It’s Time to Be Open About the Hidden Shame of Schizophrenia
A conversation with a waiter made me realize how ashamed I was to have schizophrenia.
Usually, I don’t engage in small talk. There are too many topics I must avoid or dance around in case I make the other person uncomfortable. Questions like “What do you do for a living?” make me break out in a cold sweat. I can’t answer that I’m medically retired from the police due to PTSD. I don’t want to admit that I get paid by the police for my psychological injury. I’m not ready to identify as an online writer — it’s so pretentious, like “solopreneur”.
Yet on this occasion, an extra friendly waiter surprised me. The dreaded question arose, and I tried to be as concise and uncontroversial as possible. I told him I write blog posts about mental health based on my recovery and that I also trade on the stock market.
He acted impressed and called me an author. I wanted to crawl into a hole. This is why I don’t do this kind of thing. I write online at home so I don’t have to talk to people.
Before I knew it, I’d blurted out that I was medically retired with PTSD. This revealed a truth to me that I’d never realized before. I can handle telling people about my PTSD, but I’d never dream of admitting my diagnosis of schizophrenia.
People think those of us with schizophrenia are dangerous. We’re what you think of when you use words like “crazy” and “mental.” We’re the people who used to get lobotomized and locked away in mental hospitals. We’re the ones who get put in straight jackets. When governments aren’t scapegoating refugees, they turn on us.
The taxi ride back to reality.
We were on our way home from the Maldives. It was the most beautiful and serene holiday I’ve ever experienced. A small island in the middle of the Indian Ocean where no one would ask me any invasive questions.
The taxi ride back from the airport changed all that. The taxi driver thought we were well off due to where we’d been and asked the dreaded question. I gave the usual answer, justifying my free time by saying I had PTSD. I tried to emphasize my stock trading, but I’d killed the conversation. He didn’t respond and moved on to Amy, a teacher — a sigh of relief for everyone.
Mind reading and conspiracies.
Having schizophrenia has made me angry. I lost years of my life to lying in bed, doing nothing and obsessing about the most bizarre theories:
I thought a famous magician was reading my mind, taking thoughts from it, and implanting his own.
I thought the UK government was working with Barack Obama to round up the mentally ill and ship them to secret concentration camps in Siberia.
I thought people were trying to kill me and that random people in the street were government operatives paid to tell the killers where I lived.
I thought my girlfriend was forcing pencils down my throat during the night. We don’t even have any pencils.
The medication I have to take for schizophrenia has been brutal. I gained 80lbs in a year, my thinking was slow, and my speech was slurred. I also suffered from dental problems and high cholesterol. Yet, the medication also allows me to live symptom-free.
I think of all the things I could’ve done and where I’d be now without schizophrenia.
Most of all, schizophrenia makes me feel weak. This is nonsensical. Mental illness can happen to anyone and has no connection to weakness. I say this to other people who reach out to me. But I judge myself more harshly.
I have to look at the positives.
Unlike many poor souls, I’ve recovered. I’ve been symptom-free for years, and there’s no reason to suspect that will change as long as I take the meds.
I’ve seen many people with schizophrenia, and the majority are lonely. They have a pervasive sadness about them. The worse they look, the more society notices and judges them. Even the more liberally minded people will say “I’ve nothing against those people with schizophrenia, I just don’t want them on MY doorstep.”
I’ve been with Amy for 20 years. She stuck with me at my worst. As I’ve recovered, she’s had to adjust how she talks to me because she no longer has to appease or keep me calm. She can now speak to me like an equal, but it takes some getting used to. She’s demonstrated more patience than I thought possible.
Poverty also blights the lives of the mentally ill. I’ve managed to buck the trend here, too. I have a stock portfolio. At 43, I’m mortgage-free. I don’t have to worry about money, and I’m grateful every day for this security.
Final thoughts.
I should be the case study for reasons why you shouldn’t feel shame for having a schizophrenia diagnosis.
A doctor from Harley Street told me I was 100% disabled for the rest of my life. Yet I never accepted that prophecy of doom. You’re never too old or broken to live the life of your dreams.
I may have lost years to illness, but I have years now to make up for it.
Even writing feels weird sometimes. I’m not always this serious. I don’t walk around announcing recovery strategies everywhere I go. I can laugh, do silly things, mindlessly watch rugby, and play games.
I’m serious when I write because of the importance of my message. It’s the driving force of my life to help people recover from mental illness. And yet, despite this lofty goal, I still feel pangs of shame. Sometimes, the black dog still catches me.
I don’t have it all figured out, but I keep going until I do. My goal is to be proud of my diagnosis of schizophrenia. I want to embrace it as a part of me and what made me who I am.
It’s time for those of us with mental illnesses to step out of the shadows. Let’s do it together.