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Not waving, but drowning

Posted Apr 12 2013 12:00am
I feel like I live on a deserted island. When I try to explain this place to others - who have never been here - they never really grasp what I'm talking about. They want me to take more pills and learn more coping skills with which to deal with my environment. I want to be out of this shitty environment immediately.

My doctor at the hospital is the doctor who told me in 2005 that I had the same illness as John  Nash, and had my mom rent the movie A Beautiful Mind so I could watch it and understand. Back then my diagnosis was Paranoid Schizophrenia. I was so grateful to this doctor for telling me what the problem was, I can't even describe how grateful I was. So a few weeks ago, when my psychiatrist suggested I go to a hospital ("for about two or three days"), I said I would go only if that doctor who diagnosed me would be my doctor at the hospital again. Since this worked out, I was happy about one aspect of the hospital experience.

But now my sense of isolation is so high that I don't even think that doctor knows this island. I want to take pictures, snapshots of my reality and say "Here".......I live in this delusional world where all of us disabled, mentally ill, Jewish, or otherwise disdained people are going to be sent to concentration camps. I live on this island where the people I talk to on the phone at my job are discussing Illuminati/New World Order/ Nazi secrets with me as I am a CIA operative.

This island where I live doesn't look like anything anybody's seen before, with the exception of people with Schizophrenia who live on similar islands.

The mental health professionals think it's great that I am actually aware I live on this island at all. I have the insight to know my world is delusional. But I think they sometimes assume this means I'm not really caught in the trap of delusion. And the thing is, I really am.

I don't think 75 mgs of Clozaril is enough to help with this nightmare at all. But I guess the dosage has to be increased slowly since the drug could, if you have bad luck, kill you so you have to get blood drawn each week to make sure you're not dying and the pharmacy will only give you one week's worth of pills at a time.

When I go to the partial hospital program, I wear my work clothes, since most days I go to work afterwards. My appearance defies my reality. If you look okay then people assume you feel okay and your brain works.

One thing I liked that my outpatient psychiatrist said once was, "Nobody can tell by looking at you what is going on with you at all." Exactly.

I try to explain. I ask people if they're talking about me dying in a concentration camp. I try to draw them blueprints of my island. People think if you have insight and know that you are delusional then it's not all that bad, or something. I feel like no one understands I'm being tormented 24 hours a day. I point out the Nazi codes on a bulletin board to a nurse. I try to say, "HELP, PLEASE!" But I always remember that poem that says "I'm not waving, I'm drowning".

Yesterday the Nazi/CIA/Illuminati talk at work was so bad, I only stayed at my job for one hour. I told my boss I needed to go home. The Clozaril makes me tired and that wasn't a total lie. I went home and hid in my bed all day. in the quiet realm that soothes me.

Yesterday and today when I tried to describe the island I'm on, staff people asked me if I would like to be readmitted to the hospital inpatient unit. No, I definitely would  not. I have my job to worry about, money to think about. I can't go back there again. Somehow I have to get on meds that work for me again and I have to cultivate the hope within myself to believe that day will arrive.
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