You see, I was a patient for a long time. For years of my life, I was in and out, and in and out of hospital, after hospital, after hospital. And that was my life. I was barely able to keep a roof over my head and rarely fed myself enough. I was so profoundly ill that my entire life was lived in an unreal world created by my mind. I was not here at all. I was somewhere else. And today, you see, I am here. I remember once, in a hospital when they gave me a hearing with a judge to determine how long I would be forced to stay there, in New Jersey, I stated, "It feels like Alice in Wonderland in here", and indeed, it did. Now it feels like I have closed that book. Sure, it may be less exciting here, in the real world, outside of Wonderland. There is no Cheshire Cat, no rabbits, no queen, no Humpty Dumpty, nothing wild and crazy happening at all. It is different here. Today, outside of Wonderland, however, I have some things that I value. I have peace. I have, however cliche it may sound, serenity. I have relief from pain and suffering and confusion and madness. I have calmness. I have happiness. I have reality. And I have hope. I also have a roof over my head, food in my stomach three times a day, medications that keep me here in reality, and a life. I get up, brush my teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, go to work or school, (and now my internship), drive my car that I bought with my money, and go to movies with a friend sometimes, or family member who I am no longer estranged from. I have a regular life today. I closed the book on Wonderland. I am glad for that.
So I walked through a hospital unit, where once I was a patient aimlessly wandering around in pajamas, raging at the staff for keeping me so unjustly locked up in there (as I thought), or crying and screaming hysterically at all the torment that I was experiencing from my brain. I walked through there and I remembered the days coloring coloring books, because there was nothing else to do, and the roommate I had named Prudence who talked endlessly because she was manic and also brilliant but who couldn't contain her anger at being locked up and repeatedly ended up in the seclusion room. I remembered those days, and the days lining up to go outside into the locked courtyard with the high fence, for some much valued fresh air while everybody smoked cheap cigarettes around me. I remembered Mary, who had sex with another patient and who introduced herself to me by saying, "Hi, I'm God", which was very confusing because I myself was Jesus. I remembered the day they cut off all her hair because she had lice. And today, I walked through that unit as an intern, as a professional, as a person who had officially crossed over to the other side of the system, and who could be trusted to be amongst staff, not patients. A person who is stable, in control of her own life and her own mind, and in reality. I am that person now, and that's a wonderful thing because if you don't have control over your life and your mind, and you don't have reality, then really, you have nothing. You have no life to speak of.
So today, I felt empowered. And I felt grateful as I learned about the patients there, and the lack of support they have, the lack of a place to go, the lack of hope they have. I am a lucky one. I got out, got better, got to return to work, to college, to a home, to a life. Not everybody is that lucky. I also think it's vitally important that we all remember that people can, and do, improve, and get better, because there is hope, and we must have hope because as Pearl Buck once wrote, bread without hope is meaningless. I think that it is important for the mental health profession to allow people in who are former "patients" and who have been on that side of the desk, because we are the living proof that improvement can happen, and because it is not our fault that we were given these illnesses, so these illnesses should not define our entire lives. Schizoaffective Disorder does not define my life.
Repeat after me: My mental illness does not define my life. It does not encompass all of who I am. It does not define my future. It does not define me. It does not define my life. I have hope.
Today, I got to walk in and out of locked offices and rooms, and I got to read someone's chart and learn his case, and I got to see the inner workings of a facility where they treat people with the illness that I have and other similar illnesses, some of whom are worse off than I ever was, and some of whom are similar to how I was. And I got to think of myself, for a moment, as a potential, possible professional in that field, helping those people. I've never seen any of my own charts. But I got to read a chart today. I was trusted, and I was allowed. (And of course I signed confidentiality agreements and would never share that information with anyone or discuss my own mental illness with anyone who is a client there). Because I am a competent human being, and a college student in a social work class and an intern. I am no longer a hospital patient. I have come a long way. And for that, I am profoundly grateful.
This is more than just a college assignment for me. It is a life changing event. It is a chance to experience what it would be like to do the kind of work I think I might like to do. It is a chance to really feel fully like I am competent. It is a chance to learn and to use the empathy that I have to help others. And if I could have a career helping others, using knowledge and skills that I have gained from experience and not just from college, well that would be a meaningful thing to do. It wouldn't pay much money, and it would be difficult and stressful. But it would surely be a meaningful thing to do with my life. And I want a life with meaning.
Thank you, cosmos, for today. And yeah, thank you Risperdal Consta and Wellbutrin and Klonopin and Vistaril too. You helped me get this day.