Stories of the Mentally Ill.'s Journal|
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Stories of the Mentally Ill.'s LiveJournal:
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|Thursday, March 22nd, 2007|
|Sunday, April 10th, 2005|
I have offically decided that i am NOT crazy. So i will be leaving the communiy.
you can add me if you wish to read some sanity. Current Mood: awake
|Wednesday, April 6th, 2005|
All this running here and there left me completely forgetful! I didn't mean it, I swear! :O Here's the URL to the completed project and all that jazz, plus another assignment from another class, if you are so tempted to check it out. I'm reinstalling again at the end of April, and I'll change the documentation (and URL) when the time comes so keep your eyes peeled!
Lots of Love <3
|Wednesday, March 16th, 2005|
begging for music
has your taste in music changed beccause of your depression?
music used to be all my life but know i can listen to anything and i just don't give a damn. i can't pick up any good songs...
I can't share music with my friends.
|Sunday, March 13th, 2005|
Hey guys. Ok I lied. One last, REALLY easy thing to do.
Give me a list of all the names you either have been called, directly or indirectly, because of your mental illness. Or, any names you've heard referred to the mentally ill.
|Saturday, March 5th, 2005|
While the entire site isn't done yet, it's coming along quite smoothly. The last thing I still need from you guys is those sentences ;_; Please still keep them coming! Of course, if you already posted sentences, and you thought of more, feel free to post more! :DDD
Here's the website: http://imagearts.ryerson.ca/nparker/
|Sunday, February 27th, 2005|
Ok everybody!! XD;;; I just need a bit more from you guys (I know I've asked so much already!! >o<);;
I need a sentence or two (short, plz) in responce to any of the articles below. I'd prefer if you'd tackle as many as possible, and even ones noone has touched. There's on without an article, and others with links, and others with the full story posted because you have to sign up to access the article and jazz like that.
Your sentence should be a breif, generic statement in responce to the headline of the article, but I am giving you the background information just incase you want to know what's what. In the installation, the participants walking through will ONLY see the headlines, that is why your sentence (responce) must make sense if the person doesn't have the background article to read ok? :D I'll post in the comment, my examples XD;;;
Please number your responces in accordance to what number you're replying to XD;;
1)Mental Illness: all in our minds?( 2)Escaped sex offender back in custody at mental hospitalCollapse )( 3) Man dead in stadium fall was mentally illCollapse )
4) Mother deemed mentally ill; killed three year-old son - http://www.sofiaecho.com/article/mother-deemed-mentally-ill/id_1932/catid_5
5) Rise in Homelessness Among Mentally Ill - http://springfield.news-leader.com/lifestyle/health/20050215-Nearly1in6menta.html
6) Expert warns mentally ill could face house arrest - http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/medicalnews.php?newsid=15546
7) 'Mentally ill' man in vigilante killing - http://iafrica.com/news/sa/454406.htm
8) Mentally ill: Gifted by God, or Natural Born Criminals?
If you need more, or don't like certain ones, tell me and I'll add more.
|Tuesday, February 8th, 2005|
I found a solution to make the masks less of a shock value and more functional. I will have the masks (equipped so that audio will come through one of the ears) wearable. Viola. No?
Nicole, we admire your commitment to your project and your objective of increasing sensitivity towards people with mental illness. We are, however, a little concerned about how you can fight stigmas by making monsters. Your masks are horrific. Why? It seems to us that if you want to increase sensitivity you would need to draw people in and that would require that you take a different direction. Clarifying this aspect of your concept is essential to the overall success of your project.
What do you guys think? I'm not done yet. I'm working on getting my site up so you all can see what's what.
I worked out a verbal arguement of how to fight them. Hahaha. Fight. I'm all rared up and ready for a fight, I might surprise them with being too aggressive. Maybe I read too much into it. I was... offended, almost when they called my masks horrific. I mean, they ARE, but that's the point, they are mirroring the human suffering. Human suffering is not happy smiley faces and fluffy bunnies. But at the same time I understand what they speak of. To get people to become more sensitive requires you to draw them in, and for the things producing information to be more approachable. Yes, got it. But, for someone to learn, it would sacrifice what I believe a key element to understanding a part of what mental illness is.
