I had a long history of childhood abuse which may have contributed to me developing the disorder.
Stories of strength I took that advice to heart; and even though the only place it ever took me was back to that same hospital, I never really saw the flaws in those words. Perhaps it was the psychosis that blinded me from the truth, or even the brain numbing drugs.
Through my years of countless stays I met many like myself; those who seemed destined to call that place a second home. But what was the reason?
Were we so hopelessly damaged that we could never function for long on the outside? After a few hours I was released from my restraints and forced to sit in the day room for the remainder of the day. Sitting there I thought more about why that place had such an unseen magnetic attraction on some of us.
Was it the bright, Living with schizoaffective disorder essay atmosphere or maybe the way every day is structured neatly in slots, trying to soothe us into sanity? Could it have been that when you spoke in group therapy, people listened and understood for the most part what you were going through?
In there, the outside world and its troubles seemed to temporarily fade away and the chaos of life seemed to not be able to penetrate the locked doors and the clean glare of the fluorescent lights. The only real reminder seemed to be during visiting hours, when the families filed in with fake smiles and sad eyes.
For some, an even harsher reminder was the absence of any visitors at all. Who would want to leave when it was so safe and quiet here?
Here, when you are heavily medicated for the constant stream of voices telling you to kill yourself and that others are out to get you, the perils of the outside world are just too much.
But what can I do? I sat on the vinyl couch in the day room watching the carefully choreographed routine between the patients, nurses and orderlies. Lunch, smoke break, group, snack, group, dinner, smoke break and group — all like a beautiful ballet with an occasional outburst.
The next evening, a new patient was admitted during dinner — an obvious first-timer. She was led to the dining area by a nurse and looked around, much like the new kid at school, hoping for a smile or acknowledgement from someone suggesting it was OK to sit with them.
I gave her a smile and cleared some room, and she quickly sat at my table and looked around while fidgeting. A dinner tray was brought to her consisting of bland hospital food including tater tots, formed to look like smiley faces.
I always hated seeing those, as if seeing those happy potato faces would ease our troubled minds. I asked if this was her first time in the hospital and she gave a nervous nod, then asked if had been here before and what to expect.
I thought about the advice I was given and how a hindrance it really was. I told her that even though some of the things they tell you sound lame or like pipe dreams, maybe it really is worth a try. I now understood that to start the journey to recovery, I needed to dust off those skills that had been imprinted into my brain and try them, no matter how useless they seemed.
I wish I could say that was my last hospital stay, or that I miraculously recovered and I am and will always be symptom free. I did however, decide that I would own this illness and accept the fact that it will be a part of who I am. Slowly but surely I started to connect more to reality.
Sure I still have symptoms, but I can deal with them more effectively. I accept the fact that I will always have small set-backs and relapses, but I understand that how I deal with them will determine the course of my future.
I will not let my illness confine me like those restraints in the safe room confined me to that bed. Although I do not know what my future may hold, I believe that my illness has made me stronger and I will use what I have learned to carry on. So, this is me; a woman who has schizoaffective disorder, with nothing but hope for the future.
If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page. Head here for a list of crisis centers around the world.
We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.Living with Schizoaffective Disorder – A Personal Story. Being diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder was a real blow. I felt alone.
I felt helpless. I felt my life had ended. I can’t tell you how many times I sat in a bathtub staring at the vein in my arm, wondering how much it would hurt to cut through the skin, or how frightened I. Living With Schizoaffective Disorder in the World of Academia.
When I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, the hardest part of coming to terms with it was the difficulty of managing the voices that come and go. Medication plays a large role in keeping the auditory hallucinations at bay, but much of the work comes from the.
I have my own blog about living with schizoaffective disorder and, although not well kept up, I am in a different way trying to deal with the stigma of mental illness by sharing how my life is not terribly different from everyone else's.
Personal Stories I Am Living with Schizoaffective Disorder and I Will Not Be Silenced. #IAmStigmaFree because I share my story at Crisis Intervention Team Trainings, public speaking engagements and conferences.
ADHD and writing are often complicated by dysgraphia, a disorder with symptoms such as illegible writing or incomplete words.
As a child, I loved to draw. However, whenever art classes graded on the ability to trace, color within the lines, or wield scissors, I fell short. Caring for a Family Member Living with Schizoaffective Disorder December 1, , Tyler Dabel Bridges to Recovery If you have a family member that suffers from schizoaffective disorder, the process of diagnosis and treatment can be painstaking.