I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia at age twenty-six. After graduating college, I was unable to hold a job. Everyone seemed to be against me, talking about me, trying to get me fired and ruin me. Things were not going well as they had before.
No one saw things as I did. No one believed the things I thought were happening to me. The longer this continued, the worse it became. Before long, I thought my house was being wire-tapped and that my food could possibly be poisened. Now living at home with my parents, I did not want to endanger them so I kept things to myself.
My parents sent to to a psychiatrist. They were worried because I was not working. I graduated from college while working part-time as well as being involved in college clubs. Now, I was sleeping in until ten or eleven o’clock in the morning and often not working. The psychiatrist offered to prescribe me an anti-depressant, because I never told him what I thought was really happening to me. If I talked, things would surely get worse.
Eventually, it became intolerable. I believed my neighbors were plotting against me. I left notes in their mailboxes demanding that they leave me alone. "Enough is enough," I wrote. One of the neighbors was an FBI agent. I thought he was behind the wire-tapping. One of the other neighbors caught me, and the next day I was given the choice of going to the Crisis Center or going to jail. I chose the Crisis Center and was hospitalized.
During my stay at the hospital, I was prescribed Risperdal. At that time, it was a new medication and I was told I responded well to it. I no longer believed people were out to get me. The hospital staff was pleased with me because I showered every day and attended all the patient activities. I was the only patient that wore street clothes. They said I might be able to hold a job.
After getting out, I was determined to be normal. I found a part-time job as a sales associate in a department store, then worked full-time for a lumber retail store chain. I did not mind the jobs, but wanted to use my college education. Writing always appealed to me, so I enrolled in a few classes at a local university and worked as a "stringer" at a weekly newspaper. The position went well, and I was hired by a daily newspaper.
The job did not last long. I stopped taking the medication because I had a difficult time keeping up. I was also extremely self-conscious because I was approaching my thirties and was not on my own yet. People at work teased me about things I could do nothing about. As a result of being off the medication, I turned in articles that made little sense and quoted people as saying things they never said. The managing editor had a meeting with me and told me he was concerned. He said he contacted the editor of the weekly where I worked as a stringer and and my past professors about my ability to do the job. I denied there was anything wrong and was soon fired.
After that, I refused to take the medication. I worked through labor temporary services and factories. The longest I held a job was for nine months. It was on the "grave yard shift" for a a plastics factory. I managed to get my own place, but young people moved in next door and were having parties every weekend. On my days away from the job, it made it difficult to sleep. I asked them to stop a few times, and they became angry.
One evening, they did not have a party. Three of them cornered me and swore at me. They would not let me in my place. I was afraid and confused. No one was that mad at me before. A fight broke out and I could not get away from them. The police broke it up and I was sent to the hospital with an eye swollen shut and they were sent to jail.
After getting out of the hospital, I did not want to go back to the apartment. I returned to my parents’ house, but they did not want me back without the medication. After repeated talks and my refusal to take the medication, they locked me out. I would wait on the porch for them for hours, and they would let me back in. We argued and I was eventually hospitalized again.
Following the hospitalization, I was sent to a halfway house. My days and evenings were spent with other people that had mental illness. During this time, I had to accept the that I was sick and that my life would be different. There was no where to go and no one to do things with that did not have a mental illness. I heard many peoples’ experiences and it helped me not to fight or ignore the fact that I was mentally ill.
For the past four years, I have been working at an agency that houses the homeless and mentally ill. It is the longest I have held a job since I graduated college almost fifteen years ago. I worked part-time for two years and was then hired into a full-time position. It was hard not to bounce around when things were not going well or I wished they were different, but it has been very rewarding. I get to see people come and go rather than leaving and starting over again.
