More Crazy Talk About Ice Cubes

"Leave!" the voice had said, and my belief system shattered. You see, I thought it was the voice of God. And I thought It was telling me to leave the faith I had followed for years.

In retrospect it had to happen. Why? Because the world was out there to experience and these experiences were necessary for me to know that God really existed, in one form or another.

After my sister had dropped me off and the tears had subsided, I called a close friend and we hung out, but he soon became bored and decided to leave. My mind was still going a mile a minute and I soon found myself talking to my future girlfriend.

We talked for hours (literally). Soon we were going outon our first date, and seeing as I had absolved myself from the church I loved, I found myself drinking my first alcoholic drink. I remember the taste like it was yesterday and I wish I could say it was guilt free. But that indiscretion, I believe, eventually led to my mental illness, and the destruction of something that could have been meaningful and beautiful.

This woman (who will remain nameless) was the love of my life, but excessive drinking (which I now think was necessary to reach the point I'm at) and partying, instead of studying for college, put us in the poor house. Since we were living together, this put a strain on our relationship. We broke up after two years of what I considered true love. It soon seemed like I was the only one who had any love for the other.

She told me one night after we agreed to break it off (we tried to live together as friends) that she didn't think she ever really loved me. In spite I said the same thing to her. I went about cleaning the apartment, which we had both let become a complete sty in the midst of a mutual depression.

I heard crying in the other room and went in to find out why.

"I just realized that I really did love you," she said. "How could you say that to me?"

I totally freaked on her head. The mental illness had become increasingly worse over the last few months, but this night, like the ice cube, my brain cracked. I threw her out and yelled at her. I told her to go to a mutual friend's house and not to come back.

This friend at the time was my best friend, but that didn't stop me from walking in on them doing the nasty. My brain developed a fissure and I soon found myself seeking the solace of the psychiatric ward.

I don't regret anything I've ever done. I don't even regret leaving the Mormon church when I did. That particular ice cube has long melted to be replaced by many other ice cubes. Each of which had importance but not as much as the first.

I know there are many mentally ill people out there that have been forced into psychiatric wards, but I walked in knowing that I needed help. I urge those that hav eonly thought of looking for help to act on this impulse. Maybe they're too embarrassed to admit it, but what I'm trying to say is there is no shame in it. There may be great joy in the decision. Some of the best people I've ever met have been the mentally ill.

I sacrificed my religion and the love of my life, never to truly get either of them back again, yet I'm still happy. Friendships have come and gone, but that happens. It's a part of life.

Psychiatric facilities are a blast. The day I walked into my psychotherapist's office and flat out told her I needed to be in the hospital was a pivotal part of who I've become.

I waited in the emergency room, in a padded cell, for six hours. There I lay, in the fetal position, so afraid of the fluorescent lights that I ended up in the dark. They'd let me out for a smoke break occasionally, but I would inevitably be back. As if I were still in the womb.

Six hours of looking at the walls. The key is to search out the humour in this situation. Yes, it is difficult, but therein lies the key to my happiness. The ice cube cracks, then I let it melt. Another cracks and I let it melt.

I finally was admitted. I still can't believe how long it took to find an open bed (whic happened to be the hold up). And as I lay in my newly acquired bed contemplating my navel, I listened to an old lady tell me my personal information, such as my social insurance number, etc. Though she shouldn' t have known any of it.

Maybe it was the Chlorpromazine (CPZ) that they had pumped into me, and lack of sleep, but I was soon snoring, only to be woken by a dozen close friends.

The people I met in the mental health community have varied drastically. Sure there were some real lunatics, but for the most part they were very likeable people. They ranged from vegetables that the only audible thing they said was something... something... "The Holy Bible". Or there was that great friend I miss so much who could talk your ear off about string theory and other fields of quantum mechanics.

It's this amount of variance of personalities that has intrigued me for the last 13 years. It proves that it can hit anyone. It just hit me at a very opportune time, the prime of my life.

A Little Bit of History

Wondering how someone could love having schizophrenia? Well, maybe I'll tell you... eventually. Maybe I'll explain some of my experiences as a mentally ill Mormon in a very confused state of religious and spiritual turmoil. But will this be interesting? I hope so. And I also hope that this will reach someone out there; anyone who has a mental illness. That it will help that person to realize that you can enjoy it. That our illnesses don't have to just be about depression and suicidal tendencies. So anything that might depress you in what I have to say ultimately led to my happiness and I hope it may lead to yours.

Some of my earliest memories are fond ones; of going to church on Sundays, playing in our backyard; of playing in a small stand of stagnant water not far from our home.

I am the fourth and final child of a pair of converted Mormons. By converted I mean they were not born into the religion, but were baptized while in their teenage years. I have three older sisters, which means I've had my fair share of cold showers. Fortunately they were kind enough not to give any wedgies, but I did get tickled a lot.

I spent the first six years of my life in a little town called Millet, about an hours south of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. I still have fond, if a bit hazy, memories of Millet. Friendships were formed, but not allowed to blossom, as we pulled up roots and moved to Camrose. New friendships were sure to be formed, but again we moved. Friends were once again left behind as we moved to Winnipeg, Manitoba, where at the age of eight my faith began to falter. I was not sure if I wanted to be baptized (Mormon children are encouraged to be baptized at the age of eight). But I wanted to please my parents, so I went through with it. The decision still haunts me, but not as much as the indecision I felt later.

Now faith is a very funny thing. You either have it or you don't, but occasionally an experience comes along to completely shatter your belief system. It's like an ice cube being placed into a luke warm liquid. It cracks. But it has to crack in order to reach the desired temperature; a temperature pleasing to the senses.

As the years went by and friends came and went, I became stranged and depressed, but not yet suicidal. High school was a blur of being mistreated by arrogant losers. I wish I could have seen past these people and focused more on the people that were kind to me, but, at the time, anger was the emotion that my illness would allow. Though the anger built, I was still in enough control that I never blew anyone's head off.

My faith was faltering even more. Graduation came and went, uneventfully, as I was not popular, and the schizophrenia was chugging along. I was hearing voices. I was depressed and physically exhausted.

Now, I was a complete moron when it came to the ladies. My faith faltered even more when I realized that most of the Mormon girls wanted nothing to do with me, but the non-LDS girls did. Imagine that, I thought, my own faith rejects me. Now remember, I am going somewhere with this.

I had a religious studies teacher this same year, who I respected at the time, but no longer holds any respect from me. Somewhere along the way I had developed a personal problem and I respected him enough to confide in him and ask for help. I expected a reply from him within days, but it was several years later when I finally received his reply. The ice cube was getting dangerously close to that drink.

Go forward about a year. My girl-friend just dumped me and I had moved into an apartment with one of my sisters. We attended church together most Sundays and were there that fateful day.

As we sat there in the chapel and listened to the lesson, I had the sudden urge to leave. I ignored it. We were just about done anyway. "Leave!" I heard a voice say. And, with tears in my eyes, the ice cube cracked and I had my sister and her friends take me home. My favorite hymn played on the radio and I wept tears for my loss.

I had to experience life before I could judge what was wrong and what was right.