I remember spending time with a close relative shortly after my Father's passing. I opened up rather intensely about everything that was going on in my mind. The response? Uncomfortable silence followed by:
“It's all in your head.”
Trusting someone with what no one else knew — and having it fail so miserably — hit me hard.
I was urged to participate in therapy by my general physician. It felt as though I failed. But I gave it a try. After 4 consecutive monthly sessions, it started.
The voices and visions began.
At first, it was quite surreal, if I'm being honest. Shadows of people just wandering through my living room. It was as if they were searching for something. Imagine it for a moment, if you're able.
The voices are what prompted me to yet another hospital visit.
Vile words. Cold decaying words. Over and over again.
“You're nothing.”
“Useless bastard.”
“I hate you.”
I knew I was losing my mind. I was quickly yet quietly going insane.
Did my Father's death trigger something deep within me?
Fast forward to this moment. The hospital stays. The medicine changes. They still occur.
The truth is, I don't have all of the answers. Nor do any of us.
Perhaps, I needed to write that out to fully understand my illness.
It's not what you're labeled by a doctor or therapist. It's how you live your life with it.
And I choose to live. One step at a time.