Schizophrenia - General Discussion

William Evans10 said:I don't recall you mentioning that to me...

How long did that "torment"—that psychosis—last before they finally found the right therapy for you?

And how are your children doing? Your daughter? 🙂

The bolded question—is that something you expect an answer to or not?

For me, the struggle lasted over two months, and even toward the end, when I thought things were stabilizing, my wife walked into the room—someone I was certain was going to be the death of me, a point I've elaborated on previously. I didn't lash out at her by sheer coincidence, simply because she said something that led me to conclude she wasn't actually a threat, so I held back and didn't ask why she was pretending to be.

Even after being discharged from the hospital, there were still smaller issues lingering for several months, though everything seemed to subside once I stopped the medication, roughly a year after it all began; those first two months were undoubtedly the worst part.

The kids are fine, mostly without any issues, and everything is stable. Thanks for asking.

William Evans10 said:I actually asked this exact same thing in my previous post.
Are they all bad people?
Isn't it strange to think that absolutely everyone has conspired together just to do harm?
Especially if this is the second or third time it's happened, and you already know from past experiences that you might have just "imagined" it all?
If you've been through a similar situation before, only to find out later that nothing was wrong and nobody was following you?

The whole thing is just terrifying...

And completely incomprehensible... though I imagine it feels truly horrific in that moment.

I'd really like to take a moment to clarify things from my own point of view.
There is a massive difference between knowing something intellectually and actually feeling it in your gut. You can use logic to fight against what you "know," but when it comes to what you truly feel, there isn't much of a defense.
After my worst psychotic episode, I ended up spending six months in a psychiatric facility. Things started looking up slowly, but even after I was discharged, I couldn't quite shake this lingering sensation that someone was watching me—as if people back in my hometown "knew" I had some sort of connection to Ivo Sanders’s resignation, even though I knew deep down that just wasn't true. A while later, I landed a job at a Whole Foods, and that feeling resurfaced; I felt like the police were tracking my movements, almost nudging my life in a positive direction, though in reality, I don't think anyone actually cared where I was or what I was doing. Maybe if I had been on a higher dose of medication, that paranoia would have completely vanished, but then I probably wouldn't have been able to hold down a job or function like a normal person. That seems to be the delicate balancing act a psychiatrist has to perform: prescribing medication that isn't so weak that the illness prevents you from living, yet isn't so strong that the drugs themselves take away your ability to operate in the world. Sometimes, unfortunately, even the smallest necessary dose feels too heavy, and you can see it written all over a person's face, in their movements, and in the way they speak.

Harold Anderson3 said:I'd really like to take a moment to clarify things from my own point of view.
There is a massive difference between knowing something intellectually and actually feeling it in your gut. You can use logic to fight against what you "know," but when it comes to what you truly feel, there isn't much of a defense.
After my worst psychotic episode, I ended up spending six months in a psychiatric facility. Things started looking up slowly, but even after I was discharged, I couldn't quite shake this lingering sensation that someone was watching me—as if people back in my hometown "knew" I had some sort of connection to Ivo Sanders’s resignation, even though I knew deep down that just wasn't true. A while later, I landed a job at a Whole Foods, and that feeling resurfaced; I felt like the police were tracking my movements, almost nudging my life in a positive direction, though in reality, I don't think anyone actually cared where I was or what I was doing. Maybe if I had been on a higher dose of medication, that paranoia would have completely vanished, but then I probably wouldn't have been able to hold down a job or function like a normal person. That seems to be the delicate balancing act a psychiatrist has to perform: prescribing medication that isn't so weak that the illness prevents you from living, yet isn't so strong that the drugs themselves take away your ability to operate in the world. Sometimes, unfortunately, even the smallest necessary dose feels too heavy, and you can see it written all over a person's face, in their movements, and in the way they speak.

Looking back now, I realize just how fortunate I was to make it through those three months spent in American hospitals.

So, have you actually decided to tell your little story about Ivo Sanders to your psychiatrist yet, or are you still holding onto it?

I find myself wondering how my own experience compares to this situation. In my case, I was fully aware that I wasn't Jesus, yet everyone else seemed convinced otherwise and was determined to pin the entire crisis on me. I kept that realization to myself when speaking with the psychiatrists, mostly because I was terrified they might accidentally—or intentionally—leak that information to the rest of the team, who were already looking for any excuse to scapegoat me, which is a perfectly rational fear when you realize people are just waiting for an opening to throw you under the bus.

