The Quickening Continued

      Sixteen was a crazy year. I met and started dating my ex-husband. I started smoking pot regularly, almost daily.  I tried (and loved) acid. I stopped seeing my councillor at some point, I don't really remember why. Life was one big party. I don't know if the numbness went away, but it was certainly drowned out by all the beer and bong rips. I had a circle of new friends and acquaintances and I was sure everything was going great. For awhile.

       One night we were up to our usual. Pot, beer, and mescaline. I had my first bad trip. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, we were watching movies and I doubt that anyone noticed. It was my first time locked in my head, but it wouldn't be my last. It was the precursor. I was terrified that I would never come down. I know that's a common worry with bad trips, but the thing is, I didn't. Not completely. In the weeks that followed, the paranoia seeped back in. Not that it had ever really gone, but it had only bothered me when I was alone. The fear was back, and I couldn't shake it.

      Seventeen came along, we had a big party and got engaged. But I was acutely aware I was standing at the edge of a precipice. The delusions crept in slowly. My neighbour was a psychic vampire. I was broadcasting my thoughts and everyone around me could feel the waves of paranoia radiating from me. I could hear other people's thoughts. They were judging me, or plotting against me. I kept this all to myself, obviously. I couldn't trust anyone. 

      My now fiance left to go to college, 800 miles away in Pittsburgh. I was sad, everyone knew I was sad, and I guess that's why my pulling away went unnoticed. The voices had started by this point. Mostly just when I was in my room alone at night. Sometimes they came from the Mia Wallace poster on my wall, sometimes they came from everywhere and nowhere. They were incessant, keeping me up at night. We got a letter from my psychiatrist (who knew nothing about the voices or delusions) and I went on a home schooling scheme where I had classes with one other girl at a teacher's house every week. Or maybe it was twice a week. Whatever it was, it was enough to keep my grades up high enough to graduate. My every waking moment was spent just trying to appear normal. I couldn't let on what was going on inside my head. 

      Graduation came, the very same day that O.J. Simpson led the cops on a car chase in his white Bronco. My graduation party consisted of my family sat glued to the telly while my best friend and I sat in my room with a bottle of Jack Daniels she'd secreted in. She was the last person I felt somewhat normal around, and it was a good day. I was finally free of school and the next day we'd pack up my belongings and drive out to Pittsburgh where my fiance was waiting for me.

The Quickening

      When I was young, I was afraid of everything. I was afraid of the dark. I was afraid of falling asleep, not only because of my reoccurring nightmares, but because I was paranoid something was waiting for me to close my eyes. Something unnameable and indefinable, but something that was surely waiting just out of my eye line. I was afraid of bathroom mirrors because I'd heard about Bloody Mary. I was afraid of monsters coming out of the toilet. 

      At some point, this paranoia culminated in what I was sure was an old woman. I mean ancient. There was a hag, following me. She would watch me run down the stairs (I always ran, if I walked the fear would consume me) from the upstairs hallway, willing me to turn around and see her. She would hide in the alcove by the front door waiting for me to get to the bottom step. I have no idea how she could be both places at once, but she always was. She would hover in the doorway of my bedroom waiting for me to close my eyes. She would watch me in the kitchen, from behind the doors that hid the water heater, biding her time, waiting for my guard to slip. She was everywhere, and I was terrified of her.

     I never saw her, but I felt her eyes on me, hateful and patient, always watching. I never looked when I knew she was there, I couldn't bear to see her. I never told anyone she existed. Speaking of her would only make her more real, give her more power. I could not afford to acknowledge her presence, she was too powerful already. This probably lasted 4 or 5 years, until junior high school gave me real life problems and fears. I still ran down the steps overcome with fear, but now the fear was faceless. At least most of the time.

     The apathy and flatness and negative symptoms all came along when I was 15. I felt numb inside, like an arm that's fallen asleep. They diagnosed me with depression when it was discovered I'd been self harming. They gave me Prozac, which made no difference at all. I took it sporadically after the first few weeks. It didn't touch the numbness. I began drinking and smoking pot occasionally. I had friends. I had boyfriends. I had a counsellor I saw every Friday. I went through the motions wondering what exactly was wrong with me.

     I turned 16 and we moved, from NJ to Pennsylvania. I was looking forward to a fresh start. Maybe a new life would make me feel new things. Make me feel anything. It was quiet and different, there was a lake a short walk from my front door, no street lamps, a sky full of stars at night. I slowly made friends and started to feel a bit of hope. And that's where I'll end this post, on a hopeful note. The rest of the story coming soon.

A long Absence

      So it's been a few years. I haven't been very good about keeping up with the blog (obviously) and I'm not entirely sure what to do with it now. Scrap the whole thing? Start a new one? Try to resurrect this? I'm at a bit of a loss.
      Updates! I'm on meds, but I am forever non-compliant. Stopping and starting, adjusting my own dosage. It's not ideal but it's there when things get bad. I always wind up back on them. I've got this idea that things will be back to "normal" when I can get off them again for good. It's hard to get rid of that idea when I had 18 good years without them. But maybe I need to adjust my idea of "normal". I guess time will tell. 

      Last week was Mental Health Awareness week. I made some social media posts and one of them had a good turn out. I really wasn't expecting that, but it felt good to see so many people relate. This week I did the Interview With A Schizophrenic podcast. I was really nervous and I don't know if I said everything I meant to say, but it was an overall good experience. It's available on Apple podcasts and Spotify if anyone wants to give it a listen. Episode 9. I found all the episodes worth a listen.

      I think I want to get into mental health advocacy, but I'm not exactly sure where or how to begin. It's definitely something to think more about though. If anyone has an clue where I should begin, give me a shout in the comments. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Isolation

       I would like to write again but I'm so incredibly devoid of inspiration. Guess this is me setting the intention and broadcasting it out there into the ether.