Shizophrenia!

short story on my struggle with faith after diagnosis of schizophrenia

MORNING

The hallucinations have disappeared, only to be replaced by Anhedonia, a silent bedmate as we wait for each day to end.

They're at it again. My desk's contents beckon me over: Cara, come play.

I glance in their direction and make sure my blink conveys what anhedonia means: I can't derive pleasure from you guys anymore. Leave it alone.

It's unclear what time it is, but I guess around eleven. The birds stopped chirping hours ago, sunshine is slipping through, and their calls are still whispers--most important, the urge to pull my hair out remains low.

Beth, my sister, hasn't called yet either, but has likely texted the usual by now. I hear her matter-of-fact tone and trimmed nails against the cell phone screen: You know Cara, studies show exercise works just as well as antidepressants. Walking counts. Why don't you go around the block? Don't let it get worse. Call me later, please.

Even though she's not here, I let out that faint smile--a reflex of reassurance I've come to master.

At the wall opposite me, pen, sketchpad, laptop, lay next to each other, hushed yet ready to crescendo. I am prepared to protest. They're ready I imagine, with a flag to stake into the desk in revolt. Their steely resolve unnerves me.

I glance over at Anhedonia for some support but he just shrugs as usual, already admitting defeat.

Beth's voice permeates the room: You're not trying hard enough Cara (for full effect). It'll get easier, I promise. All the little things add up.

The phone rings but I remember it's on silent.

Beth's hollow sympathies echo among the phantom rings: of course, it's hard, I can only imagine what you're going through, but you have to try everything. There are so many resources to exhaust.

Are they in cahoots, I groan? She'll just come over or keep calling. The rings may just drive me crazy first.

Our conversation goes as expected. Yes, I opened a book. Music is still just chaos. Sleep--just, nothing's changed.

Don't get angry. Take it day by day, that's all. And wait for me to drive you to your appointment today, okay. Don't bus!

Alright, I say with that practiced smile and hope she doesn't hear my yelp when I tug my hair too hard. Don't suggest a walk after, I think to myself.

I hang up and lay on the floor so my body can exhale. It's perfect there: sturdy, cool, quiet, and far enough from the taunts so that I can rest.

Cracks have formed on the ceiling, perfectly mirroring my fragmented mind.

Eyes closed, I sigh, there'll be their battle cry soon.

Time to move before I'm hunted.

Beneath my weight, the floor creaks as I head for the living room where safe and secluded on the couch, out of sight of my predators, I doze off at 10 past 12.

AFTERNOON

The school bell across the street screeches, waking me. Recess. My heart drops. The sun shines, children squeal in delight, and all I feel is the weight of a whole day ahead of me.

10 more minutes of their laughs. 4 hours until my appointment. 7 Hours before sundown--yesterday on repeat.

Light from my phone illuminates the ceiling. It's probably my sister Anna, texting me to have a blessed day.

I wish she'd stop waking me in the middle of the night, splashing water on my face as she blesses the house. Does she have to end every phone call with may Jesus bless you and your family? That possibility left us ages ago.

With me, that's 3 in our immediate family who've developed this debilitating disease. But Anna sees it as evidence of our family's ordained legacy. The family tradition, I like to call it.

Months prior we had this conversation:

I hear them too. Yes, I see the colors also. We're chosen, you and I. The injections will just block us. We're better off without them. God will help us. Can I pray for you?

I'm trying not to look at the bags under her eyes and her fraying hair when I admit it. Maybe I should be a believer. My catastrophe came true didn't it. Miracles do exist. I was just saying stuff but God has made me a prophet it seems.

I'm laughing, howling inside and she's smiling. I can't tell if she understood. I almost say I'm joking to be sure but decide against it. I don't want her praying for me anymore. I just want to be somewhere, anywhere else. Her explanations are too obvious and convenient, but I don't say that.

She asks, do you have faith? Not in the way you understand faith. What do you mean? Religion does not comfort me. I want to understand this disease not push away the uncomfortable feeling it brings up. That doesn't solve anything. I don't believe God is helping me. This is not a gift.

You don't feel him, she asks? I feel something and it feels like it could be profound, but disease will make you feel stuff, especially the brain. It controls sensations.

You will find God, she argues. The Devil is just blocking you. It takes all my energy to suppress my tears. I want to say, I'm happy you feel that way but I feel exposed. God to me, feels like someone needing to feel safe from something they feel they have little control over. But I just nod.

She is beyond denial and won't be able to hear what I have to say and I'm tired of her not listening to me. I need something other than God.

4 years of preaching, 4 hospital stays, and 3 car crashes later, her faith in God's will has only solidified. To her God can do anything, and she can turn anyone with her story. Since my diagnosis, she has been determined to make me conversion story number 12.

I've had a recurring nightmare ever since.

Anna and I are at a lake and we're both wearing white gowns. She is rejoicing at my conversion. Knees in the sand, arms up, head back, eyes closed. A grin on her face, she exclaims: Hallelujah! An extraordinary life awaits you too. You now have God, and He loves you. I don't cringe and let her continue because I feel him too: brain clearing, body sweltering, aura expanding; He envelopes me. She finishes with Amen. I can't take it. Gravity pulls me to my knees and I weep. Then Faith is beside me, praying.

When I woke up that night, I booked a therapy session.

The phone lights up again and I cringe, but it's Beth. Be there in 10 it reads.