I find myself wondering if I would have been better off keeping my mouth shut. Perhaps I might have managed to stick it out for another few months had I stayed silent, just long enough to be certain that nobody was planning to pin the crisis on me, though one can never truly be sure of such things.

fadedlynx96 said:Looking back now, I realize just how fortunate I was to make it through those three months spent in American hospitals.

So, have you actually decided to tell your little story about Ivo Sanders to your psychiatrist yet, or are you still holding onto it?

I find myself wondering how my own experience compares to this situation. In my case, I was fully aware that I wasn't Jesus, yet everyone else seemed convinced otherwise and was determined to pin the entire crisis on me. I kept that realization to myself when speaking with the psychiatrists, mostly because I was terrified they might accidentally—or intentionally—leak that information to the rest of the team, who were already looking for any excuse to scapegoat me, which is a perfectly rational fear when you realize people are just waiting for an opening to throw you under the bus.

I find myself wondering if I would have been better off keeping my mouth shut. Perhaps I might have managed to stick it out for another few months had I stayed silent, just long enough to be certain that nobody was planning to pin the crisis on me, though one can never truly be sure of such things.

Yeah, everyone at the hospital knew about it. You wouldn't believe it, but in a way, my episode was actually tied to what was happening with Ivo Sanders, since it all went down right before he resigned from office. But it wasn't quite the way I imagined it—it wasn't like he stepped down because of me. My doctor even told me early on that I wasn't doing well because I was actually embracing my psychotic phase as if it were some sort of positive milestone in my life.
A huge part of my psychosis was also rooted in religious themes; I was convinced people were coming to crucify me and that the whole thing was being filmed and broadcast on national TV.
I remember lying out on the road in the middle of the sun, arms spread wide and legs tucked in, just starting to scream like Jesus. When I finally sat up and looked down at my forearms, they were glowing red... those were my very first hallucinations.
It seems like a lot of people deal with religious-based psychosis, regardless of whatever faith they follow.

Harold Anderson3 said:I'd really like to take a moment to clarify things from my own point of view.
There is a massive difference between knowing something intellectually and actually feeling it in your gut. You can use logic to fight against what you "know," but when it comes to what you truly feel, there isn't much of a defense.
After my worst psychotic episode, I ended up spending six months in a psychiatric facility. Things started looking up slowly, but even after I was discharged, I couldn't quite shake this lingering sensation that someone was watching me—as if people back in my hometown "knew" I had some sort of connection to Ivo Sanders’s resignation, even though I knew deep down that just wasn't true. A while later, I landed a job at a Whole Foods, and that feeling resurfaced; I felt like the police were tracking my movements, almost nudging my life in a positive direction, though in reality, I don't think anyone actually cared where I was or what I was doing. Maybe if I had been on a higher dose of medication, that paranoia would have completely vanished, but then I probably wouldn't have been able to hold down a job or function like a normal person. That seems to be the delicate balancing act a psychiatrist has to perform: prescribing medication that isn't so weak that the illness prevents you from living, yet isn't so strong that the drugs themselves take away your ability to operate in the world. Sometimes, unfortunately, even the smallest necessary dose feels too heavy, and you can see it written all over a person's face, in their movements, and in the way they speak.

Here is a rather trivial example of how I view things based on what you wrote to me (and you wrote it quite well).

For instance, I absolutely love watching movies, mostly horror films and psychological thrillers (though I have no idea why, since they always get under my skin).

I’ll watch a good horror or thriller with my husband (like *Signs*, for example), and afterward... I know it is almost certainly all fiction, but I still feel a sense of fear. In other words, I find myself thinking about it for the next few days, I feel afraid, and I end up reading things about it online or researching it a bit, only to stumble upon all sorts of things. Even though I know it likely doesn't exist, I still experience this discomfort and fear.

I realize this example might be a bit silly, but that is generally how everything seems to me.

I was reading some of your previous posts...
If I recall correctly (or perhaps I mixed it up), you were originally diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder?

William Evans10 said:Here is a rather trivial example of how I view things based on what you wrote to me (and you wrote it quite well).

