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.

review: the lost apothecary by sarah penner

This is going to be my very first book review! This year, one of my goals was to read more books for fun. I’ve always been very good at academic reading, especially when I was in nursing school, which is probably why I didn’t like reading for “fun”. When my anxiety and depression started to peak (let’s be real, I’m still there) I had to brainstorm hobbies I could do for myself. The easiest one was reading! It didn’t take anything but quiet time and a book. So to motivate myself to read, I subscribed to Book of the Month! It’s a monthly subscription for books that are curated for the month! I’ve gotten four books from them so far, and the first one I finished was The Lost Apothecary by Sarah Penner.

It is a historical fiction book that follows the life of three women, Caroline (in present day), Eliza, and Nella (1700s). All of them have been tied to similar life experiences of infidelity, deception, and miscarriage. And all of them go through a string of experiences that altar the way they view their lives and change the course of what’s to come in their future. This book was hard to put down as every chapter in one’s life made you eager to find out the connection between them all.

It is a promise I made to my mother, to preserve the existence of these women whose names would otherwise be erased from history. The world is not kind to us… There are few places for a woman to leave an indelible mark… But this register preserves them - their names, their memories, their worth.”

I marked this quote in the book because it shows the importance of Nella’s registry for her apothecary, whether they were potions for harm for or healing, the women who purchased them would be remembered somehow. A very girl power book indeed.

To be honest, I’m not very good at writing book reviews, and book reports were my least favorite homework assignments in grade school. But what I do know is that for me to want to keep reading this book, meant it was a good read. Because it is hard to get me to stay interested. It made me want to buy a spontaneous ticket to London so I could go mudlarking in the Thames river to find pieces of history!

I don't even know what to write anymore.

Every day this week I’ve told myself that I wanted to write a blog. Just so I could do something that can serve as a brain dump to my electronic therapist on how the past two weeks have been going. Since leaving my intensive therapy program, I’ve had a mental breakdown every day, which resulted in me getting drunk and going on Instagram to tell the world that I was tired and a bunch of other things I don’t quite remember. Rolling into Monday of this week, my son is admitted to the hospital for sicknesses we don’t quite understand yet. I just know that my son might be the next living bubble boy at this point.

Last week I said I was tired of being strong, but being strong is all I can be right now. I need to be strong, not even just for me, but for my baby, for my husband… Another task to test my mental fortitude. Something to come my way and see if this is what breaks me this time. Honestly, if any of the worst case scenarios in my head happened, it would break me. I wouldn’t even know what to do. I won’t write them into existence, just know that it’s where my head is at right now.

I look at my baby, who was once thriving, joking, laughing, and crawling around my home… laying in a bed with fluids and antibiotics and no energy to play with blocks or read books… and he naps more than half the day away… It hurts me to see him like this.

So yeah… I’m tired… but if I have to throw on a smile in front of my baby boy and pretend like I have the energy, then that’s what I’ll do… Because if he sees me in good spirits, maybe he’ll be in good spirits too…

Wow, that was embarrassing.

So, I got a wee drunk the other day, went on Instagram Live for the first time in my life, bawled my eyes out, probably spilled so many dark thoughts and feelings in the process… I can’t even remember what I said on Live, but I’m not sure that I want to. So if you listened, please don’t remind me. I already struggle making small talk with people, the last thing I want is to know the depth of embarrassment I had on Instagram. Thankful that I have a husband that deleted everything before even more people viewed it.

With that being said though, those who did end up viewing my feed and reaching out to me to make sure I was okay, I appreciate the fuck out of you. Those of you who reached out to my husband, I appreciate you. I mean, in the end, the cops got called to my house, my boss showed up, they made me go to the ER to do a psych evaluation and an alcohol blood level, but I ended up getting released home. I was safe, I am safe, we’re all good.

That would have honestly sucked though, because the psych unit here doesn’t discharge on four day weekends, meaning I would’ve been stuck there for 5 days hating myself for drinking that much. That place is like jail. There is no happiness that looms in those hallways. It’s just dread and misery that seeps through those cracks.

I am sad though. I constantly feel alone. I have the biggest case of FOMO, but I’m also the most anti-social person with FOMO… Which really doesn’t help. I hate feeling like I burden people with my depression. I think I’m actually pretty funny, I have a lot of dark humor, and I’m pretty apathetic to things that happen to me, but I’m really empathetic towards others. Which I guess just means, I feel like no one will ever understand me, but I’m pretty good at understanding others. I don’t think I’m super worthy of love, but I will love the fuck out of my friends.

I wish I had an easier time connecting with people. I wish people took the time to get to know me in a deeper sense. I always feel like I come in at the wrong time when I move. People are already super close to each other, they all have inside jokes and hang out on the weekends. I mean, just moving to El Paso, I literally put physical distance between me and almost everyone I know by living on the other side of the mountain. In Korea, I literally was the only officer that lived in Seoul while everyone else stayed 64 kilometers away. Geographic locations have never been on my side either, so I guess that also doesn’t help.

Maybe I just need to try harder at making friends, but honestly… and we’re being absolutely honest…

No one likes hanging out with depressed, anxious, and “crazy” people.

I think that’s the biggest reason why I distance myself. Because I’ve heard people talk about patients that come in with Suicidal Ideation, and I’ve heard people talk about people who get admitted to the psych unit, and those conversations are never 1) welcoming and 2) supportive.

So honestly… Maybe it’s okay that I’m anti-social, cause I’d rather have no friends than have fake friends.

"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.