187 posts shown.
briskgull27 said:If a friend has schizophrenia and is 40 years old, they’re still dealing with the same reality.
10 minutes.
The thing is, if you sat there talking to her for 48 hours straight, it wouldn't change a thing.
It’d be better to just take her to see Sai Baba.
What’s the point of living?
Honestly, I keep going because I’m terrified of what comes next, you know?
Looking at it through different lenses: 1) God gave me this illness and expects me to endure it.
2) The Devil gave it to me, and even if I check out, God won't give a damn about me.
Could it be that the Devil should actually be God?
Questions?
Anyway, I believe in that damn karma and I just take it on the chin.
Even if it feels totally pointless, so be it!
1. Let’s get one thing straight: God doesn't just hand out illnesses to people unless they actually want to be sick themselves. You chose this path because you have a craving for being a victim, so fine, God granted your wish. Even an omnipotent God isn't going to override your own free will.
2. And as for the Devil? He doesn't exist. That's just a fairy tale people cooked up to scare the mindless masses.
😁
The whole point of being alive is to spend your time doing what you actually love and what brings you joy; anything else is just a complete waste of time 🙂
wanderingcyclist69 said:Hey there!
So, a member of my family has been diagnosed with chronic psychosis—I think the actual term might be "acute psychosis," if I recall correctly. He had this massive hallucinatory episode about 7 or 8 years ago, and man, it was intense. He was convinced people were out to get him, so we basically packed up everything and drove all night long just trying to find a hotel where we could crash safely. We were constantly scanning the cars around us, terrified that "invisible spies" were following us or that some guys with needles were waiting around the corner to jump us and inject us with something. I was just a kid back then, and honestly? I was terrified. Eventually, we made it back and managed to get him admitted to a psychiatric hospital, where he stayed twice—once for a month and another time for three months. I found out later that he’d actually been talking about being persecuted for two or three weeks leading up to that day... it was all building up until it hit that peak, which was just one nightmare, unforgettable night for me. Since then, he’s been on medication and nothing like that has happened again. But—and here's the thing—the second his doctor tries to taper him down on the dosage, you can see the changes immediately. His gaze gets dreamy, foggy... it's like he's drifting off into another world. It breaks my heart because the meds make him seem so slowed down, like he just doesn't care about life anymore.
Financially, we're doing okay—we have what we need and I’m content with that. He holds down his job. But God, I just wish he could have that spark back—that drive he used to have at work, that ambition, that sense of pride in what he accomplished. I miss when he could actually focus on the TV so we could watch games together and yell at the referees like total maniacs. And the social side of things... I wish he could socialize again. He feels so ashamed because people know about his condition, so he just avoids everyone. He used to be the life of the party! He had friends he’d play poker with, he was hilarious, easy to talk to, just fun to be around. Now? He just hangs his head and can barely manage a bit of small talk with acquaintances.
I get it, I really do. This is a heavy illness and things might never go back to exactly how they were. I know plenty of people dealing with similar stuff who end up neglected, messy, losing their families, their jobs, their whole lives. And I know I should probably just be grateful that, hey, he's holding down a job, providing for the family, and blending in. But it eats at me—this passivity of his—even though I know deep down it isn't his fault. Part of me is being selfish and totally unaltruistic about it, but part of me is just sad because he seems so unhappy, so ashamed, so resigned to his fate. He's just lethargic, and I just want him to be happy and full of life. It’s such a horrible, helpless feeling.
I've been reading up on this, and it seems to me like there are a lot of similarities between this and schizophrenia. Is it possible he was prescribed the wrong meds? Or maybe the diagnosis itself is off? At his check-ups, the psychiatrist just looks at him for five minutes and decides whether to bump the dose up, down, or leave it alone. He even saw a private psychiatrist once, but he hated it—said the guy didn't listen to him at all. I'm wondering, are these kinds of illnesses "lifelong"? Is there actually any hope for a full recovery?
Life is just one long, terminal illness 😉
briskgull27 said:I'm trying to do the math, but I think it happened about 10 times.
Mind you, the first time—which lasted two months—felt like I was just staying at a luxury hotel on vacation. But that second time? That month-long stretch was a total coma, the kind of experience nobody would ever wish upon their worst enemy.😉
I spent two months inpatient back in 1998, followed by another month in 1999, and let me tell you something: I am never stepping foot in a hospital ward again. 😉
Frank Smith8 said:Are you some kind of psychotic too, since you're taking Risperdal?👍
What's your deal anyway? What's your diagnosis?
The first psychiatrist I saw, where I was actually admitted to the hospital, slapped me with an F43.1 (PTSD) and F62 (permanent personality change) diagnosis.
Then, after a psychotic episode, a second psychiatrist wrote F-22 on my discharge papers, followed later by F20 (paranoid schizophrenia).
And then, a third psychiatrist tells me exactly what the first one did—that I don't actually have paranoid schizophrenia.