For instance, I absolutely love watching movies, mostly horror films and psychological thrillers (though I have no idea why, since they always get under my skin).

I’ll watch a good horror or thriller with my husband (like *Signs*, for example), and afterward... I know it is almost certainly all fiction, but I still feel a sense of fear. In other words, I find myself thinking about it for the next few days, I feel afraid, and I end up reading things about it online or researching it a bit, only to stumble upon all sorts of things. Even though I know it likely doesn't exist, I still experience this discomfort and fear.

I realize this example might be a bit silly, but that is generally how everything seems to me.

I was reading some of your previous posts...
If I recall correctly (or perhaps I mixed it up), you were originally diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder?

That's actually a pretty good comparison, though it would be more like being inside the movie itself—as if you truly believed what you saw on screen was happening to you in real life. My mother used to get incredibly paranoid about her own mom, convinced she was a witch or some kind of sorceress.
As for me, mine were more like realistic paranoias, conspiracy theories, and delusions—more like something out of an action movie rather than a horror flick.😁
Initially, I was diagnosed with schizotypal disorder (F21) because I didn't meet the full criteria for schizophrenia, but once I stopped taking my medication, it progressed into paranoid schizophrenia (F20.0).

Harold Anderson3 said:Yeah, everyone at the hospital knew about it. You wouldn't believe it, but in a way, my episode was actually tied to what was happening with Ivo Sanders, since it all went down right before he resigned from office. But it wasn't quite the way I imagined it—it wasn't like he stepped down because of me. My doctor even told me early on that I wasn't doing well because I was actually embracing my psychotic phase as if it were some sort of positive milestone in my life.
A huge part of my psychosis was also rooted in religious themes; I was convinced people were coming to crucify me and that the whole thing was being filmed and broadcast on national TV.
I remember lying out on the road in the middle of the sun, arms spread wide and legs tucked in, just starting to scream like Jesus. When I finally sat up and looked down at my forearms, they were glowing red... those were my very first hallucinations.
It seems like a lot of people deal with religious-based psychosis, regardless of whatever faith they follow.

The only thing I can't wrap my head around is how you managed to stay for six months. I was only there for three, and even then, I was the longest-staying patient there. Nobody stayed longer than me, despite the fact that I knew some others had much harder cases—though, of course, that "knowledge" is about as reliable as any other psychiatric patient's opinion.

To be honest, I kept most of my symptoms and issues to myself; I barely told the psychiatrists anything. It wasn't until the end that I started talking to the staff, who didn't bother passing anything along to the doctors.

What was particularly surreal—call it crazy, weird, or whatever you want—was that I never told anyone I thought I was Jesus and was going to be crucified, yet several patients over at the Queens facility actually came up to me and recognized me as such. The psychiatrist wasn't anywhere near them, unless he was being incredibly good at keeping secrets. That was when things really spiraled for me, because if other people also see me as Jesus, then there's truly no hope left.

In the beginning, things were much more difficult; everything felt like an issue, and I would misinterpret every single hospital instruction as something being directed against me. As usual, I was argumentative about the medication, demanding to see exactly what I was being given and why. They even handed me the medical paperwork, so I started trying to cross-reference the injections with the written descriptions. I couldn't manage to compare two simple words to see if they matched, likely due to the meds or the psychosis itself. Still, nothing stumped me quite like reading something in the office that said, "only patients with leave privileges may go to reincarnation..." It was almost certainly meant to say "recreation," but I was convinced it meant reincarnation, which served as definitive proof to me that they wanted to kill me so they could drag me off into some reincarnation process I didn't even believe in.

Otherwise, I wasn't a problem in terms of acting out, lying on floors or tables, or getting into fights—maybe just a little bit regarding the meds. I did have a recurring urge to set fire to every place I was in, but since I never had matches or a lighter, the idea never materialized (and I doubt the doctor would have appreciated the attempt). I don't mean setting a room on fire just for the sake of it, but rather as a way to make my exit.

fadedlynx96 said:The only thing I can't wrap my head around is how you managed to stay for six months. I was only there for three, and even then, I was the longest-staying patient there. Nobody stayed longer than me, despite the fact that I knew some others had much harder cases—though, of course, that "knowledge" is about as reliable as any other psychiatric patient's opinion.

