Experiences of Schizophrenia: Colors, Shapes, and Sounds

Conciliation on Isolation and Connection

The dull, vacant ache in my chest and shoulders caused by flattened affect becomes drawn out when I'm connected to the people I care about, and my spirit, body, and mind are cured for a time.

I inevitably neglect the warmth and connection my family and friendships provide, though. Then, my ability to relate to others begins to deteriorate, and I start to withdraw from the things that keep me mentally healthy.

The content of my thoughts and emotions becomes obscured or absent in this isolation, and it feels like I'm enveloped in a black, chilled radiation or walking through a hollow void. The light I had felt circling my heart before I withdrew becomes a dark sediment that grows and hardens in my chest, fixing my shoulders tightly.

The cycle of cold isolation and finding warmth is a wound I only know how to renew every few years. It's a common experience of schizophrenics and a repetition I am far more familiar with than I should be.

Even still, I find myself at the mercy of my disfigured heart and mind until someone cares to help thaw the agoraphobic stasis I self-inflicted.

Distorted Senses in Schizophrenia: The Experience of a Schizophrenic

The sensory distortions in my broken brain can take many forms: In my hearing, vision, and the feelings in my body. These distortions can cooccur and do not limit the degree to which they cause discomfort or vary in intensity as they see fit.

There are periods when the space around me takes on an aura of jagged shapes and sharp, searing colors. I walk around, and the buildings, concrete, greenery, and sky cause a feeling deep in my chest, telling me my surroundings are a replica or an unsettling and uncanny false model where I don't belong.

It's exhausting when the cracks of psychosis break through like this and take up so much of my awareness and energy. The Earth I'm thrust into is like serenity inverted—and in great disarray. I'm not sure how to feel or what to do. It's disorienting, yes, but perilous to my safety, no. So, I wait it out.

I get lost, similarly, when I talk to myself. My head crooks unconsciously to the side, fixed in a thousand-yard stare that can't be broken. It's a different realm that materializes when I'm concentrating and removed from the world around me here—a sort of weightlessness as my lips rush in unintelligible, staccato-ed whispers.

Whatever I'm saying or thinking disappears as quickly as I speak and snap back into focus, and I have no recollection of my thoughts or speech. It's a pure inattention I cannot avoid.

Making the difficulty I have concentrating worse, I have trouble estimating the distance between me and the sounds around me. A dog barking outside may be as loud and distracting as a stereo or TV in the same room as me. Determining what to focus my attention on is challenging, and it feels like a "Where's Waldo" hunt to locate the origin of what I'm hearing.

Because I have trouble focusing on the appropriate thing, I often miss someone approaching me or calling my attention. As a result, people may think I'm disinterested or annoyed. But the truth is I'm embarrassed and fear asking people to repeat themselves and appearing to be foolish.

My parents, my brother Jordan, and my sister Rachael were alarmed by the times when I'd talk to myself early on at the time I was diagnosed. What to me is a function of self-soothing looked to them like I was talking to thin air, and I would bet their imagination could only fill in the blanks. I was deeply uncommunicative early on in my illness.

Today, I don't have to worry about these embarrassing moments where my consciousness slips. I take the time I have with my family and the greater Halley cohorts to feel nourished by sharing a role in the group.

It doesn't matter to them that my eyes have started to trail slightly, nor does it alarm them that my body moves with a distinct jerkiness due to the decades of taking antipsychotics that have wrought havoc on my psychomotor control.

I still talk to myself today, but instead of sheepishly hoping nobody notices (or, worse, asks me if I'm "Ok"), I accept that I'll always be a little odd in these ways. I no longer feel reduced to a cliché schizophrenic muttering to themselves and beating myself up later about it when I spend time around people I trust.

I feel unity in my obsession with words, writing, speaking, whispering, and connecting with the people close to me. My heart and mind have a direct line to be equally sensed and expressed when I exercise my skill with documenting my thoughts.

Writing on my computer or embracing the inefficiency of a manual typewriter truly adds meaning to my life. That's the best outcome I could ask for with my messy and disorganized mind that's not always my own.

Note to Self…

Be quick to admit you're wrong and forgive others when they do the same. People may see it as nebbish, flimsy, or capricious, but that's a welcome alternative to living with regret or embarrassment at having been wrong and never admitting it.

Anyone who has a serious mental disorder (or even more, who has found themselves in the psych ward) could use a little grace and forgiveness if not mercy. So, forgive yourself and others quickly as a matter of principle.