The entire heart, where the masks would be, is in a very small, tight area, the audio is not pleasant to listen to, neither are the stories written on the doors a pleasant read, so why would I go and make the masks pleasant? I feel that in installation work, the space must work with the visuals and audios, and vice versa. Mental illness is uncomfortable for most people, even people who have had experience, dealing with someone who says they want to die, and maybe the only way to alleviate these pains is cutting their arm, watching the blood run, etcetcetc is not a pleasant experience, no matter how you dice it. Why would I make the representations voicing the audio of similar things comfortable when it is obvious, it isn't? I mean, yes, maybe more people would listen to it, but if you're unwilling to make the sacrifice and commitment to face the grotesque-ness of it, then I don't think you're really ready to listen. If a gross masks frightens you, I doubt the audio will make you stay much longer.
Am I wrong? Maybe I am ranting.
Maybe I spent too much time explaining the debunking of the myths so much that they think that is all my project is about. How else to word it? I am trying to simulate the experience of a situation. The situation of dealing with the truth about what mental illness is. Sure, people who walk through this project may only understand the stigmas and how they are not true. Maybe people will never know what it's like to be mentally ill, but I am trying to convey an intense feeling, emotionally, mentally, physically, to match the heavy topic, the heavy audio, the heavy visuals. Maybe it's more of a walkthrough. This is what you say it is. This is what the mentally ill hear.... This is what they feel. Can you feel how uncomfortable it is? You don't know the pain, the emotion, you don't have the illness, you could never know, but can you not feel the resonation of the emotion? It's infecting you. Not the illness, but the emotions accompanied with the self-doubt, the hyper-awareness, the intense anger, sadness, etc etc.... And this, this is their responce to you. Their responce to the outside.
I'm debunking stigmas as I go, but it is not the sole purpose of the project. The project is to also give an insight of as to the seriousness, and the weight of the actual issue. I would like to say, an experience of what it's like to be mentally ill, but since there are so many different mental illnesses and everyone's experiences varies, it would be unreal. Instead, I would like to create a deep uncomfort in the participant. That they felt that they were intruding on something private, in a sense, they are, because it is like reading journal entries to that of which they won't fully ever understand. An inner glimpse. This is what we are face with. This is what we feel. This is our reaction. Superego (Society) -> Id (People w/mental illness) -> Ego (Peoples responses to Society) of the monster.
Maybe I've lost myself. Does anyone get it? Care to ask questions? Respond? Complain? Compliment? Sorry I've been neglectful, I love you all, it's just life has almost swallowed me whole on a few occassions as you probably all have experienced before.
|Monday, February 7th, 2005|
the anatomy of dysfunctionality
i'm not sure exactly what happened. my mother is schizophrenic. we don't know what was wrong with daddy, but he sure was fucked up. i might have inherited my mothers disease. i don't know. i haven't been to the hospitals since i was fifteen.
people tell me, "you should be on medication for that" or "maybe there's a better way..." yeah, fucking suicide. like that's going to happen. they have no idea. the drugs erase your mind. i can't remember anything about the years i was on meds. just a few scattered names and faces. not enough to build a memory from.
i'm trying to tell Zeet how i feel, that i don't hate her, i hate myself. i keep hearing someone screaming, and i'm not entirely sure it's just in my head. what's she saying? the blood in me is going so cold right now, i don't even care anymore. it's hard to keep track of my thoughts. i keep thinking about little black bugs, and how they'd look at you for hours, not even moving. i'm not sure how this is relevant to the current topic of conversation, but i'm sure that it is. when i bring up the topic, she begins to cry. i feel bad and now i'm thinking about the bottle on my nightstand labled "medicine". i have a new medicine now, and it's better than anything i've ever taken before. it took some adjusting to the diminished lack of self-control, but once the blood gets moving... it's all awash in a crimson haze. the pain, the memory, the guilt. it all goes out the window. there's this fast, feral glee with this stuff... i'm watching her cry, and all i'm thinking about is pulling those shiny little pretties out of my medicine bottle, and going to work on my hands. hands. that way they hurt whenever i move them for weeks. she's made me feel guilty about being this way. about being posessed of strange quirks and foul visions.