To be honest, I kept most of my symptoms and issues to myself; I barely told the psychiatrists anything. It wasn't until the end that I started talking to the staff, who didn't bother passing anything along to the doctors.

What was particularly surreal—call it crazy, weird, or whatever you want—was that I never told anyone I thought I was Jesus and was going to be crucified, yet several patients over at the Queens facility actually came up to me and recognized me as such. The psychiatrist wasn't anywhere near them, unless he was being incredibly good at keeping secrets. That was when things really spiraled for me, because if other people also see me as Jesus, then there's truly no hope left.

In the beginning, things were much more difficult; everything felt like an issue, and I would misinterpret every single hospital instruction as something being directed against me. As usual, I was argumentative about the medication, demanding to see exactly what I was being given and why. They even handed me the medical paperwork, so I started trying to cross-reference the injections with the written descriptions. I couldn't manage to compare two simple words to see if they matched, likely due to the meds or the psychosis itself. Still, nothing stumped me quite like reading something in the office that said, "only patients with leave privileges may go to reincarnation..." It was almost certainly meant to say "recreation," but I was convinced it meant reincarnation, which served as definitive proof to me that they wanted to kill me so they could drag me off into some reincarnation process I didn't even believe in.

Otherwise, I wasn't a problem in terms of acting out, lying on floors or tables, or getting into fights—maybe just a little bit regarding the meds. I did have a recurring urge to set fire to every place I was in, but since I never had matches or a lighter, the idea never materialized (and I doubt the doctor would have appreciated the attempt). I don't mean setting a room on fire just for the sake of it, but rather as a way to make my exit.

It was simply what needed to happen. Even after those initial six months, I ended up stuck at home for another four because the medication was just too heavy for me to work. To be honest, I didn't really care whether I was recovering at home or in a hospital setting; if anything, being in the hospital felt better because the supervision was more consistent and everything was more organized.

When I finally made it to the hospital—after spending two days wandering around lost in these terrifying hallucinations—they told me they needed to give me an injection, and I honestly convinced myself the police had ordered them to kill me. I actually made my peace with it, thinking, "Well, I guess I'm dying for my country." After that, the paranoia subsided, but a few days later, the hallucinations were still so bad that I couldn't even tell the difference between black and white shapes while playing chess with a roommate. That’s when the depression hit—this massive, crushing low caused by some stupid mistake I made while in a state of psychosis. I ended up breaking a mirror and cutting myself with a shard of glass. At the time, I somehow rationalized that I had to do it because it was what was expected of me. My doctor told me I wasn't doing well because I had somehow embraced my own illness (which I mentioned before). She adjusted my treatment and ramped up the dosage, which meant I spent most of my time sleeping rather than being awake. There were also these compulsive behaviors, a sort of OCD, which added to everything, ultimately stretching my stay out to six months.
Things have been looking up since then, especially since I've been consistently taking my medication for almost four years now.🙂

Harold Anderson3 said:It was simply what needed to happen. Even after those initial six months, I ended up stuck at home for another four because the medication was just too heavy for me to work. To be honest, I didn't really care whether I was recovering at home or in a hospital setting; if anything, being in the hospital felt better because the supervision was more consistent and everything was more organized.

When I finally made it to the hospital—after spending two days wandering around lost in these terrifying hallucinations—they told me they needed to give me an injection, and I honestly convinced myself the police had ordered them to kill me. I actually made my peace with it, thinking, "Well, I guess I'm dying for my country." After that, the paranoia subsided, but a few days later, the hallucinations were still so bad that I couldn't even tell the difference between black and white shapes while playing chess with a roommate. That’s when the depression hit—this massive, crushing low caused by some stupid mistake I made while in a state of psychosis. I ended up breaking a mirror and cutting myself with a shard of glass. At the time, I somehow rationalized that I had to do it because it was what was expected of me. My doctor told me I wasn't doing well because I had somehow embraced my own illness (which I mentioned before). She adjusted my treatment and ramped up the dosage, which meant I spent most of my time sleeping rather than being awake. There were also these compulsive behaviors, a sort of OCD, which added to everything, ultimately stretching my stay out to six months.
Things have been looking up since then, especially since I've been consistently taking my medication for almost four years now.🙂

Keep up the good work 👍

And just remember, the meds are only half the battle; the other half is the actual work you put into yourself. 🙂

David Vaughn75 said:Keep up the good work 👍

And just remember, the meds are only half the battle; the other half is the actual work you put into yourself. 🙂

ofkorz 🙂 involves putting in that steady, daily effort to grow, while also making sure I'm seeing a therapist on a regular basis. I actually have the chance to go to psychotherapy every two weeks, so I definitely plan on taking full advantage of that. It can only help me move forward.

