Justin Alan describes how was diagnosed with one of the most misunderstood mental illnesses, Part 2 of this piece will be published tomorrow.
After my psychological testing, I made a follow-up appointment with a therapist. I walked into the office, pale, wide-eyed and wary of all the invisible voices whispering to me as I notified the receptionist and sat down. My eyes darted to every empty chair and every corner of the walls as I searched for the CIA-planted bugs planted to spy on me. Every inch of me wanted to sprint out of that office and never return. I did not want to face a professional who would be trained to see right through me and my secrets. I did not want to have to physically defend myself from capture when they figured out what I was. I was so intoxicated with fear I almost didn’t notice my therapist calling my name at the door.
We sat down in our chairs, plush and comfortable to make me feel at ease in order to extract the truth, and I smiled and said all of the personable things to make me seem like I wasn’t reeling from psychosis. As we talked, I told her all of my personal history with mental illness. I informed her about how I struggled with anxiety before and had been diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder, panic disorder, and depression, all around the ages of 16 to 17. I told her about how I had abused drugs in the past and tried to mull through the backlogs of my mind to remember all seven or eight prescriptions I had been on since then. I recounted how I had once been hospitalized for being suicidal and did my best to gloss over it as quickly as possible. I did not want the words hospital or suicide to be prevalent in our conversation for fear that it might give away any secrets that I was not okay.
I then told her about the head psychologist’s diagnosis and told her a few of the things she had said to my mother and I. The therapist filled me in as best she could about some of the textbook symptoms of paranoid personality disorder, unaware of the fact that I had searched all over the internet to find out what it is, so I was already an expert in my mind anyway. I had also read almost everywhere that paranoid personality disorder is closely related to schizophrenia. It had most of the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia, just minus the psychosis. Throughout the whole conversation, I knew what I had to do, and each and every voice in my head warned me vehemently to not do it. I had to tell her that things had changed and I was now hearing things. I had to tell someone that something had clicked and things had gotten worse.
Gathering the courage, and going against every instinct in my body, I then told the therapist what I was experiencing. I told her that I had now begun hearing voices, and they were present for most of the day. I told her that I was not doing well in school and that something had just clicked off in my brain, dragging me from being a straight-A student down to D’s and C’s. I left out some of my very real conspiracy theories for fear that she would look at me funny. I sat there and waited while she calculated what the next move should be. As she evaluated what I had said, the voices became furious. “Idiot! Why would you do that? It’s over now. Going away forever. Crazy. Idiot!” I nearly cried from the screams in my head. I didn’t know if I had disappointed them or myself. She then told me what I had been dreading. Make an appointment with a psychiatrist. Inside I wanted to beg and plead that there must be some other way. There had to be a way to circumnavigate another damned doctor looking at me and prescribing me more medication. But on the outside, I just nodded and smiled. Yes, I will definitely make that appointment. I will absolutely do that.
I made all the calls to the necessary offices as the voices scolded me and warned me not to endanger myself. The best psychiatry office I could call notified me that there would be a long waiting period, approximately two months. I made the appointment and waited. Every day that I worked I dragged through. Every time I had to walk in public, I avoided everything. Every classroom I had to walk in was torture. My paranoia was full force and I was insane with anger and fear. The 20-year-old boy who had been free was long gone and was now a prisoner who could not trust his own mind. I was not on medication, but I sure as hell needed them, because my brain was beginning to rot with darkness and hatred.
The day finally came where I was scheduled to meet with the psychiatrist in February, shortly after my 21st birthday. It was an hour-long appointment, and I was resolved to tell him everything. I poured out my history again and told him everything that had been happening. It was my rebellion against the voices torturing me. I spat in their face as I spilled all my secrets and revealed all of my symptoms, down to the last word I could muster. I waited as he laboured intensely and took detailed notes of what he was hearing. He asked me if the voices were currently speaking to me, and I said yes, defiant against my demons. He asked me what they were saying, and I answered, “Mainly negative stuff. ‘Idiot, crazy, stupid’, that sort of thing.” He then told me that he was sending a medication to my pharmacy. It was an antipsychotic.
As we wrapped up and I was about to leave the office, I asked him cautiously, “So is this still paranoid personality disorder, or has this evolved into something different?” I knew what I wanted to hear. What I wanted was an answer like, “Oh, no you’re fine! There’s really nothing wrong, just growing pains! These meds are a one-time thing, all is fine!” What I actually heard was that it was no longer paranoid personality disorder. It had definitely evolved. Probably schizophrenia or schizoaffective disorder. My heart sank. My spirit let out a sigh of defeat and loss. I wished that I hadn’t told him a damn thing. Look where it had gotten me. An image flashed in my brain, a pale zombie resembling me shuffling down a dark hospital hallway in a dirty hospital gown, incapacitated and unaware of the real world. I had finally been broken, and I had finally heard the words I both wanted to hear and dreaded hearing. Schizophrenia, my death sentence.
I drove home in tears and walked into my parents’ house. I walked into my parents’ room and my mother looked at me to ask how my appointment went. I held it together as I told her that the guy was nice enough and seemed like he knew what he was talking about. I told her some things we had said to each other, and when I got to the end, my lips quivered with desperate fear and loss. I told her the words the psychiatrist had told me, and she looked at me in silence. At my breaking point, I buried my head into her shoulder and sobbed, and I knew she shed a few tears as well. I’m sure she had said that it was all going to be okay, but I didn’t hear. I was too dumbstruck and floored with defeat. This was my new reality and the beginning of the end of hope.
This article first appeared on Medium.
Help information
If you need help please talk to friends, family, a GP, therapist or one of the free confidential helpline services. For a full list of national mental health services see yourmentalhealth.ie.
- Samaritans on their free confidential 24/7 helpline on 116-123, by emailing jo@samaritans.ie
- Pieta House National Suicide Helpline 1800 247 247 or email mary@pieta.ie – (suicide prevention, self-harm, bereavement) or text HELP to 51444 (standard message rates apply)
- Aware 1800 80 48 48 (depression, anxiety)
If living in Ireland you can find accredited therapists in your area here:
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