Hey, I just need to vent here for a bit.
Here’s my story: I was hospitalized for the very first time when I was 19 years old back in 2005. It happened sometime in the fall. Everything started spiraling when I switched jobs; I had to wake up way earlier, commute much longer, work longer hours, and I ended up with almost zero free time. When I did get a moment to breathe, I spent it out at bars with friends. Between the drinking and the lack of sleep, I was running on empty. One day, we were hanging out at a pub, having a beer, and suddenly this incredibly blissful, euphoric feeling just washed over me—like I was some kind of saint or something. I only lasted about a month at that new job before things went south. Once that "high" hit, it was followed by a crash so heavy it felt like the entire world was collapsing on top of me. Normal background noise that most people just tune out became deafening; it felt like it was slamming into my skull. Even the sound of a lawnmower or a car engine from miles away would just destroy me. The sensations were so overwhelming that I genuinely felt like cars, motorcycles, and planes were all barreling straight toward me. Looking back, it’s hard to even process—it was the worst feeling I have EVER experienced. I come from a pretty dysfunctional family (I’ll get into that later). A few days after that euphoric phase, I started sinking deeper into this pit every single day. I forgot to eat, so I’d write little notes to myself on scraps of paper: *you must eat... you must do this, you must do that...* I was completely disorganized. One morning, after a night of barely sleeping, I tried to drive to work but my car wouldn't start. I ended up sprinting to catch a train, running for about thirty minutes to reach a different station, all while wearing a button-down and jeans at 7:00 AM. God knows what people thought of me. Every car passing in the opposite direction looked like it was trying to kill me. I finally caught a later train and made it to Union Station in Washington, D.C. I was wearing this brown shirt, and while I wasn't being violent, people were definitely staring. I was just broken. Later, when I was heading home—I didn't even show up to work, obviously—the pressure in my head was so intense I actually considered jumping in front of a train. Luckily, I had my phone on me, so I called a friend to meet me there because I was planning to end it. He got there just in time, picked me up, and drove me home. I stayed with him all day and night. I couldn't sleep again, and I was acting manic, totally obsessed with things. My folks at home didn't even realize anything was wrong. They didn't even ask why I wasn't at work. It wasn't until they saw I was completely losing it that they finally told me, "Go see a doctor." So, along with that same friend, I went to my primary care physician and started rambling about how I was invisible and had supernatural powers and whatnot. He sent me via ambulance straight to Little Sparrow, where I was admitted to the Emergency Room. When I arrived, people in white coats started closing in on me, and I actually started running blindly. Four of them caught me, carried me to a bed, and then I felt this terrifying needle go into my hip. In that exact second, I felt what it's like to be killed. They restrained me to the bed; I honestly don't know how many days I spent tied down. Subconsciously, I remember hearing my neighbor and stepfather come by; I know they were crying when they saw me. It wasn't a sight for the faint of heart. I don't know if I was in a coma or something, but when I finally woke up, someone was shining a light in my eyes. I opened my eyes and begged for a glass of water... my sister told me, "I'll put the glass in your hand, just please don't hurt me." Recovery was long and brutal. I spent nearly four months at the Mayo Clinic—two months in the locked ward and two months in the open unit. When I finally got my discharge papers, I was terrified to read them. Diagnosis: Paranoid Schizophrenia. It’s the worst disease ever; anyone who avoids it is truly lucky. After being released, the stigma is real. People avoid you... "he's sick, stay away from him." But I had a small group of friends who stuck by me, checking in and asking how I was doing, and slowly, life started getting better. Recovery was a grind; I wandered aimlessly without a job for seven months until my neighbor decided to hire me. My biggest support during the hospital stay was actually my stepmother’s sister—this incredibly lucid woman. Listening to her was like listening to pure reason. She was my rock, telling me, "You have to endure this, these are tough times, but don't give up. Be strong." That’s what kept me going. I’m 29 now. I stopped taking my meds as soon as things started looking up. Every time, I’d beg my psychiatrist to lower my dosage because the side effects were absolutely exhausting, and since I needed to work, I couldn't afford constant trips to the doctor. Employers don't exactly tolerate frequent absences. I haven't been hospitalized since then, though I’ve had periods where I felt pretty bad and right on the edge, but I've managed to keep the illness under control. I haven't taken medication