Years ago, I was targeted for relentless harassment by a group of transphobic youths. They would call me a pedo, make offensive gestures and even throw rocks at me. The local police did not take effective action. Eventually the adults in the neighborhood joined in. I couldn't move away because the housing market was bad and we were trapped in negative equity.
After a few years of this, I had a nervous breakdown and went psychotic. I simultaneously felt that I was mentally ill, and that the universe wasn't real and that there was a plot by aliens to kill me. Despite my experiences, I was very trusting of other people - the aliens wouldn't make their move if other people were around.
I was off work for several months, initially diagnosed with anxiety. I was mostly calm, reserved and detached when talking to other people, except for the very occasional flare up of panic, so people had trouble believing I was delusional and paranoid. However eventually I was placed on antipsychotics.
It was like walking into another room in my head and shutting the door on the crazy room. The crazy room was still there and I could (and still can) hear crazy through the walls. But I was no longer compelled to go into that room. I realized how tired I had been for decades.
The intense fears of my psychosis were not new. I had been gnawed by such terrors my whole life, at least since I was a teen. What changed in "psychosis" was those thoughts became more organized and I couldn't completely hide how I was feeling. On antipsychotics, I had the freedom to simply think about other stuff.
I think now that the psychosis was a good event in my life. It enables me, in a confused and nonsensical way, to ask for help. It got me on meds I had desperately needed for decades. It even gave me more understanding of the struggles my schizophrenic mother had and lessened my anger toward her.
While I was recovering, I was made redundant, and the redundancy payment enabled us to move to a safer neighborhood.
After a few years of this, I had a nervous breakdown and went psychotic. I simultaneously felt that I was mentally ill, and that the universe wasn't real and that there was a plot by aliens to kill me. Despite my experiences, I was very trusting of other people - the aliens wouldn't make their move if other people were around.
I was off work for several months, initially diagnosed with anxiety. I was mostly calm, reserved and detached when talking to other people, except for the very occasional flare up of panic, so people had trouble believing I was delusional and paranoid. However eventually I was placed on antipsychotics.
It was like walking into another room in my head and shutting the door on the crazy room. The crazy room was still there and I could (and still can) hear crazy through the walls. But I was no longer compelled to go into that room. I realized how tired I had been for decades.
The intense fears of my psychosis were not new. I had been gnawed by such terrors my whole life, at least since I was a teen. What changed in "psychosis" was those thoughts became more organized and I couldn't completely hide how I was feeling. On antipsychotics, I had the freedom to simply think about other stuff.
I think now that the psychosis was a good event in my life. It enables me, in a confused and nonsensical way, to ask for help. It got me on meds I had desperately needed for decades. It even gave me more understanding of the struggles my schizophrenic mother had and lessened my anger toward her.
While I was recovering, I was made redundant, and the redundancy payment enabled us to move to a safer neighborhood.