"i am so sorry you ever met me, Zeet. sometimes i think about that. i think about how happy you could have been. what if..."
i don't get any farther, because then she's on me. her tiny little fists crashing into my pale little face. i'm feeling better now. what if she goes too far? what if i die? i hope it makes her feel great again. like before she liked me.
"don't deny me your existance ryan! i don't love you, but i'll be damned before i let you discount everything we've seen!"
she's yelling and i love the way her teeth catch the light. she had to repeat what she said next at a later date, because her kicking me in the ribs made me lost conciousness.
"is this the only way i can maintain your attention, my bitterness?"
when i wake up in the hospital, they are talking about me being institutionalized. my mother is not as sick as she once was, and thinks it's a good idea. i resist until she decides i can still be free. at this time i am seventeen.
sometimes i dream about drowining in ink. always black, this ink. always tastes bitter. some days are better than others. sometimes i don't wake up bleeding from self-inflicted wounds. sometimes though, i don't wake up at all it seems. when i check the calander, i'm missing days. i wonder if it's a fugue sort of thing. i think now that maybe i should be hospitalized, but i'm afraid. i'm afraid so i continue to walk around the city at night, living my days in ever increasingly complicated ways. i draw a lot. and sometimes i even sing. it makes my friends at church sad when they catch me walking past thier houses, singing. i don't know where they live, but the say i pass thier houses sometimes. i sing about how nice it must feel to catch fire. sometimes i'm singing my favorite bands, but other times it's my own. i think my own is sadder sometimes. so do my friends at church. they keep telling me that god loves me. i think god is dead. maybe god had some sort of purpose for me, but because it's not around, i'm just crazy. my visions are the death throes of a dying deity.
(this is a journal entry from my house. i'm sorry if it's unusable. i think i even submitted it too late, but i thought it might be relevant anyway. i'm usually not as broken as i was that day, but sometimes i'm even worse. i guess what i'm trying to say with this is that mental instability, like anything else, is an adaptive process. i really don't need any sort of medication. i just need to learn a new lesson everyday about how my brain works. over the years, my madness has become a more sedated thing for the most part. mostly just empty delusions and a few scattered compulsions with a mix of hallucinations. but i'm still a person. i want to love, and be loved. i want friends who i can help. i want to be at least mildly happy, and perhaps even have a family of sorts in the people i most closely interact. thankyou for taking time to read this. it's important to me sometimes that people hear me, even if distantly. have a pleasant night)
|Thursday, January 27th, 2005|
A Sestina I wrote ( I hope the spacing and line breaks turn out ok)
Side effects can include but are not limited to impulsivity, anxiety, delusions, acute episodes of depersonalization, and grossly disorganized behavior and/or thought patterns. Current Mood: good
The week started at 9 o'clock with an incessant rippling, the cowering of her
mind. Swaying sight slightly riveted, in its constant
variation of day. Crimson shadows flared suddenly: heightened viscosity
of detached hands that move, laced with the texture of filaments that touch
and bend impulses, to control what is motionless and distraught -
Sin seems almost pious.
drove her to pick up the knife (x-acto),
acrylic handle, red and black holding a small bladed tone.
She held the soft grip as if to write a sonnet on her left arm, just below the
star shaped freckle, and smiled,
practiced in a voluptuous
manner the cursive curls required, then
recapped it like a ball point pen.
Something should be spared.
So the answer to shattered thoughts
stared at her, posing as the spare
location of sinking blue ink, an apt and viscous
tool of voluptuous
redemption (retribution) to reclaim the directions of concept
through a pious
the quiet of an endless echoing tone;
feeble darkness: needless and full of useless wonder.