in nine years, but looking back, maybe that was a mistake. I stayed active with sports, hitting the gym and running, but now I find myself in a rough spot again. I've lost my job, and I'm stressed about the future because I took on such a high-pressure role that I eventually snapped due to my bosses and coworkers. Things at home are also a mess. My stepfather is a nightmare—a bully, an agitator, a man who is hard to put into words. He screams at everyone and everything; he isn't healthy if he has to lash out twenty-five times a day. He's just been like this since birth. But he has this one persona where, when he's in unfamiliar company, he acts perfectly cultured and polite. My mom fell ill the moment she married him; once she realized who he really was, she just broke. Since then, she spends her days talking to herself. She's rarely calm enough to hold a conversation. My stepfather keeps her shut at home and won't let her get the treatment she needs. Her side of the family hasn't been able to help much, even though she has a sister and a brother who are police officers. Everyone tried, but the "smart" stepfather always found a way to win. Even though I carry the heaviest diagnosis in the whole family, somehow I feel like I'm the most organized and functional one. I have a younger brother, 25, who is employed and even finished college. He doesn't have mental health issues and functions well, but he's a bit "cracked"—I can see it in his eyes that something is eating at him, but he's never opened up about it. As for my stepfather, I haven't spoken to him in two years, even though we live in the same house. Not since I told him exactly what I think of him right to his face.
After nearly nine years of white-knuckling it, I finally decided to go see a psychiatrist today. Honestly, I just don't see a way out of this current rut. I’ve fallen into a deep depression—it's at the point where the sun doesn't feel bright anymore, the sky looks gray, and nothing feels right. I’ve lost a lot of friends along the way; people have just turned their backs on me. I find myself spiraling into these heavy thoughts about the meaning of life and why we even bother existing. I look at everyone else who seems to have it all figured out—they have steady jobs, kids, they invest in themselves. Meanwhile, I can't even get on my feet. It feels like the whole universe is rigged against me. I bought a used car recently, and when a relative who owed me money offered to take it in for service, he dropped it off in such pathetic shape I almost had to push it home myself. Then there's the dental nightmare. About two and a half years ago, I started this incredibly expensive and complicated orthodontic treatment at a private clinic. They promised me the moon and stars, took $4667 from me upfront, plus extra for the prosthetics later, and I ended up losing everything because they botched the entire job. I had to hunt for a new orthodontist to fix the mess, but even that guy hasn't been much better—I've just been showing up for appointments for the last 20 months with zero actual progress 🙂. I watch other people cruise through life, just letting things happen and enjoying the ride, while I feel like I'm cursed. I know life throws curveballs, but I think I might be an extreme case. After everything I've endured, I've lost my drive for work. It’s not that I’m lazy—I love being productive—but I hate *jobs*. Those soul-crushing, mediocre companies, the endless grind, the bosses, the constant pressure to pull overtime... it’s exhausting how modern work culture demands you live from sunrise to sunset. Even though it feels like everything is stacked against me, sometimes a tiny spark of hope or optimism flickers in my head. When I'm feeling okay, I am incredibly satisfied, and once my brain switches out of "standby mode," I feel ready to invent something entirely new. I tend to think differently than most people. I understand how things work and I love seeing them improve, which makes it so depressing to deal with the narrow-minded, closed-off people around me—kind of like my stepfather. But thank God, there's still a handful of people who believe I can make something of myself. I’m not a nobody or a loser; I just have terrible luck. Most of the jobs I've held were the hard ones nobody else wanted, and I've spent a lot of time volunteering and working for free. That’s just a glimpse into my miserable life. Sometimes I honestly wish I were just someone's pet, so I could leave the house whenever I felt like it without any hassle. Now, I want to be clear: I've never seriously considered suicide. I've had those dark thoughts where I think, "Maybe this world isn't for me," but I've never reached for a handful of pills or thought about a rope. And I've never had the urge to hurt anyone else, even though there have been plenty of times I wanted to knock some sense into someone's teeth. I just need a kick in the pants to get moving and pull myself out of this hole, but nothing's coming. I could write for another two days straight about these mishaps; life is just cruel and unpredictable. Maybe I could have phrased this better, but my brain hasn't been functioning quite right these past few weeks.
