My Reality

                    My Reality                    
         
         
         I recently discovered an interesting similarity between Vincent Van Gogh and myself.

         In early elementary school, I realized I was different from others. Because of my differences, they placed me in a Resource Room because they did not feel I belonged in the mainstream classroom. In other words, they didn't know how to address my differences and thought I was Intellectually Challenged. This label stuck with me until I entered high school.

         I began reading at an early age. The only reading materials we had were encyclopedias and the Bible. Before the fifth grade, I had read all the encyclopedias and the Bible at least twice. I clearly remember receiving my first book from my hometown's only bookstore and reading the entire book within a few days. I began working for local farmers from late Spring to early Fall when I reached junior high. I then had money to buy myself whatever I wanted and wanted more books.

         I began writing soon after I started reading. I was enthralled by what I was reading and wanted to be like the authors and create my own stories. I remember my first manual typewriter: a 1972 Olympia with its carrying case. I used it nightly when I went to bed to create my stories and write homework. While typing, I placed the typewriter on my bed so it wouldn't wake anyone with the vibrations of striking the keys. I used this typewriter until 1985. I stopped using my Olympia typewriter after I purchased a Mac Word Processor and used floppy disks to save my work.

         Like all teenagers, being socially awkward is a growing period. Most teenagers work through this period and learn to cope with peers and adults. I couldn't. My personality could not process or fathom the social graces others seemingly easily obtained. I remained quiet and withdrawn instead of talking, laughing, and mingling. My escape from reality was submerging myself in the reality my books provided.

         In high school, one of the required classes was Writing Composition. We were told to write a short story about anything we wanted during the first class period. I was so excited to be doing this. I wrote four pages and was one of the first people to do it. When handing the assignment in, I noticed many of my classmates had one to two pages completed. After grading and the stories handed back, I was surprised to receive 100%. I seldom received anything under 95% for the remainder of the school year. At the end of the semester, my final grade was an" A," the first one I had received in any of my previous classes. After this class, I took two more writing courses.

         I went to a Community College for my first year. I signed up for the writing course designed for first-year students. After receiving such good grades in high school, I erroneously thought this class would be easy. I was seriously incorrect. This class taxed my writing ability much more than any previous writing class. I learned a great deal, and my writing improved to the point that I received a "B+" for my final grade. I was overjoyed with this grade as I had previously thought I wasn't an acceptable writer; I was only lucky.

         When I transferred to a four-year college, I discovered that a mandatory test, the Writing Competency Exam, required a passing grade to graduate. When I arrived for the test, I found that the exam needed the type of writing I completed in junior college. The exam allowed two hours to finish; I finished in one hour. When the semester grades were released, I discovered I passed the exam on the first try, something many people could not do. Because of this success, I changed my major to Communication with a minor in Language Arts, emphasizing Composition and Literature.

         Upon graduation, I immediately found a teaching job in a small community where I taught ninth through twelfth grade. The subjects I taught were Speech Communication, Language Arts, Literature, and Composition. I directed the Fall theatrical plays and the Spring Musicals and was the coach for Speech Forensics and contests. Instead of an exciting experience, I discovered I felt a constant panic while there. I thoroughly enjoyed teaching, so I didn't know what was causing the persistent feeling of dread. After six years of teaching, I had my first nervous breakdown and, with a weighted heart, stepped down from my teaching career. Though I yearned to get back into education, even substitute teaching, I could never go back due to my anxiety and dread.

         Finding a job, let alone a career, was a complicated process. At first, I took any job I could to bring in an income. As a temporary employee, I joined an insurance company. I had no customer contact, only the rare call from an Insurance Broker. This job lasted over two years before I had my second nervous breakdown. With this occurrence, I spent two weeks in the hospital, the most prolonged stay because of the severity of my depression and anxiety. It was after thirteen hours of one-on-one therapy and new prescriptions that I was allowed to leave. I then spent another two weeks in Outpatient Therapy.

          After trial and error, I discovered a job as a representative in the Office of the President for a company with a widespread customer base. Being in the Office of the President allowed me to respond to all inquiries via an individual response letter containing a reiteration of the customer's concern, the response after researching the issue and talking to all those involved, and a resolution. My response letters were used in training new representatives because of the information they provided, the customer-centric response, and the detailed investigation I completed for each customer. Eventually, I was asked to lead the training classes for new employees and refresher courses for other customer service representatives. After nineteen years, I had my third nervous breakdown.

          At this time in my life, I went to a psychologist to determine why the prescription medicines I took did not help my anxiety, depression, and paranoia. After over five hours of testing, I received the diagnosis of Schizotypal Personality Disorder. This is a mental disorder characterized by paranoid ideation, severe social anxiety, and transient psychosis, a rare condition in which individuals have sudden symptoms of psychosis that do not last more than a month at a time. I also experienced thought disorder, derealization, and often unconventional beliefs.

          I received my diagnosis over eight years ago. The course of action was a new regiment of psychiatric prescription medication, intense therapy, and a hard look at my life as it was at that time. Two psychiatrists and one medical doctor advised that with the severity of my disorder, I would continue to have nervous breakdowns. When I asked how I could decrease or stop the breakdowns altogether, it was strongly encouraged to stop working and go on permanent disability.

          I have never kept my Nervous Mental illnesses a secret; however, I don't bring them up in daily conversations because the majority of people do not understand what it is like to hear voices in your head, have paranoid thoughts, see cars pass by and think the passengers of the vehicle knew precisely what I have done in my past, and feel total strangers see what you are thinking, or feel the obsessive need to have all the curtains and blinds shut so people cannot spy on you.

          During my thirty-seven years of employment, I wrote stories to help me relax or to enter contests. Some were the ramblings of my psychosis, while others were completed works worthy of the public eye. While I did not receive first place, I did produce several pieces that placed and merited either a mention regarding what place I earned or a small monetary prize. Even if I had not entered a contest, I would still write stories for the love of writing and the creation of something that came from me.

          When I became a member of Writing.com, I fulfilled a goal: to belong to a writer-centric community--having hundreds of eyes reading my work and receiving constructive criticism and advice from writers with much more experience. I have read others' work, and when I create my thoughts regarding the piece, I feel woefully outclassed to provide the authors with my thoughts on their stories. In my own right, I remind myself that I am a competent writer and thoroughly enjoy the craft. I now embrace my psychological differences to assist me in seeing things most people cannot.

          I've strayed so far from normal I'll never find my way back. And the truth is, I no longer want to. I see reality differently; my mind always works on possible stories, unique characters, exciting plots, and unusual topics to write about. When I complete a story, if possible, I will revisit it after three to four months have passed. As I read the story, I sometimes am amazed that I created an interesting and unique story. I am more than surprised when others read my stories, become visitors to my reality, and enjoy the stories I share.

          Going back to the opening sentence from above, Vincent Van Gogh was believed to have Schizotypal Personality Disorder. His paintings are a tribute to his visions from his reality. Notably, he only managed to sell one painting during his lifetime. Now, they are worth millions. He would be happy knowing how much people now enjoy and appreciate his paintings. I feel the same regarding my written work.


1610 Words