EVENING

Dr A reassures me anhedonia and suicidal ideation are normal with my condition. But it's relentless, I say. I know, she tilts her head. We'll find you meds. Do you have anyone to talk to about it? Anna's voice bellows: God's glory. Anna: There is always more to try. Everyday is another opportunity. No, I say.

Then I look at the clock: 5:00. 3 hours till sundown. Endure, their voices echo. You're doing--how does that sound? Dr. A's leaning forward, eyebrows furrowed, eyes unblinking. A safety plan, I ask? Good, I lie

My sister squirms and I know she's not sure what to say--no one does with suicide and mental illness. Dr. A asked if I had someone to talk to. What did you say? Anna wants to convert me. Beth pauses and smiles, everyone copes in their own way. But I see what you mean. That sounds frustrating. I smile back and wonder who's smiling for who?

But she does have the same condition. Maybe it'll help. No, I feel worse talking to her. Her beliefs will just pull me further from reality, I don't need that. That's already a risk with my condition.

You just need another way to cope, she continues. Maybe a journal. I need her to let go of the notion that God will save me.

Well, maybe ignorance is bliss, I guess, but you don't want that do you? No, it doesn't work for me. She's telling me to turn a blind eye. That I don't have a problem. I can't talk to her. I have a problem and I can't fix it.

Beth throws her hands up in the air. Then I don't know, she lets out. I wish I could tell you more. I know, there isn't an easy answer. I feel trapped is all. I've been going in circles.

She pauses, you're coping though. I know it doesn't feel like it but you are. If you zoom out you would see that in the long run your actions are coming together to point you in the right direction. And you have back up if things get really bad. You sound like a therapist, I say. I know that sucks but it's all we have. Look at the little victories. Every day is a win, no? And at least it's not ignorant bliss? I chuckle.

And respond, I want you to shake me, maybe some answers will fall out. She laughs, replies, I'm not going to do that.

Do you remember the fire that gave Mom her scars, I ask? Beth nods. I never told you but I looked at the fish after I was able to move again. In the sink, it was charred but I could still see an expression. Its eyes bulged and its mouth was open in a wide O. He looked so surprised and helpless. I felt like that fish and I feel like it again. I'm that kid again wanting to help out the fire, but paralyzed and helpless to do so.

Did you tell your therapist? She asked. Yes. She said that makes sense and that this disease can be debilitating, that you feel a bit like a fish out of water. You were a kid. This is what I mean, I'm not looking to feel better about it. She doesn't make me look for the silver--that's not what I'm doing. It is a little. Rationalizing, you know. Just, it's--thinking about it now, I feel vulnerable, exposed or something.

Sorry that's not what I meant. She paused. You'll be okay, she continued. You're getting help. It comes out in a murmur. I hear the quiver in her voice. I lie, and say I know, I have a safety plan, not sure who this is for.I risk it and say I hate feeling that small again. You have support. I hold my tongue because I know the conversation will go in circles at this point.

My sister's always trusted authority. I can't say the same thing, so I smile instead, picture blood down the middle of my lips. How is it not cracked? I wonder.

The rest of the way home I picture Anna praying for me. She's certain she's helping me despite my protests. Realistically, I let her do it anyway, let her say God bless. We're all overwhelmed.

All of us are bound and with no way to help each other free.

Yeah, Anna told me she's doing more than us for the world, through gospel and turning people to Christ, I say. I really think she means to save me. She doesn't say it but I know she's waiting for me to find God. At least I know she'll be overjoyed when I finally come around. I made the mistake of confiding in her when I was hallucinating and asking for her advice. At the time I believed in spirits too. She could think the evil spirits have me.

I don't know, she doesn't confide in me, replied Beth after some moments. Does she still pray for you? I've told her I don't think it will help but she says it will. So I let her.

In the driveway Beth asks will you be okay tonight? I want to say I will be but I'm not sure. The sun is near the horizon, a quote I read in desperation echoes in my ears. As the sun rises again, it shall set again. I nod and say, probably.

She half smiles and I leave. I look for the crack in her lips and almost smile back.

Don't open the door if someone knocks, she remarks as she waves her hand. It could be the devil.

I smirk. I'll leave salt at the door. The birds chirp.

NIGHT

I want to tell Anhedonia about my day, but I'm not surprised to find him asleep and snoring.

Alone, I pat myself on the back for another day earned. Imagine a gold star on my forehead and my therapist's soothing voice: anger is normal in grief. Immediately, I want to burn the gold star but I know I wouldn't have the energy.

The clock's neon glow burns my eyes, inscribed on its face is the word faith. I'm climbing a ladder, Anna stands below waiting to catch me.

Be happy, it's still an accomplishment, my sister's voice echoes. It all adds up, my psychiatrist chimes in. I imagine my smile, but this time blood fills my lungs and pours out my mouth. All in a day's work.

It's a meritocracy and I have to earn my sanity-an exchange I resent.

I lay in bed and resign. Maybe I can still roll the dice and tonight will be my last. You don't have faith, I hear Anna. You don't have humor, I lob back. Ok fine, I have faith in the promise of tomorrow. I look at the clock and smile.

In my dream there's a room full of clocks-all stuck in time. No matter what I do, I can't fix them. Faith is there with Anna. They do nothing but smile at me. I return the favor this time and throw up my hands and sit and wait with them. I'm not sure how much time passes before I say, we're stuck here, do you want to hear a joke?