Archive for coping with Schizoaffective Disorder

Psycho

{ August 12, 2009 @ 12:05 pm } · { coping with Schizoaffective Disorder }
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It was a beautiful night in Chicago and my buddy Ben called me up and asked if I’d like to go to ‘movie in the park’ with him and his girl, Evelyn. I had nothing planned so I told him that I’d meet him there. ‘Movie in the park’ is an ongoing summer event in the city. They play old classic movies in Grant Park, a huge field where summer events in the city take place. It’s like a drive-in except you are sitting on a blanket and having a picnic while the film is presented on a giant screen at the north end of the park. I’ve been to a few of these and I always have a great time.

Ben is a friend of mine from the days I used to work at the Chicago Sun-Times. Since I left the paper in January, we have remained close. He is partly responsible for my first date with my now fiance, Jamie. I was on a dating website and was ready to swear off finding girls on the site as a result of some disastrous dates when Ben spotted Jamie’s profile. “She’s hot and it looks like a match!” He asserted. And the rest as they say is history.

I got to the park around 6:30 and caught up with Ben and Evelyn. We discussed our respective summers. The conversation flowed until about 8:30 when the sun went down and the movie started. The movie they were showing last night was Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. I had never seen it before and wasn’t expecting it to disturb me the way it did. I can usually sit through any kind of movie without having any lasting thoughts about it. I’m able to separate what I see on film from what is going on in my life. Jamie decided not to come because scary movies tend to upset her. I should have stayed home with her.

The movie begins harmlessly with a female protagonist who steals some money and is en route to find her boyfriend and run away with him. She stops along the way at the infamous Bates Motel where climactic events ensue. Basically, what disturbed me about the film was that the antagonist, Norman Bates, is a character suffering from a spate of mental disorders and psychotic behavior. He is a cold-blooded killer and is consumed by the dueling personae of his deceased overbearing mother and his own submissive character. Hitchcock does a masterful job of pitting the combating personalities against one another, and the result is Bates’ uncontrollable urge to kill every woman that gets close to him. As the psychiatrist describes at the end of the movie, his mother-half takes over and commits brutal acts of violence unbeknown to his actual being.

We hear about violence every day in the news and I wonder how many of these individuals are plagued by untreated mental illnesses. Hitchcock does such a good job of depicting this insane man that one’s reaction is ‘I get why some people commit homicides–they can’t contend with the disturbing swirls in their psychotic minds.’ I tried to put the movie out of my head as I headed home and got into bed but the frightening image of Bates in his mother’s robe and wig charging after victims with a butcher knife took center stage. I was finally able to settle down with the realization that this was art and not real life, but as a person suffering from a mental illness myself; I couldn’t help but wonder where the edge lies and how victims get to that edge and fall off. Again I took solace in knowing that I have never harbored any violent thoughts but what is the impetus of such thoughts in people who live normal lives only to snap one day and become cold-blooded killers?  Usually you hear about abuse in their pasts or a tendency to act on violent urges well before the point of murder, but then you hear about family men or women who take out their loving families in one fell psychotic swoop. I can’t help but identify disturbing art forms as possible inspirations for these horrific actions. Why is the American public so consumed by blood and guts? During some of Bates’ insane gratuitous rampages the captivated crowd applauded and urged him on like a running back who breaks through the line and is en route to a dramatic touchdown. Why are we so moved by violence? Following the movie I couldn’t figure out what was more disheartening, the gruesome acts depicted on screen or the crowd’s reactions to the acts as they played out in the film? I think I’m going to stick to feel-good movies for a while and steer clear 0f serial killers on the silver screen.

