Facing the Mountain
Originally published in Schizophrenia Bulletin sbae007
https://doi.org/10.1093/schbul/sbae007
Facing
the Mountain
I was on the second story ledge of my Army barracks, not
sure about my intentions. Under me was another gravel bed. Fort Irwin in the
Mojave Desert was paved with them. No, I did not jump; if I had, I would most
likely have broken some bones.
In the next days and weeks to come, I will lose rank
because of my lack of motivation which was seen as insubordination. I would
also be diagnosed with schizophrenia. Looking out the window of my room in the
Army barracks, I could see a massive mountain standing alone. Alone in the
desert of my life, I called it, “My Mountain.” I felt like that mountain was my
only companion.
I had trouble relating to the other soldiers, and they
had trouble relating to me. One night in the field they really showed me what
they thought of me by duct taping me into the fetal position. As a result,
something broke inside me, and I was never the same.
After the night I was taped, I was truly a different
person. In the motor pool where we serviced our tanks, I raised my voice to my
fellow soldiers and yelled, “No one else will be taped!” I also began thinking
I could communicate with random people through my heart and brain without
actually talking aloud. I went to the mental health clinic on post hoping I
would be transferred out of the desert to a better duty station where my
special powers would be valued.
At the clinic, the doctors put me in front of a computer
to take a psychiatric test. During the test I saw my fellow soldiers and random
people flying all around me, talking to me, although I was in a room by myself.
I thought it was all a part of my special powers. The results of the test
indicated I had schizophrenia so I was taken to the psyche ward in San Diego
where I would be officially diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder/bipolar
type. I eventually went back to Fort Irwin, and the authorities put me in sick
bay on the first floor until they could decide what to do with me. In this new
room, I could not see my mountain.
What followed was an honorable discharge, and a drive
back to Richmond, Virginia in my pickup truck full of my belongings which had
been placed in garbage bags; back to two loving parents who had no idea what
their baby boy had become.
My war was mental, and inside my mind, it was chaotic. I
was not taking the medication I had been prescribed, and I became a danger to
myself and my parents. My parents had to do the only thing they could do, call
the police.
I remember as I sat in handcuffs, thinking, this was the
bottom point in my life. I had no idea what was going on in my brain, but I
knew I needed to get help. I felt betrayed by my parents, but I realize now,
they did what they thought was best for me.
In the months that followed I was hospitalized and put on
medication again. After the hospital, I went to a homeless respite, stayed in a
furnished room with a TV and bed. Finally, my veterans’ affairs benefits came
through. I was not wealthy by any means, but I could provide for my physical
needs.
Full recovery takes time. It takes time to find the right
medication and it took time for me to accept my illness. To understand my
mental illness, it was important to come to an understanding of what is real
and what is not real. It was also important to know what triggered my
schizophrenia symptoms such as hunger and tiredness. Today my parents are a
major part of my support system, and they advocate for me as my caregivers.
A
diagnosis of schizophrenia is not a death sentence. Today I share my story, and
that has given me purpose. Sometimes I still visualize that mountain outside my
Army barracks where I once felt alone and helpless, trying to control the
impulses of my brain. As I recall those
days of struggle, I now view that mountain as a symbol of empowerment. I am
conquering the struggles of a mental health diagnosis, and I am using my
passion to help others who may just be beginning their mental health journey.
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