Harold Anderson3 said:It was simply what needed to happen. Even after those initial six months, I ended up stuck at home for another four because the medication was just too heavy for me to work. To be honest, I didn't really care whether I was recovering at home or in a hospital setting; if anything, being in the hospital felt better because the supervision was more consistent and everything was more organized.

When I finally made it to the hospital—after spending two days wandering around lost in these terrifying hallucinations—they told me they needed to give me an injection, and I honestly convinced myself the police had ordered them to kill me. I actually made my peace with it, thinking, "Well, I guess I'm dying for my country." After that, the paranoia subsided, but a few days later, the hallucinations were still so bad that I couldn't even tell the difference between black and white shapes while playing chess with a roommate. That’s when the depression hit—this massive, crushing low caused by some stupid mistake I made while in a state of psychosis. I ended up breaking a mirror and cutting myself with a shard of glass. At the time, I somehow rationalized that I had to do it because it was what was expected of me. My doctor told me I wasn't doing well because I had somehow embraced my own illness (which I mentioned before). She adjusted my treatment and ramped up the dosage, which meant I spent most of my time sleeping rather than being awake. There were also these compulsive behaviors, a sort of OCD, which added to everything, ultimately stretching my stay out to six months.
Things have been looking up since then, especially since I've been consistently taking my medication for almost four years now.🙂

I didn't experience those kinds of hazy, surreal fantasies, though I certainly recognize that feeling of drifting so far out that you eventually just surrender—much like slipping into a coma. It turns out I was hiding away from reality a little too effectively for my own good.🙂

Brian Hayes43 said:I didn't experience those kinds of hazy, surreal fantasies, though I certainly recognize that feeling of drifting so far out that you eventually just surrender—much like slipping into a coma. It turns out I was hiding away from reality a little too effectively for my own good.🙂

These thoughts are standard fare during psychosis or schizophrenia; perhaps "standard" isn't the right word, so let's call them common. I was fully aware that a crisis was coming for me, but I simply refused to accept it because I wasn't some martyr like Jesus 😁. I had no interest in dying for a cause, or for my country, or for anyone else, because my only real goal was to stay alive and get as far away from those hospital wards as possible.

Harold Anderson3 said:It was simply what needed to happen. Even after those initial six months, I ended up stuck at home for another four because the medication was just too heavy for me to work. To be honest, I didn't really care whether I was recovering at home or in a hospital setting; if anything, being in the hospital felt better because the supervision was more consistent and everything was more organized.

When I finally made it to the hospital—after spending two days wandering around lost in these terrifying hallucinations—they told me they needed to give me an injection, and I honestly convinced myself the police had ordered them to kill me. I actually made my peace with it, thinking, "Well, I guess I'm dying for my country." After that, the paranoia subsided, but a few days later, the hallucinations were still so bad that I couldn't even tell the difference between black and white shapes while playing chess with a roommate. That’s when the depression hit—this massive, crushing low caused by some stupid mistake I made while in a state of psychosis. I ended up breaking a mirror and cutting myself with a shard of glass. At the time, I somehow rationalized that I had to do it because it was what was expected of me. My doctor told me I wasn't doing well because I had somehow embraced my own illness (which I mentioned before). She adjusted my treatment and ramped up the dosage, which meant I spent most of my time sleeping rather than being awake. There were also these compulsive behaviors, a sort of OCD, which added to everything, ultimately stretching my stay out to six months.
Things have been looking up since then, especially since I've been consistently taking my medication for almost four years now.🙂

I am glad you made it through that stretch and that things are looking up for you now. Just stick to the treatment plan, and I am certain everything can be kept under control.

I finally cut myself off from all my medications about a year in, roughly nine months after I was discharged from the hospital.