Misperceiving the Term Schizophrenic

{ August 11, 2009 @ 1:35 pm } · { challenges in education, coping with Schizoaffective Disorder }
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I was pouring over an article for school about English only classrooms and their detriment to non-native speakers. I got to a part in the prose when the author, a renown education theorist had this to say:

“The censorship of political analysis in the current debate over bilingual education exposes the illusory and almost schizophrenic educational practice in which ‘the object of interpretation and the content of the interpretive discourse are considered appropriate subjects for discussion and scrutiny, but the interests of the interpreter and the discipline and society he or she serves are not.”

It’s not so much the point he is making that I want to harp on, but rather the inclusion of the word ‘schizophrenic’ in this paragraph. I hear pundits on TV and experts in articles and textbooks throw the term around regularly. The point they are trying to make when they include ‘schizophrenic’ as an adjective is that something is crazy or out of whack. That, in fact, is not the definition of the word at all, and it is an insult to those suffering from the disease to have it defined in such an incorrect way. I doubt that Donald Macedo, in his article, was trying to say that the ‘censorship of political analysis in the current debate over bilingual education exposes the illusory and almost “hearing voices” educational practices…’ That is in fact what the term means in this context. It makes no sense and has no purpose in the article, or in the words of sports and political pundits on television, or in conversation anywhere about something being crazy or mixed up. I wish this could be cleared up. The word schizophrenic in its most literal sense means hearing voices. To perceive that everyone suffering from a form of Schizophrenia is crazy is not fair. When experts throw the term around incorrectly it makes my skin crawl. Just some food for thought…

True Love–a Respite for Suicide…

{ August 9, 2009 @ 3:36 pm } · { coping with Schizoaffective Disorder, sources of inspiration }
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I slept until my eyes popped open this morning. The sun was rushing through the window, it was a beautiful day. Jamie and I spent the night in the suburbs at her mother’s house, (her childhood home), like we do most weekends. Jamie’s mom was widowed two years ago and we think it’s important to keep her company on weekends. Jamie was already dressed and ready to go when my feet hit the floor and I sat at the edge of the bed, trying to get my bearings.

“We have to go register today,” she said, enthusiastically. It was another pre-wedding task that she was hoping to knock off the list. I stumbled into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, put on some clothes and we were off to the suburban mecca that is known as Bedbath and Beyond.

A nice middle aged lady set up our registration and handed me the gun so that I could scan the items we wanted. It wasn’t the exact place I wanted to be on a beautiful Sunday. Hitting the gym, laying at my sister-in-law’s pool and going for a long run all crossed my mind before the registry took place, but I was with Jamie and this was important to her, so in turn, it became important to me.

After a Starbucks which I picked up next to the store, I was ready for the action. We strolled through the store scanning item after item. I was asked my opinion on a few objects about which I really didn’t have an opinion, but I did my best to seem interested and supportive. The day was going well, especially since Jamie had a manicure scheduled for the afternoon which meant I would in fact have time to get to the gym.

While Jamie was taking a bathroom break, I ambled through the aisles. I turned a corner and came literally face-to-face with a childhood friend’s mother and father. Our eyes met and no greeting was exchanged as we past each other. I had an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach following our awkward glances. The friend of mine whose parents it was actually killed himself a few years back. I remember hearing about it while I was at my group home in the city in the summer of 2004. My father shared the news with me while we were sitting on a park bench.

Hearing about Eric’s suicide was especially difficult for me considering I had contended with suicidal thoughts myself during my first bout of depression while I was an undergrad at Beloit College. Something kept me going through this horrifying time. It was something different each day, the same things that bring me enjoyment and satisfaction today were the things that kept me striving for a better tomorrow back then. Some days it was working out, getting ready for the upcoming basketball season for a team on which I was recently voted captain. Some days it was finishing a good novel that I was halfway into. At that time it was Bill Bradley’s biography, or Phil Jackson’s Sacred Hoops. Often times while I was riding down the highway, headed to the gym where I prepared for the upcoming basketball season, I would think about my family, and that kept me driving straight rather than turning into the median at 70 mph.

