Thankfully, I’m figuring out that it is altogether okay to have mental illness, and that there are like a million of us out there that have got one. I know, everybody knows this already. Counselors have even told me this, but it’s not until today that I realize that maybe by coming out of the dark with it, I can describe my illness for the benefit of others out there wondering if they are the only freak in the room.
This is a brief overview of my particular case. Right before my third year of college, my primary care physician suggested that I try an antidepressant, Paxil, and so I did, sporadically, that third year. This is also when I started to have my nervous breakdown over a broken heart. Sad, I know. Yeah, who cares.
Started to go bat-shit crazy that third year, mainly feeling as if everyone could hear everything that I was thinking. I also enacted incredible mental gymnastics to overcome that sensation, and I still do this in order to purify my mind and think always of peace and love. I had some really awful thoughts, mainly of bad words and mean criticisms of other people’s physical manifestations, and I felt separarated from my thoughts, as if they were just this inherently wicked mean part of me.
While I never heard voices, I did becaome quite delusional, mainly paranoid obviously. I tried to see a psychiatrist and stay at school, but even she noticed that I really was just not making any sense, and could hardly talk. After finishing that third year, I went home and dropped out. I never saw visions, but my eyes did play tricks on me with shadows and light. While I knew that I was going crazy, I was somewhat miffed that I did not hear voices or see visions, and so I did not understand what in the world was going on and felt as if I wasn’t even all that great at going crazy.
I forgot to mention that I had been a horrific pot smoker and binge drinker, and I was only about 18 or 19 when everything began to unfold psychologically. I never tried to kill myself, but I did not want to live. This must be that “rock-bottom” that addicts describe. Well, yeah that’s it. I knew that I had to go home from school, and that I would never go back there. I never did. Going home allowed me to give up the drugs and alcohol, and my friends just kept on doing what they did, and they’re all pretty much successful now. We’re not still in touch. Oh, well.
So I’m 45 now, have been taking psych meds for 20+ years, and am doing okay, except for this confessional blog. Oh yeah, I finally tried to kill myself when I was about 30, but thankfully, I connected with my now husband, who helped me to forget the “failure” aspect of my character and drew me out of the ashes I was bathing in, and gave me unconditional love to heal. I had also managed to go back to school and even got a graduate degree, shortly before I tried to kill myself with seven extra capsules of prozac and spent a stay in the hospital. Didn’t even purge my stomach, but I did have to drink charcoal to clear out those extra meds.
I don’t like to discuss all of this terrible time, so mainly I try not to think of it. I will try to describe my paranoia and delusional thinking, if that might help somebody, but not today, cause I’m tired and need to go to sleep. I’m really serious about my sleep hygeine now, and it’s bed time, despite how awesome my self-absorption is. Just kidding. Night-night!