They threw everything they could at me—OCD, paranoia, hebephrenia, panic disorders—and honestly, who wouldn't be panicking if they lived with the constant certainty that someone was coming to kill them at any given moment? Add psychosis and schizophrenia to that list, along with whatever else they decided to slap on my chart, and you have the full picture of what they diagnosed me with.

Smashing glass and self-harming aren't exactly winning strategies, and honestly, those behaviors basically guarantee you'll be stuck in a facility for the long haul. I was lucky enough to avoid destroying property or getting into physical altercations—well, mostly—but I noticed pretty quickly that anyone tearing doors off their hinges becomes a permanent resident in a straightjacket. Even though I kept things calm and acted completely rational, it didn't do much to stop me from pulling a three-month stint.

I always knew they were out to kill me. I understood that the medications and the injections were designed to erode my mind, but I hadn't quite come to terms with the fact that they intended to take my life entirely; I was simply waiting for the moment to defend myself against whoever came for me—which, looking back, clearly makes me a dangerous person since I was just sitting there waiting for someone to attack.

I am fairly dissatisfied with my treatment plan. As I have previously noted, much more could have been accomplished—perhaps everything—had we simply sat down for a meaningful conversation at the start. It was only after two months of ineffective medication and zero progress that my psychiatrist finally acknowledged something I had already brought to his attention, suggesting we verify it together before deciding if it held any merit. We did exactly that, but only after wasting two full months on drugs that offered no relief.

If someone had just sat me down and explained everything during those first couple of days, I probably wouldn't be spiraling further into this mess. I arrived at that small town in the Midwest with one single symptom to my name, yet I walked out a month later carrying thirty different, disconnected delusions that make absolutely no sense. Most of them were clearly hallucinations, though there’s a handful I still can't quite wrap my head around today. 😁).

To wrap this up, my lead psychiatrist once looked me dead in the eye and asked if I was pulling his leg or if I just wasn't sane. I never quite understood what prompted the question, but I took the opportunity every single time to tell him I was definitely messing with him, because I certainly wasn't going to admit to being anything else. I never actually figured out what I had done or said to trigger that reaction, but honestly, it was all just a bit of fun. I couldn't exactly ask him what the issue was without confirming his suspicions about my mental state, and I had no intention of blowing the few positive points I managed to scrape together.

fadedlynx96 said:I am glad you made it through that stretch and that things are looking up for you now. Just stick to the treatment plan, and I am certain everything can be kept under control.

I finally cut myself off from all my medications about a year in, roughly nine months after I was discharged from the hospital.

They threw everything they could at me—OCD, paranoia, hebephrenia, panic disorders—and honestly, who wouldn't be panicking if they lived with the constant certainty that someone was coming to kill them at any given moment? Add psychosis and schizophrenia to that list, along with whatever else they decided to slap on my chart, and you have the full picture of what they diagnosed me with.

Smashing glass and self-harming aren't exactly winning strategies, and honestly, those behaviors basically guarantee you'll be stuck in a facility for the long haul. I was lucky enough to avoid destroying property or getting into physical altercations—well, mostly—but I noticed pretty quickly that anyone tearing doors off their hinges becomes a permanent resident in a straightjacket. Even though I kept things calm and acted completely rational, it didn't do much to stop me from pulling a three-month stint.

I always knew they were out to kill me. I understood that the medications and the injections were designed to erode my mind, but I hadn't quite come to terms with the fact that they intended to take my life entirely; I was simply waiting for the moment to defend myself against whoever came for me—which, looking back, clearly makes me a dangerous person since I was just sitting there waiting for someone to attack.

I am fairly dissatisfied with my treatment plan. As I have previously noted, much more could have been accomplished—perhaps everything—had we simply sat down for a meaningful conversation at the start. It was only after two months of ineffective medication and zero progress that my psychiatrist finally acknowledged something I had already brought to his attention, suggesting we verify it together before deciding if it held any merit. We did exactly that, but only after wasting two full months on drugs that offered no relief.

If someone had just sat me down and explained everything during those first couple of days, I probably wouldn't be spiraling further into this mess. I arrived at that small town in the Midwest with one single symptom to my name, yet I walked out a month later carrying thirty different, disconnected delusions that make absolutely no sense. Most of them were clearly hallucinations, though there’s a handful I still can't quite wrap my head around today. 😁).

