I talk a lot about what I experience, I talk a lot about what I think, I don’t like to talk about how I feel so much. But I know that talking about the emotional impact of mental illness makes it a bit more personal, it is simply easier to relate to how a person feels, as opposed to what they think.
So I am going to see if I can write a bit about how I feel, but I know it won’t be easy.
Living with mental illness is a short hand way to way to say that someone’s emotional state is a hot mess. It truly is. Often I withdraw from my emotional state and try to live my life in a more detached fashion. It is easier than poking around at my feelings.
I feel like living with schizophrenia is a lot like living with a dysfunctional parent: you love it, you hate it, you cover it up as best you can, and you clean up a lot of messes. But first and foremost, you feel shame. Often I feel ashamed that I am not strong enough to beat this on my own. Often I feel judged by invisible others-I feel like they find me lazy, like they find me weak, like they find that I do not try hard enough-I feel deeply ashamed when facing this invisible jury. So before any other feeling, there is this feeling of overwhelming shame.
Following close behind the shame comes the love, and its shadow, the hate. There are parts of me that truly love the schizophrenia. When everything becomes too much, schizophrenia swoops down upon me like my guardian angel; it swirls me in its hallucinatory robes and hides the things I can not cope with. And I know that I should not love the schizophrenia for that. I know that it would be better to deal with reality instead of checking out and trying to put my reality back together later. But I still love when my illness saves me from the reality that is often too much. But I hate my illness for the very reasons that I love it. That’s why I think it is like a dysfunctional parent.
I hate my illness when I feel like I have a grip on something, and it inexorably pushes me under. I hate my illness when I fight with it, but can not struggle free. I hate my illness when I gasp and choke and can barely draw breath. I hate my illness when I want to do something, but it dictates that I must stay in a darkened room huddled on the bed. I hate my illness when I realize in how much of my life that it dictates I be a non-participant. In other words I love my life, I hate my life, and I am deeply ashamed of my life.
This is hard to write. I do not feel good about living with the stigma of mental illness, it makes me feel unworthy of any good things in my life. I feel that being sick renders me unlovable. I fear…oh how I fear, I fear, I fear. I fear that I will lose the esteem of those who I want to think well of me. I fear that I will never wander free of this illness. I fear that people fear me, are afraid that I might become violent, I fear that I and my illness are socially unwelcome. I fear that writing my truth will stigmatize me further, I fear that writing my truth will isolate me more. I fear that writing about my schizophrenia will somehow fuel its fire, and that it will grow stronger.
Mostly, though, I try to live cut off from my own heart, and that might be the worst of it all. I do my best to keep my heart sealed away from myself and everyone else. I do not trust myself to love properly. I am guarded, untrusting and untrustworthy. My heart is an abused dog cringing in the corner of its kennel, it does not come out of the corner for threats or kindness, it bides its time awaiting euthanasia. My illness and my emotional unease around my illness have essentially killed my heart. I deeply regret that, for I did believe that it was the finest part of me.
The strongest criticisms I have faced in recent memory are that I am too guarded, too secretive, that I do not open up. Those criticisms were offered very gently, very kindly. And they are all true. The people who offered those criticisms were trying to help me and my heart take a step out of the corner. But my truth is valid too. My truth dictates that rolling around in madness and mire should not be a price someone has to pay to be near me. My truth suspects that madness might be contagious. My truth is that a clean person who sits in something dirty will become unclean. My truth declares that my heart has suffered enough, and has earned the right to hide in a corner.
The ultimate thing I feel is that parts of me have had enough once and for all, and that I am entitled to feel that way. I feel that I can not take too much of my emotions, and that I and everyone else has a right to be protected from them. I feel that I can work toward health a long time without bothering my feelings. Perhaps in time my feelings and I will both heal. But, for now, perhaps my feelings have earned a rest in a quiet place. I think they have.