wrong because I am a woman of extensive planning. When I held a leadership position, I would have at least 3 courses of action in case one didn’t work. I almost demanded that my Soldiers had solutions to problems they brought to my attention because I needed to know that they could not only plan, but remain flexible. So when being asked what my next move is, it’s only normal to assume that I’ll have an articulate answer.

The thing is, I don’t. I have no idea what I want to do after all of this. My plan has already changed from getting out to staying in to complete a few things that I can’t leave undone. Do I want to continue nursing or has it really taken it’s toll on me? Have I waited too long to start healing where I can’t go through therapy and be a “productive” citizen? I hate the hustle culture. I was so engulfed by the “hustle hard” culture. Always comparing ourselves to our peers on who can achieve the most in one year. Constantly posting about our new years resolutions, our strategy for the year, our five year plans… Why does no one tell you to just take a breath and slow down to appreciate all that you’ve already done?

Why do accomplishments have to be things that land you a medal, award, promotion, or some big thing worth “celebrating”? What if my accomplishment is getting my kid dressed and fed in the morning while also remembering to eat breakfast and take my medications? What if my accomplishment for the day is not having a breakdown that ends up in my auditory hallucinations cussing me out and telling me to just off myself?

This year? My goal? Focus on my fucking self. Center myself. Find myself again. Explore what it is that truly gives me a reason to continue living. Take a fucking break for once because damn, this hustle shit gets exhausting. Constantly striving to be a star, to be the best, to land bullets on my evaluations to get awards, to be promoted, to show the perfect life to everyone on Instagram.

Ah, my life is fucking hard. My head is a mess. My goal is to not give a fuck this year about anything that doesn’t matter. What matters to me? My family. My mental health. My physical health. All of it has taken a toll from constantly being “on the go”. So let’s get it done ~ or not.