To wrap this up, my lead psychiatrist once looked me dead in the eye and asked if I was pulling his leg or if I just wasn't sane. I never quite understood what prompted the question, but I took the opportunity every single time to tell him I was definitely messing with him, because I certainly wasn't going to admit to being anything else. I never actually figured out what I had done or said to trigger that reaction, but honestly, it was all just a bit of fun. I couldn't exactly ask him what the issue was without confirming his suspicions about my mental state, and I had no intention of blowing the few positive points I managed to scrape together.

OCD is OCD.
I personally think you shouldn't try to play games with your psychiatrist; if you're honest from the jump, things tend to resolve much faster. Besides, a good doctor will see through most attempts to hide things, especially psychotic symptoms. My doctor really pulled me through a dark time, and she's still helping me today—not just with mental health, but she even helped me secure my college scholarship. Regarding medication, I've been on about a quarter of my previous dosage for three and a half years now. I don't think there's any point in tapering off the antipsychotics further, at least not yet (I've stayed steady on a 25 mg dose of Risset 2 x 2).
The only way to keep psychosis under control is through medication, and even when you stop taking them, there's always that risk of it coming back. I stopped taking my meds on my own once, and my doctor admitted she made a mistake by letting me leave the hospital when I requested discharge. All of that cost me another six months of psychiatric care.
I don't think the illness would have progressed so much if someone had just explained the situation to you, but honestly, only the right combination of meds could have prevented the psychosis from developing further. Besides, your three months in the hospital isn't the end of the world. Just take care of your health now while you have it, because I'm sure you don't want to find yourself back in a ward.😉 I’m also holding onto the hope that I’ve already served my time and gotten through the worst of it 😁

Harold Anderson3 said:ofkorz 🙂 involves putting in that steady, daily effort to grow, while also making sure I'm seeing a therapist on a regular basis. I actually have the chance to go to psychotherapy every two weeks, so I definitely plan on taking full advantage of that. It can only help me move forward.

Look, psychotherapy is basically going to point out where the cracks are and give you the theoretical roadmap you need to start fixing them. Once you finally wrap your head around how it all works, then comes the hard part—actually putting it into practice. That's when you can finally start calling yourself a healthy person.👍

David Vaughn75 said:Look, psychotherapy is basically going to point out where the cracks are and give you the theoretical roadmap you need to start fixing them. Once you finally wrap your head around how it all works, then comes the hard part—actually putting it into practice. That's when you can finally start calling yourself a healthy person.👍

Thanks for the explanation, my friend. I actually spent about two years in psychotherapy before I ended up dealing with psychosis. Back then, I was struggling with depression, and unfortunately, therapy didn't quite shield me from the psychotic break. I'm planning to start up again, though I'm not looking for some miraculous total cure—I just want to find ways to manage the symptoms more easily. To be honest, depression is still my primary hurdle, it's just that now I have the added layer of psychotic experiences, which is why I'm on antipsychotics as well. I'm not expecting any miracles, but I am hoping for some improvement, and at the end of the day, I know it all comes down to my own efforts. How has your experience been? 🙂

Harold Anderson3 said:Thanks for the explanation, my friend. I actually spent about two years in psychotherapy before I ended up dealing with psychosis. Back then, I was struggling with depression, and unfortunately, therapy didn't quite shield me from the psychotic break. I'm planning to start up again, though I'm not looking for some miraculous total cure—I just want to find ways to manage the symptoms more easily. To be honest, depression is still my primary hurdle, it's just that now I have the added layer of psychotic experiences, which is why I'm on antipsychotics as well. I'm not expecting any miracles, but I am hoping for some improvement, and at the end of the day, I know it all comes down to my own efforts. How has your experience been? 🙂

Exactly what I'm saying—all that theory a therapist feeds you doesn't mean a damn thing if you aren't actually out there doing the work in real life. 😉

I'm still getting absolutely wrecked by anxiety, but hey, I've made some massive strides. 😎

Hey everyone! I noticed things have been a bit quiet lately, so I'm assuming you're all doing pretty good 🙂🙂
On my end, the situation is still basically just waiting on my brother, who’s been in the hospital for a month now. "Think" he's doing better? Well, sure, I can tell there's progress, but we won't really know for sure until he gets discharged this weekend. They wouldn't let him come home the last two weekends—the first time was because he didn't react well to things, and the second time it was just because he was finally calm enough.
Anyway, he's on this specific med combo right now that includes an injection once every two weeks, then moving to every four weeks.
4. Seroquel, Lamal, Zyprexa, Xanax, and that injection.

