I am constantly amazed at the number of crazy people on fluther. I say “crazy” as a term of pride. I like crazy people. At least, I like the high functioning ones; the smart, educated ones. I think there’s something about seeing the world through the filter of a brain that is rewired that makes crazy people more interesting and, for my, more sympatico.
Maybe it’s because we have a clue about what’s going on in each other. Maybe it’s because we’ve had the same battles with the health care system. Maybe it’s because we attack life more intensely, and feel things more intensely. Maybe it’s because I don’t feel so alone when I’m with people who share these experiences.
I think that before I was diagnosed, I kept a much tighter hold of myself. It was a great strain, but I wanted to be liked, so I tried to be more normal. After I was diagnosed, I realized that I no longer wanted to control my personality. Part of that was because I could no longer control it. Something has broken out of it’s cage, and I can’t put it back. The cage won’t work any more, and the something is impossible to catch.
Whatever that something is, it’s what powers my feelings and my imagination and my difficulties conforming to standard social rules. It’s what drives me and it’s what kills me. It is what gives me any power I might have. It’s what tears me apart when I try to constrain myself. Unfortunately, I’m very good at constraining myself. I’m so, so tired of my meds.
I need attention. A lot of it. I am lonely five minutes after I’ve connected with someone. My energy for people goes on and on. My moods, up or down, help me get attention, but I hate that. It feels manipulative. I want people to love me because they love me, not because I’ve tricked them in some way.
I am driven to feel. I seek drama. I am touched by the smallest things. My need for drama brings me trouble. I feel guilty about it, and drive myself into depression. When I’ve punished myself enough, I come back up. Medical people tell me I’m not doing it. It’s the disorder. I don’t know if it really is a disorder. Sometimes I think it’s just the way other people use to control me.
So I resent my psychiatrist. I resent my therapist. I resent my wife who tells me that the pills make me bearable.
I know many people in my support group have taken themselves off their meds from time to time. Everyone tells them not to. We all conform to this notion of what being well means. I read in the books that there are many others who have gone off their meds, too. My best friend in the group says that we desire the extremes—both good and bad.
Both extremes help me produce. But what I produce doesn’t often seem to fit into the conventional scheme of things.
I believe that every human has useful talents. I don’t think we should be trying to “fix” crazy people. I think we should be trying to find situations where their “craziness” is an advantage. That’s where we need to work. We may be extremely troublesome to work with, but I think the results are worth it.
But the labor market doesn’t work this way. People apply for jobs. Jobs don’t apply for people. We are goal oriented, not people oriented. We have no faith in people who don’t fit standard molds. Sometimes, we get lucky, and create positions for ourselves where we can shine. Other times, we end up homeless. Other times we take our meds and learn to fit in.
I don’t know if anyone really understands mental illness. The doctors can’t diagnose it, and they can’t figure out how to treat it. They can act really pompous and tell us what is wrong with us, but I wonder if it really has to be seen as wrong. I wish we had a choice. I wish we lived in a society where there really were choices—where people really are tolerant. Well—if wishes were horses…