But in her fever's stupor she hardly knew, for
the images of unperceived wonders
bubbled in her eyes, flitting left to right
vertically angled, vague and spare
in their detail. Her thoughts mimicked her vision in
taste (yellow), color (seven), and tone
(salted strawberries on ice). The viscosity
of their gestures both tapered and jarring
swept in the smooth tumescent curves of a pious
platform, both caressing and voluptuous.
Her thin yet voluptuous
presence impersonated a body pressed face down into the dusky carpet,
splayed and bare; all the while standing cornered by a half empty jar of
flattened spheres; all marked P1 and all bathed in rouge, communion for
and now spared
soul, that some how fought the fabric of fiction and bound it with a curved,
slant reality twisted and entwined around this viscous
and unconstrained minor tone.
She could have been sleeping by the tone
of her voice, the sound that rolled up and out of her small frame, and
cracked dry; hit the
crowd of voices (unseen and inside). Latent viscosity
built on the excess of startled wonderment;
the real reason to have spare
rooms; to lock this fear inside her mind (third door on the right, down the
hall with yellow wallpaper; decorous and empty, smeared with dismal
fluids fell, dripped down the soft white walls; the toned
and virginal flesh of her spare
body (the one kept on a high shelf and dusted every Monday afternoon); a
place of voluptuous
healing, and wonderful
illness, where reality is viscous.
Misdiagnosed, pious footfalls direct a range of more pleasing and voluptuous
tones deeper than one is likely to look. She is empty, she is silent, she is
and reveling in sparing sensations that overwhelm in lulling draughts of
|Wednesday, January 12th, 2005|
hi. i'm new. I would really like to write a story for you, being that I am a writer and Bi polar. when i finish writing do i send it to you, or post it here? Current Mood: artistic
|Monday, January 10th, 2005|
this somewhat contridicts my previous entry
so i was thinking that spending some hard time in a psych ward wouldnt be all that bad...
look at the positives: free drugs, you never have to speak coherently or at all, you dont have to see people you dont like, no real responsibilities (a form of government resistance ... i like to think :P)
... golly i could paint drugged up drooling on my arm all day Current Mood: chxjhZJBCKkjh
|Sunday, December 19th, 2004|
|Friday, December 10th, 2004|
This is a weird request.
Does anyone have any high-quality sound recording devices they own or can either get their hands on?
If you don't have means to digitize said sound, and say, have a Mini DV camera to record the sound in, I will pay you back for the tape and the shipping :3
Thing is, professor wants me to explore a new angle on the project and verbally interview people. I would record myself on my end, you would record yourself on your end. Over the phone. I would pay for long distance charges :D
I can understand if all or none of you can do this, just let me know if you can. Or, if anyone knows of a computer program that allows two people to connect and record sound in the microphone. Let me know. It's uber important. I would love to interview some of you peoples :D
Or of course, if any of you are coming (or in or near) the Toronto area, let me know as well :D
Thank you very much.
|Monday, December 6th, 2004|
fear no art
i joined this community to read about fellow crazies, perhaps make myself feel more sane.
but im starting (finally) to realize the social construction of crazy or insanity. The fact that it is constructed and defined means it has the ability to change.
Therefore (by the looks of it anyway) what was once normal is now crazy and vise versa.
I no longer think that
1) wanting to kill yourslef
2)wanting to kill someone else
3) hearing voices
4) ranting with out cause *cough cough*
5)seeing things that "arent there"
is all that crazy.
you know what is fucking insane tho, the trend of insanity.
ive managed to somewhat confuse myself
*goes back to neocitrain*
|Sunday, December 5th, 2004|
well, i dont' really ahve that great of a story, but i do write every time i feel like killing myself, so lemme see if i can put soemthign together with my rantings
as for a statment, well, i guess i need to work on taht too, but anyhow, here's soemthing cuz i would really like to share my stories and try to get people to understand what it's like to be 'crazy'
statment; 'if you meet soemone and they tell you that they are mentally ill, please don't balk, jsut give them a minute to explain it to you. We are perfectly normal human beigns, we jsut struggle sometimes with your definition of reality.'
and here's all taht i've written latly, lemme know if it's enough otherwise i'm gonna waste some time here trying to make it more coherent; more of a story
Sometimes, isntead of killing myself, i write.
