"Wake Up!"

WARNING!! The following post was written over the course of three days... it may seem disjointed, because it turned into more of a rant than anything else. I apologize ahead of time and hope you can still take something away from it.



Lately I was fortunate enough that I no longer needed to take a certain medication. It seems that the symptmoms I was experiencing were strictly circumstantial, such as violent mood swings. But over the years of being on the same medication day after day, I apparently have lost my sensitivity regarding the emotional needs of others.



As a young boy I could tell right away whether my family members or friends either needed to talk or needed to be left alone. Excessive medication has dulled this ability so much by suppressing my own emotions so far, that not only are they no longer razor sharp, but will no longer cut butter.



I refuse to say the name of the drug because each person is different and this particular medication has saved some of my friends and allowed them to live happy healthy lives. The effect it had on me was severe mood suppression when igt came to anger and depression, which can both be very beneficial, and lack of impulse control when it came to spending money. It was supposed to level me out, which in a way it did, except it made me too happy and unable to feel anger.



Now that I am not taking this drug, I've been angry with friends and family and I feel wonderful. But I'm afraid it hasn't sat well with some.



I was having a cup of coffee with some friends the other day and we were discussing myself buying a home. One friend, also schizophrenic, was going on and on about how I should do this and how I should do that before I considered. He wouldn't shut up about it and my other friend was trying to change the subject. But he wouldn't shut up. I had made the mistake of saying that I was trying to buy a certain house because I really wanted to help a young couple out that were in a jam. But this friend kept at me, talking in circles and eventually blurted out, "What's your name, Jesus Christ?"



I said, "Yes!" He shut up and my other friend and I got up and left. He hasn't talked to me since.



I still laugh about this conversation because of the look on his face. He was definitely not expecting this answer. Only a schizophrenic could truly get away with such a reply, but could I get away with it if I had not been raised in a very religious home?



While I had gone to church and had been very active in the Mormon faith, I had always had it drilled into my head that there would be a second coming of Christ. I don't think my sunday school teachers would ever have expected me to take this news so personally.



I soon found myself so convinced that I was Christ that I was blessing people and drawing crosses on people's walls. I would surely end up in the psych ward.



I've never heard of an atheist who has had a Christ complex. Is this one of the faults of baptizing people when they are so young, and in my opinion eight years old is still too young. These children are just that, children, and joining a church is an adult decision. When I was baptized I did it because that was what I thought that was what my parents wanted me to do. I still had many questions that have yet to be answered by any religion. I am seriously leaning toward Buddhism, though, because of their accpetance of all faiths. I can not believe in a religion being the one and only.



So does this make things easier for atheists? I don't think so. They just have other types of delusions during their mental illness, usually still revolving around themselves. Delusions are very personal experiences no matter who you are. Atheists can believe the world revolves around them just as easily as a Christian can believe they are Christ. Though self-importance isn't always caused by mental illness, it could just mean that the person is an ass.



I myself believed I was one of twelve parts of Christ and when all twelve of these parts got together in one spot and crucified ourselves, Christ would magically appear and either save us or damn us.



I still womder what would have happened if I had allowed this delusion to play out instead of getting help. I even explored this "What if...?" by fictionalizing it in a novel. This is one of the reasons I love having schizophrenia. I have been given a gift of time and an imagination with which I can write or draw my ideas and not have to worry much about paying the bills. In Alberta, Canada, the mentally ill are provided for for as long as they live or for as long as they can not work full-time. Some people find it easy to work and refuse to seek assistance, or find after time their illness becomes so minor that it is not necessary to be on this assistance.



In my case I feel I am not yet able to work full-time, but choose to work three days a week, sometimes four. I would love to write full-time if my meds didn't interfere with my drive. As things stand, I have writer's block for much of the year and when I do write it's in spurts. In order to finish my first book I had to force myself to write at least two hours a day.



Writing the book, having been very cathartic, still hasn't helped completely. The occasional, but brief, delusion of being a part of Christ still persists. And, because of mhy upbringing in a religious home, I really don't expect these thoughts to go away. I still wonder if maybe, just maybe, these thoughts have some merit. But then I say to myself, "Wake up!" and things straighten out.



As far as I'm concerned atheists just don't have the same potential to have an enjoyable illness as God-fearing people. Don't get me wrong, though. I don't really have anything against atheists. Believe what you want, no matter where or when.

Burnt Pancakes and Anchovies

It's been a while between blog entries and for that I am extremely penitent. A lot has been going on lately, what with my new job and my obsession with comics and any other printed matter. Around the time of my last post, I was rewarded with a new job making chocolate bars whose main ingredient is hemp seed. Sounds like it should taste like crap, but it is quite delicious.

So three days a week I now have a job where I don't have to deal with the public. For which, as anybody who knows me and my love for the public, means I generally function better doing my work and I don't get stressed out as much before hand. In other words this job is a godsend and I hope I don't lose it anytime soon.

I originally didn't know what I was going to talk about today, but seem to have let my fingers do the talking. Dealing with the public has never been that easy for me. Job interviews are a bitch and puttin out the initiative for dating and making new friends is almost impossible, especially when it comes time to tell them I have a major mental illness. Even though I look at it as a blessing, not every person looks at it that way and you never know how the other person is going to react. I just remember that I see, hear, know, think and even smell things that these other people will never experience.

When I was younger, about six years old, every time I would exit my bedroom I would see a battle-axe start to fall out of the corner of my eye. But every time I would try to see it dead on, it would disappear. Even then I couldn't even tell my parents for fear of persecution. Yes, even a six year-old understands this concept.

So I'm hoping this blog reaches more than just the mentally ill. I hope it can reach friends, family and co-workers of anybody out there, with or without illness. Not just in my circle. I hope these children that are suffering now are blessed with loving, understanding families and above all else a sense of humor to allow them to succeed and rise above the bigotry.

Why is a sense of humor importan? Having a sense of humor allowed me to look back on my mistakes and laugh at them. If you want to ruin your life simply look back on your past and brood over your mistakes. I'll give you two weeks before you start drinking yourself stupid. Regret is an inedible dish, like burnt pancakes served with anchovies.

Regret and learning from your mistakes are two different things. Learning is positive while regret is highly negative. Having schizophrenia has given me the time to realize this. Even though I am on medication I have still found myself at the bottom of a bottle or at the end of twelve-pack. Regret led me there and acceptance/learning have pulled me out.

I beg anybody out there having a mental illness and the werewithal, to not have to work, to explore your emotions. This may sound weird, but allow yourself to hit rock-bottom. You'll find out who your friends are, and they don't answer to the name Jim Beam or Johnny Walker (unless of course that's their real name; ouch!). You'll know who they are when you call and they come to your aid.

This is one reason I am glad my illness hit me when I was young. I was given time to figure these things out, and I thank my parents for giving me the space, and time, to do so.

Was I a bastard when I chose to drink heavily? You better bloody believe it. I alienated friends and almost alienated my father, but when it came down to it, and I got myself under control most of those friends came back, and I hope they continue to. But again, in order for my advice to work, mistakes have to be made first-hand. So make mistakes, but own up to them afterwards. Learn to laugh at these mistakes and (can't stress this enough) own up to them; and, if you need to, apologize for them. You'll love yourself, your illness, and your friends/family so much more.

Mental illness comes with great responsibility. (Thanks Spider-man! :) )

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.