People followed me around school screaming names at me almost like a chant. Some days I couldn't tell what was real and wasn't. The voices in my head telling me to kill myself mixed with the actual ones outside my head. Voices of people who I had never said a word to and voices of those I had to hear from the second I awoke to the second I passed out all shouted at me and at each other. Nothing was ever nice or uplifting. Students at my school would follow me and scream, "Dike! Dike! Dike!" over and over again at me. They'd call me fat (I was 5'7 and 145ibs) and weird. The ones in my head were a little more creative and intricate. They didn't just hate me. They hated each other. They'd cuss me out and each other. They were ALWAYS yelling. It was never nice. They told me a variety of things to do to myself everyday. Things like "cut yourself," or "There is a car. Why don't you jump in front of it?" were heard several times an hour. I wasn't stable mentally, but how could I tell someone that. I could barley hear myself think long enough to gather a simple thought. How was I supposed to explain to people what was going on when I wasn't even sure. I broke down one day and asked my dad if we could talk. Of course he said yes. I remember exactly what I told him. "Do you know how people say you can't think more than 1 thing at a time? Well, I can." I immediately burst into tears. I told him about some of the things they said. It wasn't long after that I began having back to back hospitalizations. It wasn't long after that that I began attempting what I was told. I cut several probably hundreds of times, I tried ways or strangulation, I even tried the cars. People always stopped me or got to me before I could bleed too much from the cuts on my wrist, sides, legs, and neck. I wasn't really all that depressed as much as I was hopeless and being controlled by command and tactile hallucinations. If I didn't do what the commands said, I would be bitten. Those bites and scratches hurt worse then my sharp rocks, broken glass, or knives. THey worked together to get me to cooperate. I had no choice. It was either pain or more pain. I was lucky. I had someone there to stop me. The look in my dad's eye every time he told me he loved me made me hold on a bit longer. My sister yelling at my hallucinations and calling them butt heads made me hold on a bit longer. Yes, even the psych wards and the people there made me hold on a bit longer. The medication unclouded things some so I had more of a mental view. I had more of a choice. I chose to hold on a bit longer.
Not everyone is that lucky. It is up to the rest of us to help whoever needs us. Be that smile, the warm hug, the ride to the dr's office, or the one who tries to understand. It may make a difference. It won't solve people's problems, but it may help them hold on a bit longer.
Love, a schizophrenic
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