More often i write after i have failed.
Just try, for once, to describe the need to escape without sounding weak or selfish or shallow. I know i cannot escape reality, as nice as that may sound to me at times. i know i cannot leave everything behind without conciquence. i know my bridges would burn if i left them unattended; i have seen it happen before. I have seen people forget you exist because you pay them no heed. I heard the last phone calls fade away.
think about it. you can live without them. there exist over 6 billion fellow human beings on this planet. why would that number not include more people like yourself?
And people back here who remember me, if any do after a decade or so, will recall my stupid, selfish, spoiled weakness, jealous that they could not escape.
But I will wait a little longer.
At least until I finish this mixed tape.
Laying on the hard wood floor in the kitchen I notice things i’d never noticed before. All the lights focused on artwork above the mantel. The broken glass bulb cover on the fan. I wonder how we broke that. I have the distinct feeling I should remember soemthing about it, my dad and my sister come to mind, but I do not recall the details. I marvel at how dirty the floors got in less than 24 hours. It seems like a scene from a movie, a girl in sweatpants on an icy wood floor looking at a grey, dropleted skylight. On the phone her boyfirend trys to assern what he has done to make her this upset. She mumbles about dried flowers, Neizche, and baby plates. Her sister’s has a bird, which is ironic considering how much her sister hates birds. She always assumes the horse one belongs to her, but does not really know. He makes her repeat things until he understands, makes her promise not to hit things, and, finally, lets her take a nap.
I marvel at all the dirt on the floor that I know I caused. The bark from the lettuce I picked. The water I spilled filling the kettle. Chunks of dog food Malcome neglected to gulp down. Stupid dog.
I spend my ‘nap’ watching a discovery chanel special on horses, not that I learned anything new, but it came closest to visiting my own babycakes. The couch provides a stable warth and comfort no boy can ever offer. A couch does not force one into empty promises. And it would never make you promise the wrong thing.
i cannot stop thinking about how easy it would be. all these times i’ve looked for somethign sharp and completely disregarded the nail, labeled nail in sharpie, on my wall. No matter, it failed to draw any blood anyhow. Even as I promised Eli I would never cut myself I drilled the platerboarded coated nail into my wrist, my arm. But not hard enough. Not dedicatedly enough.
I started again to cry when no blood rushed to the surface. I want to see my own blood turn red as it combines with the O2 of the surrounding air. I want to feel its warmth dripping from my arms, down my wrist to my elbow in little steaming streams. I want to prove to myslef that I can indeed bleed. But i cannot. It did not work. It failed me. But no scars, just tiny drilling holes, so i needent tell anybody. I looked around but found only pins, which reminded me too much of Eli, and a sewing kit, which reminded me of great grana. My razor didn’t seem worth the effort to dissasemble.
The voices seem to accept the dull pain of the nail drillings, and begin to fade away.
The fighting in my head grows louder every day as it becomes increasingly difficult for me to distinguish which voice is the most reasonable. What are the pluses of staying alive versus the end of comotion that accompanies death?
Shit, in all this confusion I forgot to regester my car today!
Oh well, it does not matter. I can do it tomorrow i guess.
Hold on- I remember where the real razor baldes are- the exactos and double-edged...
I can see the suicide note; Eli- i killed myself so you would not have to
But if i failed, and there was a note, i’d never be allowed out again.
So no note, and no blades.
really, i am okay. I am fine. I am not depressed.
Leave me the fuck alone already!
The next day, now, i go to register my car; I go bouldering with friends, i see my pony.