After seeing Eric’s parents, I thought about the hurt and anguish they must feel on a daily basis. I wondered how they coped with all of the heartache, knowing that each person they past who knew Eric from the neighborhood, had the same thoughts on their minds–how do you deal with this loss? Each day must be a chore for them as they endure the pain of losing their son at such a young age.

Later during the wedding shopping spree, I walked outside for a moment to throw my empty Starbucks cup away and they drove by the front of the store, our eyes met yet again. It was as awkward as the first encounter. I didn’t acknowledge them because I didn’t quite know how to do so. What do you say to people when your only thoughts are with their deceased son?

I walked back to where Jamie was looking at a few blenders. “Do you like the gray one or the black one?” Such a simple question in such a blessed life…

“I like the gray one,” I said.

“You can use these for your smoothies,” she commented.

 I looked at her as she made her way down another aisle. I wondered if Eric’s parents knew how close I was to sharing their son’s fate. Then I thought about my life now and what I have in Jamie, my future bride; and all I could think about was how lucky and fortunate I am for sticking it out and finding true love and happiness that brighten my life each and every day.

His Genius Will be Missed

{ August 8, 2009 @ 11:09 am } · { coping with Schizoaffective Disorder, sources of inspiration }
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The Great John Hughes

The Great John Hughes

We were sitting around my sister-in-law’s parents’ kitchen table last night, having great conversation and sharing laughter. The get together was celebratory because my brother and his wife are expecting. Though I’m not supposed to share the news yet, (she is only nine weeks along), I couldn’t help myself. I think their secret will be safe in the blogosphere.

My brother’s good buddy Chris was in from Michigan with his girlfriend, and when we all are together, there is never a shortage of great stories and humor. At one point during the evening, the conversation shifted to the recently departed, John Hughes. We were discussing his many classic movies and I commented that his imprint on the movie industry was unprecedented. Ben Stein said in an interview that Hughes was to present-day cinema what Shakespeare was to Elizabethan literature. Although a lofty comparison, I think he is right.

During a symptomatic time my junior year in college, I went through an extended period, which lasted until the early stages of my recovery four years later, where I was convinced that I would be a film writer. I used Hughe’s classics like Ferris Beuller’s Day off and the Breakfast Club, set on the North Shore of Chicago where I grew up, as inspiration for the many scripts I started and never finished during that time. I watched these movies over and over again to try to capture the essence of adolescence like Hughes did time and again. I wanted my characters to be funny and authentic like Ferris. What I found was that it was easy to be extremely creative for short bursts of time. I would write a couple of pages of compelling prose only to lose interest after about a half hour when I would go for one of my custom eight-mile-midnight runs.

The sad aspect of Hughes’ existence was that, like so many other creative geniuses, he finished out his life in solitude as a recluse. At the time of his death, he hadn’t written or directed a movie since 1991. I’ve talked about the price of heightened creativity on this blog before. For me, it is the risk of being unstable and causing harm to myself, for others it is the risk of being antisocial and disassociated with society. I wonder why creative people are often plagued by debilitating vices that color their existence.

Hughes will forever be an inspiration to me. His movies will live in infamy much like his brilliant spirit. I’m thankful that I was able to witness his genius because it inspired me and countless others to create and imagine on a large scale. I don’t know if my illness will ever allow for me to fulfill my persistent dream of being recognized for a creative work, but every time I see one of Hughes’ films, I will be moved to work on a masterpiece that will be timeless like so many of his installments.

Summer Reflections

{ August 6, 2009 @ 6:54 pm } · { challenges in education, coping with Schizoaffective Disorder }
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With the summer more than halfway over, I’ve decided to reflect on my summer thus far. If I could describe my summer in one word it would be ‘busy.’ I’ve taken a lot on and like all of life’s challenges, there was no road map. Everything I took on this summer represented a great unknown.

