Being Diagnosed with Schizophrenia

I had what can only be described as a surreal dream last night. The actual details were all accurate to a true life event. It was only the ending that changed. It had left me feeling a little highly string today.

Truth, in Dream:

I sat in the waiting room of a very sterile reception area run out of what was effectively an upper class rehab facility that dealt with extreme cases of mental illness, and drug addiction. My mother had been worried about all my crazy ass hallucinations (which in truth, I had been having since I was a kid… and to this day I maintain that not everything is an hallucination).

I can tell the difference between cats morphing into birds and black ravens on all ledges watching me move – and between what is just plain paranormal and I am cursed / blessed to see and feel half of it. If not… too much of it.

So…  I was doing what  always do. I was reading the people around me, and passing judgement – as I do – shamelessly. For example, I don’t understand women that wear floral print clothes. It genuinely confuses me. I don’t understand why fat people wear watches that look more like blood constriction devices than actual practical accessories. Anyway…

The receptionist had big hair and was in floral, and her neck didn’t match her face. I know, I’m a bitch. Deal with it. Its not that I need beauty in everyone. I in fact, love flaws. Freckles, scars, big noses etc. I think its just because I am a large person – I am confused at other large people who seem to try to ignore it to the point of looking like they are a walrus that has tried to squeeze into shiny spandex and hoped for the best.

There are others also waiting for other doctors and I was trying to guess what was wrong with some of them. One guy looked like he was terrified of hygiene. He had a weird smell about him, and the woman next to me was obviously a drunk.

So, It’s my turn and I go in to the docs office. First mental note was that he was an adult psychiatrist but he had children’s toys on the top shelves. His books were all in height order, and his desk was so neat it was almost alarming – considering how tidy I am.

As for him, his side parting was so straight and he was so well manicured that I decided there and then that the fact that there were no photographs of actual people on his desk – that he was either gay or still fighting that demon. You get metro males, and you get closet beauty pageant contestants. He was the latter. His arms wee shaved, and his cologne was slightly more feminine than masculine.

Samantha?

Yes?

Do you know what day it is?

Well, its not Sunday.

How do you know that?

You would be out fighting your inner demons if it was a Sunday.

I don’t follow?

No. I don’t know what day of the week it is. I never know… does it matter? Somewhere along the line someone decided that there was seven days in a week and really, its just one long string of days. Do…  does it matter?

He made some notes. Then asked me if I knew the name of the current president.

Dude…  can you pronounce his name? Because I cant…

Do you hear voices.

I’m not deaf.

He made some more notes. Are these voices inside your head or outside?

Why are you asking me questions that will only lead to one place?

They are standard questions.

Yes, If you have already made up your mind. Pin the label on the lunatic?

Do you think you are a lunatic?

Do you think you are gay?

A moment of red faced anger flashed through him.

I asked: What are YOUR voices saying right now??

Do you suffer with anger or impulse control?

Do you arrange things perfectly in your office because you are bored?

This is about you, Samantha, not about me.

I know.

Do you see things? …  as in patterns, numbers, colours, and how do they make you feel?

Yeah.

Are you paranoid?

Right now? No.

Why not right now?

Because you have no idea what’s going on.

Why do you say that?

Because only a closet gay man who prefers hanging out with children would be groomed to perfection and would regurgitate questions that actually tell you nothing. You have to give me a diagnosis before I leave this room or you are not insured. I know this. You know this. So I figure, if I am going to walk out of here having been branded anything but sane – I may as well take the opportunity to share with you what the voices in my head are telling me. You want to know what they are telling me?

Yes, please.

No. Write THAT shit down.

I got up and walked out.

UNTRUE ENDING:

He followed me and apologized for not looking at me the way he should have. His hair was out of place and he looked tired and worn. I felt a sense of pain for him.

…  He was saying something about how he made a mistake as a young biy…  and the dream ended.

In real life, I was called a few days later to say that needed to come back in. In that 5 minute interview I was diagnosed with schizophrenia simply because I heard and saw things. This is called synesthesia. Not schizophrenia.

I have since come to understand so much about the psychiatric world and the factless guess work that it all is. There is not test to determine chemical imibalance with regards to mental illness. Its a check list guessing game and so many suffer because they have faith in the system. The kick backs the phramcuetical companies offer doctors to prescribe certain drugs is also a worrying reason so many end up being drugged to their eyeballs (causing imbalance) and then there is more guess work to be done when someone isn’t ‘fixed’.
Makes me sad. So did the dream.

Still chewing on why.