The lifting of depression, they say, comes when you see color again. The begining, the comercials say, three or more days of sadness. three days? what is three days in a life of millions? Feeling ‘sad’ for three days is a vacation from your optomisim to remind you how great everyday life is. Depression is fighting with all your allies, ignoring all your friends, befriending your blackout curtains and a rusty nail. But it still ends when you see colors. Appriciate, more, because they have remianed in your thoughts-- deep reds, and blues and blacks-- but you notice them now. Driving down the highway, you realize how lovly all the little purple wildflowers look blooming against the mustard. You know they were always there, but now you notice their cheery value, because you can appriciate it.
I notice these purple and yellow blooms driving to Eli’s for another fight. Another cuddle. More and more and more of the same relationship, full of love and mistrust and suicide threats. Worth it? she has begun to doubt. NO, she has been doubting for a while. but breaking up; worth it?
my entire life i have experienced a skewed reality. my diagnosis makes it clear, finally, why nothing i expereienced fit with what other people explained. why i have always sickly sympathized with killers and psychopaths and the poor misunderstood mental cases we read about i novels and see in the movies. i love donny darko. i love dogma. I used to dream, before i had seen either movie, that i had died and now spent my time adding evil to the world to balance out the good.
do not mistake me for any serial killers now. i am harmless, we think. i have yet to hurt anyone beside myself outside of my dreams, and even in sleep i have developed a fully operating concience. I never used to have one, but i find it comforting as well as annoying. Like everyone else, i now understand anger towards oneself over something one should not have done. Only the voices fail to see the downside of their tirades. Yes, i do hear voices. always have, but never understood that I was different for it. when you do not know how everyone else experiences reality, how are you suppose to know if you experience it differently? I am now convinced that no one defines reality the same way. i also see things in the shadows that “are not real.” if i see them, even though they cannot be proven tangible, how can they not be real? they sure seem real enough to me.
I have found that, when i fail to take my medication, this piece of me returns, the uncontented peice of me that I love so severly. This piece of me, personality?, makes me do crazy things. It makes me tell people the truth. not the truth as humanity sees it, but the blunt edge of that same sword. think about it. yes, now, bluntness hurts far more than one small, simple sharp slice. just try to cut yourself wit ha dull nail and see what i mean.
but therein lies what no one gets; i miss this crazyness, this longing for something new and bizarre. i do not miss the voices. that much. the pills do ot make them gone forever either. they just make them benign; give me the power to outvoice their opinions. which is nice. which is comforting. which is empowering.
but the point is, i have hurt someone i love with my blunt edge. i have told him all the things he never wanted to hear. all the things i arrived prepared for him to abandon me over, and, after the tears, he held me all the closer, squeezing out tears of my own because i know i would not have done the same for him, and i say so.
i want to go away again. i saw a lady in a long skirt with a shawl draped through her elbows asking for money on the street corner yesterday. she had a sign, “travelin’, just need some help” and i htought, that could be me. i coudl do that, could i not? i coudl escape too. i could have no ambition, no life plan. i could create these crazy memories. i want to go somewhere, anywhere, just because i can do waht others fear to sacrifice, to suffer, for. i could go to spain and never return. maybe this feeling is what I get for not taking my pills.
yesterday someone i love hurt themselves again and i cried. not subtle tears of sadness for them, but bursting fountains of sorrow for the lack of anything good left in this world. Streams of tears for the hard fact that i could no longer play stable enough to lean on. I had to cut him loose, or he would eat me alive. As he informed me not to leave i screamed out sadness to the point of seeing things; giant black bettles, shadows of hariy spiders, a man behind the curtain spying on me. I jumped back, screaming, knowing these things did not exist in the tangible reality, but still shaking with fear. I flew back again and again and again, breathing hard, closing my eyes, sobbing now with fear as well. I clutched my cat for comfort, for soemthing besides soemthing sharp to hold. Without thinkign i diliberatly push out her claw and scrape down my wrist
So i decide to escape, a haitus to europe. euro trip. a couple weeks in vezelay, paris, zermatt, turino to put my restless mind at ease. And when i come back, worth it the break up seems. so she does, and he cries, and he pouts, and she feels like a great weight has been removed from her shoulders.