Since my diagnosis in 2004, I’ve never done anything full-time. When I started recovery groups, it was just for a few hours a day. When I started volunteering doing data entry at an office, it was just for three hours every other day. And when I started my first Masters program in 2005, I eased into it one credit at a time. This summer, between work and school, I was occupied about 50 hours a week. Heading into the summer, I had a lot of anxiety about taking so much on. I discussed my apprehensions with my therapist, Dr. Levinson, on several occasions. I’ve always been a late riser and pretty dysfunctional before about 10:30 am. My job during the school year in the Family Lab at school where I was a Graduate Assistant didn’t begin until after noon most days. I’ve always been productive once the sun goes down but my camp counselor position at a city day camp called for me to be up and rearing to go before 9:00 each morning.

I wondered out loud a couple of weeks before camp began if I should come down on my Seroquel dose to avoid the hangover that I feel most mornings. Dr. Levinson wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. In the past, when I’ve altered my medication, I have experienced symptoms which come in the form of voices and paranoia. What I found out this summer, to my surprise and elation, was that I was making my medication my scapegoat. Surmising that I needed a dose adjustment in order to function in the morning turned out to be a complete cop-out. All I needed was an alarm clock and a little extra motivation. The first week was difficult, but as the summer got going, waking up in the morning grew easier and easier.

I proved to myself that I could handle a consistent morning task for an extended period of time. Working eight hour days and then going to night class for three hours two nights a week were also new challenges for me. Dr. Levinson and I discussed perhaps scrapping work in order to stay on schedule with my graduate program even before I attempted this new workload. What I found as the summer wore on was that I was quite capable of enduring the full schedule without using medication or my illness as an excuse. Now I know that there are people contending with mental illness out there that truly cannot function with too much on their plate–and early on, I was definitely one of those people. But the more I cope with the illness and quell it with therapeutic activities like this blog and sessions with Dr. Levinson, the more I find I can put on my plate and keep my head above water.

I think the key is to gradually take more on as you move through recovery, and of course surrounding yourself with good professionals and supportive family and friends is important as well. I’ve been lucky to have both in my corner since the start. I’m still not sure if I can handle a full-time teaching position when I finish school in the spring, but this summer has done a lot to convince me that I will be just fine with whatever I take on hereafter.

Who’s Running With Me?

{ August 1, 2009 @ 3:46 pm } · { coping with Schizoaffective Disorder, sources of inspiration }
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I had a very productive session with my therapist, Dr. Levinson today. I find lately that I bring up a lot of the issues I discuss on this forum. Often, I am thinking about the titles of my posts and delving into the topics that I have written about. All in all I think that I have a lot more to say these days because of this new outlet.

Today I discussed the small blogging community that I have immersed myself in since starting this site. I talked about inspirational blogs I have found, many of which are linked on this page, and also disturbing blogs that I have read recently. One of the troubles I had while living in an outpatient care program at the Lawson House YMCA in Chicago was that the people surrounding me in the group home seemed a lot worse off than I was. They were mostly victims of substance abuse that had lived in poverty for a long time and had found their way to the Y usually through intervention programs. They did not have strong support teams in their corner like I have because they were estranged from their families. These are the same people that surround me at Psych Rehab, where I go for my biweekly shot. I look around and I wonder if I am an anomaly because of the success I have had since my treatment began. And I wonder if I’m the only one…

So I started the blog to find a community of people that have had the same success with stability and treatment that I have had. In large part I have found these people, but I also find people who struggle with daily delusions and disturbing thoughts, which they relate in their blogs, and it is quite upsetting to hear that people contending with mental illness can’t recover from the psychosis that plagued all of us at one point in time. There was a post I came across where a consumer was writing from a psych ward. She was extremely delusional and her entry, while real and cutting edge, made my heart bleed. Sometimes I wonder if I’m running a race with a community of supporters, only to find that when I reach the finish line, I am all alone.

