I have lived for eight or nine years thinking I’m wrong, broken, and defective. I’ve had to deal with being told by societal cues that I’m not worth being a part of it, especially because of my schizotypal personality disorder. My therapist in the past few months has shown me that I’m not defective, just a little differently wired. And thinking of myself any other way is less than I’m worth.
So this one time
I was at a friend’s party
I was in the corner coloring
(This was how out of touch with reality and proper social decorum in high school; folks were drinking and listening to music and I’d busted out my colored pencils)
And a guy I sat next to in Bio came up and asked me what I was doing
And I was like I’m coloring see
And he said
“That’s pretty fucking gay”
In the most deliberate, dispassionate way I’d ever heard anyone say anything.
I was so busy worrying this year that I forgot.
Ten years ago on the 13th of March in the middle of class I had a mental breakdown. I call it “the craziest I’ve ever been”. It was a day where the delusions were so thick in the air I was suffocating beneath them, a day of such crashing mental walls it’s been the only time I’ve heard voices.
This year for the first time none of the blood in my brain was anywhere near those memories.
But I feel like I mustn’t let myself forget that day. I mustn’t forget what it was like to drown in the delusions, sure beyond any doubt there would never be a reason to surface, sure there was no surface; I mustn’t forget the faces of every one of my classmates, I mustn’t forget how my teacher dealt with me.
Because I must never forget how far I’ve come.
So I’m watching Sapolsky’s lecture on religion and schizotypal personality disorder.
Hearing so many of the things I’ve experienced and feared and theorized throughout my battle between the religion in which I was raised and the schizotypal symptoms that grew within me put in such a way, by such a person, is having an intensely profound effect on me.
This is how I felt when I took a psychology class for the first time, in 12th grade, when we reached the pathology section. I’m being permeated, indelibly soaked, by a haunting, almost shaming sense of the uncanny. Shaming in its verisimilitude and how inescapably vulnerable the realization of it renders me.
It’s igniting things that have lain dormant in me these past years because I haven’t let myself countenance them.
brb, gunna go find a therapist.