My Schizophrenic Journey to the Psych Ward (Again)
A personal story of madness
In May of this year, I had another psychotic episodic. Another break from reality. Another schizo-affective event.
At first I didn’t remember what happened.
But it has all come back to me. I remember what happened. Which is critical to this story precisely because the scrambling of my memory is central to my symptomatology. Piecing the story back together is part of the therapeutic process. Remembering is healing.
But I must not become too confident in my memory. It has betrayed me before. Should I be confident in this re-telling of events? There are dangers lurking here, precisely because my mind is at stake.
This story of how my Mom called the cops on me. Even though she lives in Florida and I live in St Louis. This is also the story of how that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, though it was traumatic and made me deeply bitter. This is the story of how I had everyone worried I was dead, even though I was in no obvious physical danger. This is the story of why nobody trusts crazy people to figure our own shit out — cops must be cops, doctors must be doctors, authorities must be brought in. I am never allowed to wait it out. Never allowed to sleep it off. I must deal with it in the hospital, imprisoned within a psych ward, and of…