I guess what I’m asking you, the blogging community, is to not only read what I have to say and hopefully find some insight in my words, but also share your success stories with me. I know I’ve found some of you that are doing wonderful things in recovery but I’d like to hear from more of you, so that I know I am not running this race all by myself. Feel free to drop me a line and tell me about achieving stability, it would be much appreciated and extremely inspirational. Thanks for stopping by!

Meeting Challenges

{ July 30, 2009 @ 11:46 pm } · { challenges in education, coping with Schizoaffective Disorder, sources of inspiration }
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kayaking on the Puget Sound

kayaking on the Puget Sound

Most of the challenges I have met and overcome since my diagnosis have been cognitive challenges. I first had to acknowledge that I had Shizoaffective Disorder. Then I had to identify coping mechanisms and put in place strategies that would keep my symptoms at bay. Once I stabilized, I set out new, educational challenges for myself. I completed one masters program and am in the midst of receiving my second masters degree. I have been pleasantly surprised by what I have accomplished while dealing with my illness.

I have also fallen short of a challenge or two. When I was hired by the Chicago Sun-Times to cover high school sports, I felt like I was at the place I wanted to be. I saw myself moving up the ladder at the paper and truly wanted to spend the rest of my days as a sports reporter. I dreamed about some day being on my beloved Cubs’ beat and doing sports talk radio shows as the town’s Cubs’ authority. I worked hard during my first year plus there, but then things got rough.

It took over a year for my boss, the high school sports editor, to even know I existed, and when he finally learned my name, he found faults with everything I did. When I got a job right, he rarely if ever praised me. When something was amiss, on the other hand, even if it wasn’t my doing, he laid into me and he was relentless. He fired me and rehired me several times and didn’t even acknowledge my presence the rest of the time. My symptoms slowly returned due to all the stress I was experiencing at work. Soon it was clear that sportswriting at the Sun-Times wouldn’t be my life’s vocation. I quit the paper when the job became too unbearable.

I’m now taking on yet another academic challenge as I embark on a masters of Secondary Education. Though I don’t know if I will eventually overcome the challenge of being a high school teacher, I am willing to try my best and see where I end up.

Last weekend my fiance Jamie and I went to Seattle for a friend’s wedding. While in the majestic Pacific Northwest, I took on a different kind of challenge with my adventurous partner in crime, a physical one. On our first night in Seattle when the trip planner was trying to figure out how we would spend our second and last day there, she suggested that we go on a kayaking tour. I’d never been kayaking before, but how hard could a paddle down the coastline be? I said what the heck and told Jamie I would do it. Then she told me that it wasn’t a quick little excursion, but a seven mile odyssey through the Puget Sound. I almost choked. I didn’t want her to sense that I was one to back away from a daunting task so I kept my mouth shut.

I was nervous when we got to the water’s edge and our guide gave us a crash course in the do’s and don’ts of kayaking. We got into our little boat and started the treck. What followed was one of the most remarkable and memorable experiences I have ever encountered. Not more than two minutes into our journey we spotted a seal poke his snout out of the water. That sight in itself was our money’s worth right there. As we glided across the dark blue surface of the Sound, it was like coasting across a sheet of glass. The water was calm, the sun was shining and the surroundings were beautiful. We spotted a few jelly fish and a soaring bald eagle along the way.

The best part of the trip wasn’t seeing nature in its element, it wasn’t learning the history of West Seattle from Andy, our tour guide; it was the fact that I was able to meet a daunting challenge, one that I was reluctant face, head on; and I did it with Jamie, literally by my side. I felt like it was a microcosm of what lies ahead for us as we enter the sacred union of marriage. Challenges for us may be mental, like deciding how we want to raise our children, they might be physical, like actually raising our children, but we musn’t back down from any of them, even when they seem as daunting as a seven-mile kayak along the Puget Sound with no prior kayaking experience.

