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At First, Schizophrenia Just Watches

At first, Schizophrenia just watches the girl. 

... 

She is three, and if something terrible were to happen to her—Schizophrenia must see the worst—the papers would have called her angelic. She is often hiding behind a long curtain of pale golden hair, although she's more interested in fidgeting with it than brushing it. Her eyes are a green that flash gold, silver, blue in the light, looking at anything other than the person talking to her. She is fair and already willowy, or too tall too fast, tripping over her own feet despite looking down at them. 

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Hurricane Walks: Gifted Kid Rambles

Hurricane Hilary is heading up the West Coast. As a lifelong Las Vegas resident, a hurricane is coming is an unfamiliar feeling.

Yet, as far as things I have not actually experienced go, a hurricane is coming feels almost familiar. 

I took a long break from my morning walks. Rising physical health issues, rising temperatures, and starting treatment for the restrictive eating disorder (which for me came with a compulsive exercise addiction) were the perfect storm to make me question them. I reframed my morning exercise routine as Joyful Movement, which usually boiled down to me stretching for about two minutes. But a few months later, I realized I missed my walks. My body and mind were suffering for not getting some fresh air, sunlight, real meditative time, and endorphins worth mentioning early in the day.

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Examining My Biases via My Fiction

About four months ago, I seriously started eating disorder recovery, working with a new therapist and a nutritionist. 

I've also taught my class on how to be an ally to people with eating disorders (without being an ally to the eating disorder) twice now, for two different virtual conferences, and it broke my heart a little both times. The participants list, the chat, the people on camera nodding emphatically. Always more people than I expect. Kind acquaintances I had no idea were struggling, sharing their experiences in the chat. Bigger bodied people who have been unfairly shamed for so long, nodding along as I condemn diet culture. Queer people, people of color who have just faced so much stigma for how they look. Disabled people who were shamed for not exercising, like it was the only thing that mattered in life. Men who were told to man up, that men didn't get eating disorders. Someone younger than me who has probably never said the words I have an eating disorder before but nodding to every bullet point. Someone twice my age who's clearly been knowingly caught in this cycle for far too long. 

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Kabbalah for Schizophrenics (Or: Spending Too Much Time in Atziluth)

Around the beginning of August, after some dabbling in it, I unexpectedly got really into tarot reading. Down various related rabbit holes I went, often trying to generally get (back) in touch with my skeptical spiritual side, with my cultural roots, with the philosophies that had called to me, and maybe add a bit of witchcraft. From sigils to synagogue to Stoicism, I explored.

This month, I landed somewhat close to my cultural origins and, via looking for tarot resources through familiar venues, ended up attending two Zoom classes at least half about Kabbalah.

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Why We Need Diverse Stories (A Letter I Wrote in a Dream)

When I was in high school, I started writing my own happy endings. 

I was fifteen, in love with another girl, drowning in homework, developing schizophrenia, and generally more confused than ever.

Then came yet another English project, which included doing research on a chosen subject and then writing about it in ten different genres/formats. A Multi Genre Research Portfolio of Fun, if you will. Or, the MGRPOF. There were multiple all nighters and trips to craft stores involved in this Portfolio of Fun for most of us, and it was due immediately after an annual, weekend long field trip for my major that was basically a sacred tradition, making many of us in the program, including me, miss it. 

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Schizophrenia in Creativity and Productivity

(Note: This post has been adapted for The Schizophrenia Diaries, but is mostly a repost from A Productive Hannah.)

In some ways, I honestly don’t remember much around the origins of this blog.* *It was summer 2020 (and let’s face it—who has a great memory of summer 2020?). I wasn’t yet back on antipsychotics (by weeks to months), I was facing a pandemic, a world on fire, the recent death of my grandmother, and the one year anniversary of discovering my father’s death (leading to PTSD). I was mostly lost in a creative haze, spending hours every day on the swingset at the nearest park in heat over 110*F—dissociatively daydreaming up new plotlines with a song on repeat—or curled up in the fetal position on the floor in my office, near catatonic and hallucinating. It was A Time. 

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My Most Common Hallucinations

A very common first question when talking about psychosis is, "What do you hallucinate?" It's not an incredibly simple question; it's kind of like asking someone, "What do you see, in general?" Of course, it varies person to person, but here are my most frequent hallucinations, in no particular order.

Voices, Chatter, Noise

Voices saying specific things, or general chatter around me. The latter version is more common for me, and when I say I hear voices, the next question is always what do they say. But it's kind of like if you're sitting in a crowded restaurant, and someone asks you, "What are people talking about?" I'm not necessarily paying attention. There are some words I can't make out at all. Often there are random noises in the mix. Some voices I might recognize repeatedly, whether or not I can make out what they're saying. Some things I can barely understand. Random phrases I catch, meaningless, completely out of context. I might be able to tune in to one voice or exchange at a time. (I also sometimes, less frequently, get the random noise without any chatter/voice element.) 

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My Types of Dissociation

I've realized that when I talk about dissociating, I can really be talking about a number of different experiences. So I decided to categorize and define some of the versions I talk about most often. This is just my experience, not universal; some aren't even necessarily clinically dissociating at all, but, to me at least, have some kind of resemblance. 

*Meditative *

This one resembles what some people call productive meditation. I experience it most often when I go on my morning walk, adding a repetitive, moving element. It's not necessarily bad, and I purposefully invoke it for a reason. But, it's like a form of dissociation to me because it can be very consuming and kind of hard to snap out of. Using the same ritual every morning helps me ease in and out of it at that time, but it can also happen—purposefully or not—at other times. I keep my route very simple, on small streets, and the same every day, because I can get pretty lost in my head for this, which is dangerous in other areas. It usually looks like I'm a little lost in thought, though it's more like diving into an internal world entirely. It usually involves decision making, planning, or problem solving, whether it's what I want to work on that day, what my next larger goal should be, or what I should do about (or if I should do something about) a problem. Ends more smoothly if I'm done thinking on the topic and have written down any takeaways for later, otherwise I remain very consumed by finishing my loose ends, or keeping track of those takeaways. 

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This Is For

This is for the people I shared seventy-two long hours with

We’d never met before nor would we ever meet again 

None of us wanted to be trapped within those white, white walls

Yet we were all hiding from something out there, too 

This is for them: the crazy, the broken, the silenced 

This is for the roommate I got on my second night, first full night

She was blonde, maybe forty, and if we weren’t in a psych ward

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Tracking the I’ll Give You Series vs. My Mental Health at the Time

I wrote a post a while back: "Tracking Contrivance vs. My Mental Health at the Time," an exercise in tracing changes in my writing versus changes in my mental health.

For this post, I'm doing it again, with the emphasis on the I'll Give You series.

(Note: this post was updated to go through the current month, after the original post.)

May 2020

It's been most of a year since the whole "my father died suddenly at fifty-eight and I found his ten day old corpse in his house" thing. I seemed to be over the worst of the trauma response for a little while, but the pandemic struck full force two months ago, reports about overstuffed refrigerated trucks dominating the news. My grandmother passed just days ago at home in hospice care; I arrived just moments after her death to sit with family. 

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