When it comes to these diagnoses, I trust the first and the third guy. Personally, I’ve given myself a diagnosis: I'm perfectly fine. 😁
Everything is laid out right here, clearly and simply, so just slow down for a second and actually follow the instructions 😉
Here’s how things looked for me at the start; I’m copying this from an old thread on the Health forum 😁
Back in 1996, I started receiving psychiatric treatment for PTSD. I was plagued by restless dreams and couldn't catch any sleep. The doctor diagnosed me with PTSD, which led to a two-month hospital stay where I was prescribed Lexapro three times a day at 1 mg. After I was discharged, I actually felt fantastic, so I stopped taking the pills altogether. I honestly thought I was cured. I went to the local YMCA every single day to swim, doing hour-long sessions without stopping. I could have gone longer, but I just didn't know what else to think about while swimming; everything felt perfect. Then, one day at the pool, my godmother's best friend showed up. We swam together every day, chatted, and relaxed in the jacuzzi—it was great. Then, I stumbled upon that ancient internet forum and started posting. At the time, there were no moderators, so people were posting all sorts of intense stuff about the war; some guy named Uzdanica kept posting various combat photos, and it really messed with my head. The atmosphere on the forum started feeling exactly like the tension right before the war broke out back in '91. I felt like I was reliving 1991 all over again. I actually felt like someone could see me through the computer monitor. Everything got blurred—the internet, the TV, reality itself—I couldn't tell what was actually happening. I had this overwhelming sensation that I was being watched and wiretapped. Suddenly, even the woman at the pool became suspicious; I felt like she had been intentionally sent to tail me. One day, I was watching a football game, and something felt off. I noticed a player had a large "G" on his chest, which signaled to me that I needed to check the goalie. When I looked at the goalie, he was wearing a black jersey with the General Motors logo on it. Since the woman from the pool drove a General Motors car, it clicked in my mind: someone had killed her to protect me because the goalie was wearing black. I felt terrible for her, but I figured it was just one of those things that has to happen—even if it means murder. She stopped showing up at the pool, but since I didn't know she had actually flown to Germany to visit her mother, I genuinely believed she was dead. While driving, I started interpreting every license plate in my own special way. For example, "BJ" meant *Bail, Jump*, "CJ" meant *Check, Just wait*, and "BO" meant *Be Okay*. It was fine, though, given my username was Al Bundy. I spent my time driving aimlessly around the outskirts of cities like Indianapolis or Columbus. I would shadow cars that seemed suspicious to me. I was having hallucinations; for instance, in a small town near Springfield, I saw a billboard for a massive shark I had seen online, even though such an advertisement doesn't exist in real life. At night, I’d drive everywhere—from suburban neighborhoods to downtown Chicago and beyond. When I drove into a major city like Chicago, I had this gut feeling the police would be waiting for me. But when I reached the city limits, the entire road was covered in strange black hieroglyphs. In some spots, there were dead chickens on the street; I swerved my car to avoid them because I feared hitting them would bring some kind of curse upon me. I drove through hilly residential areas outside the city and then descended into the urban center. I pulled up to a wall, got out, walked the whole perimeter reading names written on it, and suddenly a lightbulb went off in my head telling me I had to go home. I got back in the car, but I couldn't find a way out of the city. I tried pulling into hospital entrances three different times, wondering why I was even there, before turning around and leaving. Eventually, the police pulled me over. They were checking something over their walkie-talkies, but then they just let me go. I asked them for directions back toward Indianapolis, and they helped me out, so I headed home. I was tailing a specific car, and as they sped up, I sped up too. Suddenly, a foul smell filled my car. The faster I hit the gas, the worse it smelled; when I slowed down, the smell lessened. To me, that was a sign that following that car was wrong. As soon as that car disappeared from the road, the smell vanished too. I made it back to my area around 6 AM. I slept for a bit and then headed to the pool. While swimming, I found myself singing: *"Fly, golden-winged bird... my homeland calls me and for it I shall die..."* Suddenly, the pool felt like a spy nest; I felt like my life was in danger. I went home, grabbed my handgun, loaded a round in the chamber and 15 in the magazine, and headed to the pool in the middle of the night. I was hunting spies. The pool was so crowded that I realized if I started firing, I’d definitely kill someone. But since nobody looked suspicious, I just went home. For a few days, I walked around town carrying the gun. I felt like someone was watching me through a sniper scope, ready to take the shot at any second, but I didn't care. My phone and washing machine were being repaired at home, and I was convinced someone had installed bugging devices in them. I threw the phone in the trash and loaded the washing machine onto a trailer to dump it at a landfill. There was an empty tractor trailer parked there, and I thought it was specifically placed there for dumping trash. I tossed the washer in and headed home. On the way, I saw a tractor missing a front wheel. Thinking about how I wouldn't need a spare tire in my brand-new car, I turned back and tossed my spare tire into the trailer. I figured if I ever got a flat, I could just grab a tire off the road and hijack someone else's car. Suddenly, it hit me: I am invincible. I can't even die, so why do I need a gun? I left it at home and stopped carrying it. I also felt like I could control the weather; even in November, it felt like spring to me. I'd drive around in short sleeves. I felt like I was Jesus—that I could raise people from the dead and that I had to die to save humanity, knowing I would just come back to life anyway. One morning, while driving, things took a turn. The parking lots were completely empty. The light was red at a signal, I let off the gas for a split second, and then I floored it, slamming straight into oncoming traffic. After crashing into two cars, I climbed out of my vehicle and started shouting at the intersection. I felt like I had died, yet here I was, alive. I tried to get into someone else's car, but the driver locked the doors. A police officer approached me and demanded to know why I was making a scene. Right then, I ripped the hat off his head and told him, "You don't work for the police department anymore. You're fired." The officer actually started shaking with fear, so I just handed him his hat back. Then, a civilian rushed up and punched me square in the head (I later found out he was SWAT). A fight broke out with the police, though honestly, they mostly just beat me up. I ended up in a psychiatric ward, strapped to a bed for a month. From the moment I arrived, I was suspicious of one patient because he looked like a cop; I thought they had planted him in my ward to watch me. Once I was released, everything bothered me—the sound of the streetcar, the fear of logging onto forums, etc. I was on various meds: Lexapro, then later Moditen, Aketon, and Amyzol. I couldn't sleep, my heart was racing uncontrollably, and I felt like I had brain tremors. Eventually, things stabilized.