The Price of Heightened Creativity

{ July 27, 2009 @ 11:35 pm } · { coping with Schizoaffective Disorder, sources of inspiration }
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I just finished reading Steve Lopez’s The Soloist, a book about the struggles of a Juliard-trained musician contending with Schizophrenia. Nathanial Ayers combats his illness with a deep and undying love of classical music. He still has moments of clarity where he can create a masterful sound as he plunges into Beethoven movements on his cello or violin. But his hopeful moments are always followed by a submergence into the depths of despair that have him preferring a life on the streets to an apartment and psychiatric treatment that Mr. Lopez finds for him.

Ayers’ plight reminded me a lot of my own. During times of stability, I was moved by a profound and passionate love for literature and written expression. I would lose myself in masterpieces like Cather in the Rye, often creating my own fictional versions of the classic work. My characters were layered and multi-dimensional, often representing people whose paths I crossed during my youth or travails across country. During times of mania, much like Ayers, I experienced augmented creativity that allowed me to see the prose I constructed before my very eyes.

Research has proved that there can be a link between mania and creativity which speaks to the many artists, writers and musicians, including Ayers and the great Ernest Hemingway who were creative geniuses while struggling with mental illness.

My regret is that I never held on to any of my work during my manic episodes in Vegas and LA. When I finally accepted treatment and got well, I disposed of everything I wrote when I was symptomatic, fearing that it would remind me too much of troubled times.

One creative flourish in particular documented a disillusioned teenager seeking refuge in a trip across the country to find meaning and purpose in his life. He stays with a relative in Vegas where he gets caught up in a dangerous lifestyle, becoming a regular at the sports book and various casinos. His cousin, who is a member of the FBI, helps him get back on track and find respite to his tormented existence in his loving family. I wrote it during a stay at an impatient care facility in Texas and left it there when I was set to return home to Chicago.

Today I struggle to find inspiration for my creativity. My only real writing outlet is this blog. Off the medicine I can paint elaborate landscapes with my prose. I can imagine multi-faceted characters and dense plots riddled with exciting twists and turns. On my meds I am constrained by here-and-now realities, missing the ability to dream and conjure. The trade-off is that now, unlike Ayers who refuses medication throughout the book, I am not plagued by periods of confusion and rage. I do not experience downward spirals where I put my life in danger. I am not burdened by nights where I have no other place to lay my head than my car pulled off on the shoulder of a dark and desolate inter-state. I guess creativity is a small price to pay for a safe and harmonious existence.

Disability Benefits

{ July 27, 2009 @ 4:52 pm } · { challenges in education, coping with Schizoaffective Disorder }
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My employment history over the past four years was reviewed by the Social Security Administration. They were trying to determine if my SSDI benefits should continue indefinitely. The goal of the review was to determine if I am capable of full-time employment in which case my benefits would be discontinued.

I have been employed by three different employers over this time–the most prestigious of which was the Chicago Sun-Times. I was at the Times from the fall of ’05 until last December. It was rewarding work and I made many good contacts. When my boss started reprimanding me and humiliating me in front of my coworkers though, the job became too stressful to continue.

While this was happening the economy was suffering and so was the newspaper. Readership was down and space was being constantly cut. I left the paper just before it declared bankruptcy and laid off a good number of its writers.

The Social Security Administration found that I was ‘incapable of substantial or full-time work.’ As I read this portion of the five page review, I was stricken with mixed emotions. While this was good news because I would continue receiving my monthly checks, it didn’t bode well for my confidence as I attempt to take on a full-time teaching job at the end of my schooling in the fall of 2010. It’s true I haven’t enjoyed a full-time job since I first got sick in 2003, but I will have to prove to a school administrator that I am more than capable of performing in such a role. Where will this confidence come from? Confidence comes from measured success, and the success I have achieved over the last four years has been largely academic, as I completed one Masters and am more than halfway through another. But teaching is different than being a student. Perhaps the only thing I can do is meet the teaching challenge head on much like I have confronted my mental illness.

