Do You Hear What I Hear?

I get asked why I am sometimes resistant to getting help.

I am resistant at times, I know it, and I don’t hide from that resistance. You see, my illness is normal for me, schizophrenia is my comfort zone. I’m smart enough to understand that a lot of my existential misery would simply evaporate if I could somehow become mentally healthy. And yet, I am resistant. I fear psychiatrists, therapists, medications, and other less mainstream treatment modalities like ECT. Frequently, I do find the courage to face up to and accept recommended treatment, but sometimes, I do not.

If I had a magic machine that could catapult you into the future to some fantasyland where there was world peace, where there was no sickness, where all of your day to day problems would be miraculously solved, I’d be willing to bet that very few people would be willing. Because this current time and place, these issues, these woes are familiar. You are comfortable here.

Health does not always feel as comfortable as illness.
Health does not always feel as comfortable as illness.

You can argue that mental health is a concrete, attainable goal, and that my machine is a hypothetical construct. I disagree. I strongly disagree. I don’t know of anyone living with mental illness who will say they are ‘cured’ or ‘better.’ At the very best, they will say guardedly that something seems to be working-for now.

When I fall deeply into my illness, I do not feel much in the way of hunger, tiredness, pain. When I am very sick, I never cry. My visions and voices can comfort and soothe me at least as much as they torment me. In my illness, I am visible at least to my invisible world. When I am in health, I live a marginalized life far removed from the real lives of friends and permanently estranged from my living family members.  If I am quiet when I am healthy, I can live as a forgotten person. When I am at my sickest, my voices, my visions are all attentive. In my unreal world, I am far more real than I am in your real world.

Understand that working toward mental health is not always an appealing process. And the newer team-centered approach puts a lot of the work squarely on the shoulders of the ill person. This is not like physical medicine where you just jump through the hoops prescribed by your doctor: get this test done, take this pill, see this specialist, and come back here in two weeks.

In mental health work today, your therapist will ask what you want to talk about. The days of the therapist saying, “Tell me about your mother…” are long gone. I can waste my hour with my therapist talking about the weather if I choose to. And I have. And I will again on the days when there is not much fight in me. But on my brave days, I give detailed accounts of being raped, of losing a love to the dubious joys of the needle and the spoon. I emerge from these sessions feeling like I am coming down with the flu. Chills, sweats, shaking, vomiting follow a ‘good’ therapy session as sure as night follows day. Often after a ‘good’ therapy session, I need to spend a day or two in a darkened room, just trying to re-integrate my personality. After a ‘good’ therapy session everything is too much.

Outside of therapy, there is a delicate juggling act between a regular MD and a psychiatrist MD. These two professionals endlessly circle like cats, unsure if they will fight or not. Territoriality among the professions is as rigid as the laws of the seraglio. The psychiatrist can withhold changes of medication, or new medication until the MD signs off on some aspect of the patient’s health. The MD can withhold medications for the patient’s physical health concerns until the psychiatrist approves. Often the middle ground is a compromise that does not actually offer the patient much relief.

As a participant in team centered mental health, you see a lot of waiting rooms. You can judge a waiting room good or bad with the barest glance. Too, you come to realize that you are better off, usually, in a bad waiting room. A bad waiting room means that no one waits there long enough to have complained. You fear the good waiting room-the one with the deep comfortable chairs and good magazines-you’ll be there for a while.

Struggling toward mental health is a long grim and difficult process. I’m not saying that the goal of mental health is not attainable or not worthwhile. I am saying that it is very very hard, and the journey never ends, and the destination is uncertain. Struggling for mental health is asking to be a permanent refugee. The mentally ill are not welcome in the realms of the mentally healthy, we always rub a bit wrong, our otherness is always visible.

The world I’m struggling toward as I fight a losing battle for mental health is fraught, and grey and distressing. The social issues are real and very disheartening. My illness burns in me as a vessel wrought of glass and fire. It casts strange lights. The eyeless angels and the faceless voices croon and embrace me. I can float in my world of beauty and horror, and if I am patient, I will see wonders. What we accept as mental health in this day and age is a half-life that will be marked with struggle and suffering, marked by poverty and isolation, marked by whisper, discreet pointed fingers, by stigma.

So, yes. Yes, yes, and yes, at times, I am resistant to my treatment team and their advice. At times on the road to wellness I turn and look back, daring fate to turn me into a pillar of salt. There is very little light on the road to recovery, and there is rarely hope. So I turn around. But my feet keep shuffling relentlessly forward.

Author: belladonnareed

Pamela Alexander is a 48 year old mother of two and mild menace to society. She resides in a suburb of Pittsburgh, PA with her sorely oppressed partner, and flatulent dog and a cat. She smokes like a chimney, swears like a sailor, and has been known to drink. When she grows up she hopes to move to the West coast of Mexico.

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