It’s been seven years since then, and honestly? I’m doing fantastic now. 😁
Taylor Howard36 said:ughhhhhhhhhh... look, you're an electrical engineer. 😍
stay far away from the Department of Defense—there’s absolutely nothing for you there. You’re a smart guy who can (and MUST) find actual work. Something that actually suits your skills. You have a heavy-duty degree; don't let all that hard work go to waste. Find something in your field! 🙏
Look, before the war broke out, I was the lead designer for electrical equipment in an electronics R&D team, and it was fantastic. But I haven't worked since I left for the front lines back in '91, so honestly, it feels like I've completely lost my edge.😉
Taylor Howard36 said:Regarding work capacity—do you honestly believe you're incapable of working? Just like the commission, I say: get to work!🙂
Look, I’d work if I could. And let's be clear, I wouldn't be out there digging trenches; I have a degree in electrical engineering. But I just don't see a future for myself in any job out there. Even if I wanted to, nobody will take me. They actually called me from the Department of Defense to ask if I was interested in a position. I said yes, of course, and then I went through mountains of paperwork. They told me what the salary would look like and gave me a rough idea of my duties. I even signed two non-disclosure agreements promising not to breathe a word about my work to anyone. And you know what their final verdict was? They told me they felt I was too "burdened by the war." Apparently, they need someone who can think about nothing else but the job, and they claimed I would be a distraction. So much for that. That’s how they treat people like us who actually lived through the conflict.
outoftheblue, could you tell me a bit about your experience with Risperdal? I honestly can't gauge how it’s affecting me, mostly because my memory of what I was actually being given is a total blur. Back in '99, I spent a month in the hospital, and while I know they gave me occasional injections when things got intense, everything else is hazy. After I was discharged, I was on Lexapro for a year—which basically meant I slept through the entire year—then I moved on to medications like Modane and Artane for a few years. For the last four years, I've been tapering back onto Risperdal. I remember feeling absolutely wretched when I stopped taking Artane; I was dealing with nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and total physical exhaustion. Because of that, I didn't take anything for about a week before sticking with the Risperdal. I used to take 3mg, then 2mg, and for the last five months, I've been on 1mg. To be honest, at 1mg, I feel like I'm taking nothing at all. Meanwhile, a friend of mine told me he nearly passed out on the sidewalk walking home because the dose hit him so hard! Maybe those years of Lexapro, Modane, and Artane just left me permanently dazed, because I truly have no idea if this Risperdal is doing anything for me. These days, I'm on VA disability and don't work. I spend almost all my time online, sleep constantly—though I struggle to fall asleep initially—and once I do go under, I'm out for 12 hours straight. I usually don't roll out of bed until 2 PM, and I'm useless until I've had a couple of coffees and a few cigarettes. I tend to feel best in the evening, which makes going to bed a real chore. As for the future? I don't have any plans or ambitions. I'm basically just waiting for the VA to process my retirement. It’s ridiculous: I’ve had three different psychiatrists write that I am completely unfit for any kind of employment, yet the disability board somehow ruled that I’m capable of working full-time as an advisor. On top of that, this new private psychiatrist I saw claimed that using Risperdal is "weak" therapy and warned that if I were actually schizophrenic rather than just having had one psychotic episode seven years ago, this medication wouldn't even hold me together.
Happy New Year 🙂
I’ve been going through treatment since 1996 following my service, starting when I was 37. My first stint in a psych ward was back in 1998 for two months, and my discharge papers explicitly listed PTSD F43.1 and a permanent personality change F60.
Then came another month in the facility in 1999 after the police hauled me in. I’d intentionally blown through a red light and plowed straight into two other cars—and to top it all off, I snatched the officer's hat right off his head and told him to shove it. 😁 In that discharge summary, they noted F23.
Aside from that single psychotic episode in '99, I haven't had anything like it since.
Now, my private psychiatrist is saying the exact same thing as the one back in '96: I have F43.1 and F60, and that one specific psychotic break needs to be viewed through the lens of a permanent personality shift.