Though I will lose financial benefits when I do embark on my teaching career, I look forward to the letter I receive from Social Security notifying me that I will be cut off from my benefits due to ‘full-time and substantial employment.’

The Most Understanding Person I Know

{ July 21, 2009 @ 6:29 pm } · { coping with Schizoaffective Disorder, sources of inspiration }
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What more can I say about my fiance Jamie? I don’t know at what point written compliments get old and worn out, but I might be approaching it. I’ve blogged about Jamie frequently, stating several times that she is my rock and biggest supporter. Now I have to say that she is the most understanding person I have ever met.

We had a pretty lengthy discussion last night about this site. I call it a discussion and not an argument because that was what my parents always said when my brother and I would hear them raise their voices at one another. “Are you guys fighting?” We would ask. “No, we are having a discussion,” was the consistent reply. I do believe that what Jamie and I had was in fact a ‘real’ discussion though. There were good points made by both sides and there was a sharing and receiving of each other’s opinions.

I have given Jamie full access to this blog. I want to publish a memoir one day and if my name is going to be emblazoned on the cover of a book, then I might as well start sharing some of my inner thoughts and feelings regarding my mental illness with the person with whom I plan to spend the rest of my life. So allowing Jamie to read this blog was a good first step. I’ve also told my brother about it but no one else. I still have a long way to go in the area of publicizing my plight.

So Jamie happened upon my last post about the ‘places I’ve been.’ She read about my stay at the Lawson House YMCA, which is tenement housing on the north end of downtown Chicago. We pass by it a lot and see its staple, vagrants out in front of the building chain smoking cigarettes with literally nothing better to do. Jamie was surprised that I never shared this with her. “How can we spend the rest of our lives together if you leave out big parts of your past?” She wanted to know…

I have shared many of my psychotic episodes with her. I have been open and honest about my illness from the very beginning. I told her about my stay in a Texas holding cell, I told her about my escapades through Juarez, Mexico. But I failed to mention that I spent two years living in a group home in downtown Chicago. She felt that that was vital information. I didn’t see it the same way. I lost my temper for a moment, “What do you want to know? Do you want to know that I spent a couple of years living alongside people who were previously homeless? Who had lifelong drug addictions? Who were products of single parents in the slums of the city? Who were estranged from their children? I don’t think that’s vital information, I think it’s a time and a place I want to forget.”

Then her position adjusted a bit. “I just don’t want to hear about big events in your life on the blog first. I feel like you should be able to share these things before you write about them,” she asserted. I calmed down a bit and decided to compromise. “I can tell you about these things before I write about them, but the truth is, I’m afraid and embarrassed about some of the things that happened in my past… afraid that you’ll judge me and want to leave me.” There, I got the truth right out there. Since a previous girlfriend accompanied me on a trip to my psychiatric rehabilitation clinic, and quickly decided that I was destined to end up in a psych ward and that she would have to take care of me; I have been careful about how candid I am with Jamie about my illness and my past.

“I haven’t judged you yet, have I?” She asked.

“No,” I said.

“And I know all about your stay at a group home five years ago.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And do you want to leave me?”

“No,” she intimated.

And thus Jamie supplanted herself as the most understanding and compassionate person I have ever met. The strength it must take for her to know about my uncensored past is astounding. I realized after our discussion that the reason I chose to write about staying at the Y rather than telling her about it is because it is easier. Writing is impersonal, sitting face-to-face with a loved one or friend and getting things out tests your courage and will.

I know in some of the blogs I have read, people aren’t able to tell a friend or a loved one about their illness. For a girlfriend/boyfriend, fiance or spouse to stand by his/her significant other, in spite it all, is a mark of true companionship, for better or worse, and a sign of the endurance of the relationship. I’ve also found that it is relatively rare. So I am exceedingly grateful for Jamie’s understanding and acceptance, I couldn’t ask for a better future wife.

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