December 5, 2003
It's difficult for me to imagine what it must be like, to hear voices where there aren’t any, to see things that aren't there, to wake up, like he did this afternoon, not knowing who he was or where he was.
He went to the store, and while there the voices began again, just behind him, saying his name. He fears he's losing his mind, and he wanted to just stay right there and collapse into himself. The voices follow him. He drove back from the store in the dark, and he doesn't deal well with the dark anymore. He can't see well in the dark, the shadows are worse in the dark. He's afraid he'll lose his license, and I tell him not to worry, that he won't have to drive at night anymore, if he needs to go anywhere when it's dark I'll take him, I'll be here, that he won't have to drive at night anymore.
I tell him it'll be okay, though I have no evidence to support that. He doesn't want to lose what mobility he has. He doesn't want to lose his mind. He doesn't want to lose the somewhat tenuous hold on reality he can still claim. I don't want him to lose any of that either.
Sometimes he doesn't remember things that just happened. Sometimes he doesn't remember when he's had a really bad episode. He's always surprised when I tell him about it later. I don't tell him with the intention of letting him know, I don't realize he doesn't remember. But he often forgets, or it has passed out of his mind, or it's one of those things that he can't afford to hold onto, though he's glad when I tell him. The experience itself, perhaps, is something he cannot keep with him.
I can't imagine what it must be like to hear voices when none exist. And still he retains his sense of humor. We were walking Honey earlier this evening, before he went home, and I was behind him and chattering about something, who knows what, and he said, "I'm hearing those voices again," and I said, "Hey, that's me! You're supposed to be hearing that!" and he laughed.
When I tell him I don't hear voices so I can't imagine what it's like he tells me that I hear voices also, but I just ignore them like I ignore everyone else. And he laughs.
We make morbid jokes about insanity and schizophrenia and BPD. Anyone listening to us might think we were insensitive and cruel if they did not know that he suffers from schizophrenia and BPD himself. We can joke and talk like that because he does have it, and it helps to keep the horror at bay. Making fun of the big bad monster makes the big bad monster somewhat benign, or at least not as malevolent, not as scary. But it is scary, it is malevolent, it is spiteful and mean and unpredictable.
We take it one day at a time. The meds help, but they don’t eliminate it. He has gotten worse; better in some aspects, less prone to psychotic episodes, but still, it seems the shadows and the voices are worse, the distractions, the ability to drive at night has definitely become worse. His ability to function is better, as long as he stays within the necessary guidelines, and I think that is from practice, from experience, from learning what is possible and what is not, something that is obtained only from time spent living with the disease.
And we continue. We live our lives. He does the best he can. That is all anyone can ask, isn't it?
He went to the store, and while there the voices began again, just behind him, saying his name. He fears he's losing his mind, and he wanted to just stay right there and collapse into himself. The voices follow him. He drove back from the store in the dark, and he doesn't deal well with the dark anymore. He can't see well in the dark, the shadows are worse in the dark. He's afraid he'll lose his license, and I tell him not to worry, that he won't have to drive at night anymore, if he needs to go anywhere when it's dark I'll take him, I'll be here, that he won't have to drive at night anymore.
I tell him it'll be okay, though I have no evidence to support that. He doesn't want to lose what mobility he has. He doesn't want to lose his mind. He doesn't want to lose the somewhat tenuous hold on reality he can still claim. I don't want him to lose any of that either.
Sometimes he doesn't remember things that just happened. Sometimes he doesn't remember when he's had a really bad episode. He's always surprised when I tell him about it later. I don't tell him with the intention of letting him know, I don't realize he doesn't remember. But he often forgets, or it has passed out of his mind, or it's one of those things that he can't afford to hold onto, though he's glad when I tell him. The experience itself, perhaps, is something he cannot keep with him.
I can't imagine what it must be like to hear voices when none exist. And still he retains his sense of humor. We were walking Honey earlier this evening, before he went home, and I was behind him and chattering about something, who knows what, and he said, "I'm hearing those voices again," and I said, "Hey, that's me! You're supposed to be hearing that!" and he laughed.
When I tell him I don't hear voices so I can't imagine what it's like he tells me that I hear voices also, but I just ignore them like I ignore everyone else. And he laughs.
We make morbid jokes about insanity and schizophrenia and BPD. Anyone listening to us might think we were insensitive and cruel if they did not know that he suffers from schizophrenia and BPD himself. We can joke and talk like that because he does have it, and it helps to keep the horror at bay. Making fun of the big bad monster makes the big bad monster somewhat benign, or at least not as malevolent, not as scary. But it is scary, it is malevolent, it is spiteful and mean and unpredictable.
We take it one day at a time. The meds help, but they don’t eliminate it. He has gotten worse; better in some aspects, less prone to psychotic episodes, but still, it seems the shadows and the voices are worse, the distractions, the ability to drive at night has definitely become worse. His ability to function is better, as long as he stays within the necessary guidelines, and I think that is from practice, from experience, from learning what is possible and what is not, something that is obtained only from time spent living with the disease.
And we continue. We live our lives. He does the best he can. That is all anyone can ask, isn't it?
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home