i’ve never felt this crude reality before; i know i’m going to kill myself. ik now, at least, that i am going to try. i am going to take the protracter ourt of my desk drawer and slice open the vein in my wrist. i have none of the illusions of warm, red blood flowing outwards. the only reality the things i will now enjoy for the last time. breathing. music. warm tears down my face. my dogs scratching at the doors the mano ver my shoulder will make it harder, but not entirely impossible. sudeenly it has begun to snow slow circles around my computer again.”can i call you later”
“you;’re welcome to call buyt i can’t say i’ll answer” ha, i can’t say i’ll be here to answer. the whole drive home, trying to imprint my soul wit hthe subtle sights i wish to remember; the pink stucco house on the corner of evergreen, the exhilirating rise from pearl to mapelton up 4th st. again i fail to draw any blood, i nthe drawing of the tree of veins.
o! the sharp thrill of a rose thorn up my arm
from the arm part too; not jsut the wrist this time, a thin, red line
piercingly sharp, sharper than i expected. and i know roses. grow them, cook them, eat them in my cream puffs and ice creams, wear them on my wrists
cut myself with them now
my new ewapon of choice
jsut sharp enough to slice those top few layers
just slightly dul lenough for the pain that maeks the urges leap away
jsut small enough to never peirce a vein
|Friday, December 3rd, 2004|
We should all exchange AIM names ;]
Mine is Greekninja1
|Saturday, December 4th, 2004|
I really want to share my story but this time of year is a bad time. I'm doing my best to distract. So far I'm surviving. I hope to share early next year.I did find a "poem" I wrote about 5-6 years ago when I was early into my therapy.I have been dx with a lot of things. The main few are dissociative disorder, ptsd, borderline personality disorder and of course major depression.
I tried to force feed my family to learn about my mental illness. Now that I am just being me they are beginning to understand. Check out my journal if you like. I need some more friends.( My world is shrinkingCollapse ) Current Mood: tired
|Thursday, December 2nd, 2004|
I was hoping that I could find some support in this group. My backround... I was raised in a really conservative christian school. because I was only a child, I sucked up their crazy notions like candy. My family growing up had major problems communicating. My mother didn't believe in talking about feelings and she didn't believe we had a right to feel or express them. So one of the issues I am dealing with right now, is feeling like I can and should be able to think for myself and express myself.
In high school I was really depressed cause I didn't have friends, and felt alone. It became serious, but I didn't know how serious at the time.
In college I joined a charasmatic religious group and went way over board. I was looking for something to give my life purpose and meaning. I wanted to belong to a worthwhile cause, and I wanted to find some absolute truth. My family thought I had gone crazy. I spent lots of time crying in my room and praying. I was taught to "experience GOd" . I gave up anything that didn't have to do with god, his people, and the bible. While I was in it, I thought it was the best thing that had happened to me.
I ended up going psychotic. and went to the extreme in my religion. I began feeling like the devil was intruding on my thoughts and telling me what to do and not to do. I started to feel like I was being tortured by the devil and went to great lengths to try to "get the devil out of me" The church group I was with believed that people could have demons.
My inner reality crumbled and I became isolated from friends family and everyone. This went on for years. I have lots of scars from this experience.
I ended up getting to the end of my rope, and decided the problem wasn't the devil. I went to see a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with Major depression with psychotic features. They gave me meds. It has been about 2 years since I gave up religion alltogether. But I feel stuck inside my head. and tormented by thoughts.
Everything is 500% better than it was, but I overreact to things often. I feel like I don't know who I am, because I feel I lost my identity when I was religious. I am always trying to do what I think other people want me to do because I want to feel normal. I don't know how to feel or what to think, this depresses me. Before I was depressed I felt so full of life. Now I don't have confidence in relating with other people.
I know this is too long. I just wanted other people to understand where I was coming from and may be relate or offer some help. My life is good in like a million ways, but I still feel lost and lonely.