Looking back, I realise I was 21 when schizo-affective disorder decided to make itself known. This is around the time it strikes most of its victims – I was no different. I wasn’t familiar with the disorder back then, but we’ve become pretty well-acquainted over the last couple of years.
I didn’t just wake up one day and recognize it – I think I always knew I was a little off. But, I guess things just gradually got more and more ‘off’. Eventually there was no denying that my mind was no longer stable.
I’d been on anti-depressants regularly since I was 19. I had never seen a psychiatrist; I never felt like I needed one. My GP and I decided together that my condition wasn’t severe enough to warrant the long wait it would take to get me into a specialist. He prescribed me some Sertraline and sent me on my way.
It helped. Until it didn’t.
After being on varying doses of Sertraline for over a year, my symptoms started to worsen. It went from bad to ugly. Quick. I later found out that while Sertraline can help depression, it can actually have negative effects on those with schizo-affective disorder.
First, it started with the sadness. That overwhelming feeling of worthlessness. That stereotypical depression everyone talks about. I felt useless. I felt alone. I felt tired. I cried. All. The. Time.
It didn’t matter where I was, or who I was with. Those feelings were constantly nagging at me, and I couldn’t silence them no matter how hard I tried.
Then came the madness. I went berserk. I would flip out over nothing. I was incredibly jealous. I was constantly angry – irrationally angry. I created these ideas in my mind – these scenarios where people were secretly plotting against me. Everyone was an enemy. Everyone hated me – I knew it. No one actually cared about me. They didn’t want me around.
That would loop around again, and after a few weeks of being angry all the time, I’d snap back to reality. For a minute. I’d realise how insane I had been – I’d look back at all the things I had said to people, the thoughts I had had about people, and I’d hate myself for it. I’d be embarrassed by it. And then, I’d get depressed again. I’d tumble back down the sadness tunnel and I wouldn’t have the energy – or the desire – to climb back out.
One day in particular stands out to me.
I finished my day at work, and walked outside. It was always like this: an almost immediate change in my state of mind. At work, I could pretend. Because I had to. Outside of work, the break was over.
I knew I didn’t trust myself that day. I knew that if I was left alone, I was going to do something. So I called Nick. I asked him if he would hang out with me when he got home from work. It was a Friday night, and he had plans. Obviously. Expected. It’s Friday. People go out on Friday. It’s the end of the work week. We live in the beer capital of the world: Friday is beer day!
But it wasn’t okay for me, and I knew it. But, I cared more about what people thought of me than I cared about my actual self. I didn’t want to be the ‘nagging girlfriend’ I already feared his friends thought me to be. So I pretended it was fine.
“Okay, so I’ll be alone tonight.” I thought about it, and all I could do was cry. It was one night. One night I was going to be alone. Just one night, and I couldn’t handle it. I can’t begin to explain what was happening in my mind, because I’ll never understand it. It isn’t me. I just knew I couldn’t be left alone.
So I sent him a picture of the train tracks, and then I turned off my phone.
Why did I send him a picture of the train tracks? A number of reasons, I’m sure.
I think the number one reason though, is because at this time, I still struggled with actually asking for help. I hadn’t admitted to myself out loud yet that I needed it.
I took the first step by calling him and asking him to stay with me. He said no, but only because he had other plans. And because I never told him I needed help. I was really struggling. But how was he supposed to know that? Having him reject my well-disguised offer to save my life left me feeling even more hopeless.
But I still didn’t want to give up just yet. So I sent him those train tracks. Then, I turned off my phone, and I went home. I ran a bath. I had a few drinks. I got in the tub.
Unbeknownst to me, Nick is in a panic. He probably realized, thanks to those train tracks, what that phone call really meant. He probably remembered my unsteady voice on the phone, and pieced it together. After trying and failing to phone me, he left work early and rushed home. He got there just as I was falling asleep in the bathtub.
This was only the first of several near-suicide attempts. Thankfully, I never even came close to accomplishing what my confused mind was telling me to do.
After that day, Nick never even hesitated about staying home. I’d get angry at him for it. I’d blame him for his friends hating me. After all, they ‘hated me’ because I was the ‘nagging girlfriend’, right? What do nagging girlfriends do? They prevent their boyfriends from going out and having fun. Ultimately, yes, I was preventing him from going out and having fun. But I wasn’t doing it on purpose, and he was never resentful to me. It was always his decision to stay home. That’s all that should have mattered to me (but of course I didn’t see it that way then).
This was only the beginning of what turned into over a year of serious struggle. Not only for me, but for everyone around me.
My doctor decided it would be best to get me into a clinic to diagnose me properly. I agreed to go for two weeks.
While I was in the psychiatric hospital, I had to fill out a number of surveys. I had regular meetings with psychiatrists. I had brain scans. I went in for electrocardiography. I had to have blood and urine tests done. They encouraged me to attend group therapy sessions, but I never went. I left the hospital after one week, with a diagnosis of bi-polar disorder type 2.
After my experience in the hospital, I didn’t want to see any doctors for a long time. I avoided my psychiatrist like the plague. I didn’t go to my appointments, and I never called to reschedule them. I took the medicine they gave me at the hospital until it ran out. Then I didn’t take anything at all. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that I started to fall back down the tunnel within a few days.
Even then I was still stubborn. It had been so long by this point that I was embarrassed to go back. I thought about getting a new doctor altogether, just to avoid telling mine why I disappeared. Then one day, something took over me. I was in town, and almost on auto-pilot, I walked to my psychiatrist’s building, went up the four flights of stairs to his office, went straight in, and asked for an appointment ASAP.
They hadn’t seen me in months. I never checked in after leaving the hospital – somewhere my psychiatrist had actually sent me himself. They weren’t bothered at all. They were just glad to see me again, and booked me in for the following week. Breathe. Relax. Relief.
When I finally went in for my long-awaited appointment, my doctor wasn’t happy with the diagnosis I had been given at the hospital. He wasn’t happy with the medication I had been on, and he wasn’t happy with the fact that I only stayed for one week.
He wanted me to go back. I refused. He said it was for the best – that way I could be constantly observed during all courses of whatever illness I was suffering. I could get a proper diagnosis and treatment could start right away. I still refused. He couldn’t admit me against my will, so he had to accept my choice and treat me outside of the hospital.
He gave me more surveys to fill out, and started me out slowly on some new medication. The first problem he wanted to tackle was my sleeping patterns. Or, lack thereof. He figured if I could get some well-needed sleep, my head would be more stable overall, and it would be easier to diagnose me. He was right. He prescribed Quetiapine, a god-sent. It’s an anti-psychotic which can be used to treat insomnia in low doses. Perfect for me. It worked, and it still works to this day. But it only fixes half the problem.
We still didn’t know what the other half of the problem was at this point.