Honestly, I've got my own stuff to deal with too; being raised by an alcoholic means I've been carrying those scars my whole life. One side effect is that I've always overextended myself worrying about everyone else instead of focusing on me. It's the same with my brother—I'm constantly spiraling, thinking about how he is, if he'll get better, what happens if he doesn't, if he'll ever marry, or if I'll be stuck taking care of him forever, or if I'll end up alone because of it... you name it. Trying to live ten years in the future is just exhausting! I don't think I ever truly accepted that he's sick, even though it's been 12 years now. So, I finally decided to start looking out for myself a little more, starting with accepting the reality: MY BROTHER IS ILL, and that's just it. He is who he is, and we're just taking it one day at a time, rather than trying to jump ten years ahead.

That's all from me, just needed to pop in and vent a little

Yeah, I suggested he look into psychotherapy once he's out [and there's that part of me again, trying to control everything because I just want him to feel better], but he’s totally not interested. He never was. He just says, "...I'm not about to go lie on some couch and talk about all this." Now, if I start pushing or forcing him into it, isn't that just doing it for myself instead of him? It feels like everyone else I know would give anything to actually get into therapy...

Harold Anderson3 said:OCD is OCD.
I personally think you shouldn't try to play games with your psychiatrist; if you're honest from the jump, things tend to resolve much faster. Besides, a good doctor will see through most attempts to hide things, especially psychotic symptoms. My doctor really pulled me through a dark time, and she's still helping me today—not just with mental health, but she even helped me secure my college scholarship. Regarding medication, I've been on about a quarter of my previous dosage for three and a half years now. I don't think there's any point in tapering off the antipsychotics further, at least not yet (I've stayed steady on a 25 mg dose of Risset 2 x 2).
The only way to keep psychosis under control is through medication, and even when you stop taking them, there's always that risk of it coming back. I stopped taking my meds on my own once, and my doctor admitted she made a mistake by letting me leave the hospital when I requested discharge. All of that cost me another six months of psychiatric care.
I don't think the illness would have progressed so much if someone had just explained the situation to you, but honestly, only the right combination of meds could have prevented the psychosis from developing further. Besides, your three months in the hospital isn't the end of the world. Just take care of your health now while you have it, because I'm sure you don't want to find yourself back in a ward.😉 I’m also holding onto the hope that I’ve already served my time and gotten through the worst of it 😁

I didn't lie to my psychiatrist, except perhaps toward the very end when I finally understood which things were nonsense I should keep to myself and which things might be worth sharing, though doing so felt incredibly difficult.

The core issue was that I perceived psychiatrists as part of an enemy force intent on killing me. Because of that, I couldn't reveal the bulk of my problems, fearing they would use them against me. In my opinion, the ER doctor needed very little information to make a diagnosis without even asking me much. It was more like a consensus that this guy is definitely staying, the only question being how many orderlies it takes to get him from intake to a ward.

Everything seemed to be diagnosed without any real insight into my actual symptoms. What I did or didn't do was treated as a minor detail, and they almost never managed to connect my actions to a delusion, a hallucination, or whatever else. I believe there was a reason behind all the crazy things I did. It was a highly irrational reason, sure, but it was a reason nonetheless. Looking back now, if you don't understand why you did something, you can only conclude that you are completely insane. And that wasn't the truth (or perhaps it was, it hardly matters). It's not that I was inventing new nonsense every day to top the previous day's performance, even though some members of the medical staff thought that was the case. They didn't make an effort to find out, and I had very little conversation with the doctors. They claim I refused to talk, but it seems to me the opposite was true: they simply didn't want to listen. After a while, I stopped saying everything was fine or that I wanted to go home, and even earlier, I stopped saying I had had enough—which is usually bad news, since "having had enough" typically results in an injection. Eventually, I even stopped fighting them regarding the diagnosis and the medication.

And yes, it just occurred to me: maybe that was my way of trying to prove I was normal? Nothing else worked.