FCYU-Feature Story

The Monster Inside
I don’t want my illness to control me.

By Anonymous

I have a mental illness. It’s not the best thing about me, but it makes me unique. I still do not understand my illness, but I pay a daily price because of it, inside and out—from the scars on my arms and neck to the fact that half of my family doesn’t want to deal with me. That last part hurts, especially when I need something important like a place to crash for the night. They always say, “No!” Sometimes they throw in, “You crazy?”

A Very Angry Boy

I was very young when I found out I was “different.” One of my brothers asked me if I was going to special ed, and I proudly said yes. He told me I was bad, because special ed was for bad kids. That made me feel so small. As I grew up, I thought being mentally ill basically meant being a bad kid.

I was in special ed because of my behavior, and my behavior was bad because at home I lived in fear. I feared my mom, who turned violent at the flip of a switch. My mom was always beating on me and yelling at me.

I wasn’t in therapy back in those days and I had no way to deal with my home life, so I remained a very angry boy. At school I was the kid who was picked on and sometimes I fought back. Instead of lashing out at the source of my anger—my mom—I misdirected it at my peers.

Out of Control Feelings

Because of what I went through, I became afraid of people and started feeling anxious. As I got older, the anxiety, fear and anger seemed to take on a life of their own. Those feelings got so intense and unexpected that I started cutting myself and using drugs to try to handle the pain, and I’ve also attempted suicide. In the past few years I’ve been hospitalized every few months.

Now that I live on my own, it feels like my illness comes from within me, like it’s a monster inside trying to break his shell to free himself. Sometimes I feel like my shell can’t control my illness, and I don’t know what to do but let it do what it wants.

Some days are good, happy, joyful. Some are bad, and all I think of is cutting or popping pills. Some days are plain nasty and I end up in the hospital. I ask myself, “What did I do to deserve this?” “What can I do?” and, “Will it ever go away?”

Scared of Myself

The first time I was hospitalized I was 18 years old. A whole lot of sh-t popped off in short amount of time. First my favorite staff got arrested on a false allegation of assault. Then I got jumped by two residents who got mad about something. After all that, all I wanted was a cigarette, but someone stole my pack.

That day I just snapped. I went into a blind rage. I went into the kitchen, grabbed a big steak knife, and with everyone telling me, “Yo, Miguel chill, chill please!” I ran the knife into my neck twice. When I felt no pain I broke a picture and grabbed a large shard of glass and stabbed myself in the neck. By that time the police had come. They told me, “You need to get looked at… you could die.” They took me to the hospital.

After that I felt very bad about myself for a long time. I couldn’t look in a mirror without crying. I was scared, not of other people, but of myself. I kept thinking of that warm, cloudy day when I almost died.

What’s Wrong With Me?

The first diagnosis I ever got was “intermittent explosive behavior,” meaning I can get very, very angry. Since then, some doctors have said I have post-traumatic stress disorder, which is a result of being abused, or borderline personality disorder, which means that my emotions roll out of control.

When they gave me my first diagnosis I asked my doctor, “Does that mean I’m crazy?”

“No! You’re not crazy. It just means you are a little different,” he said. I smirked and my doctor continued, “That’s why you need your meds to stay healthy.” He said a “normal” person doesn’t get mad as fast as I do, meaning that in my anger mode I go from zero to sixty in about 3.5 seconds.

When I left his office, I told no one about my “new” illness. It’s like finding out you have HIV. You don’t go around saying, “Look what happened…”

Now I am labeled “mood disorder undifferentiated.” The funny thing is I don’t even know what that means. I would like to know.

Over the years I’ve tried so many medications—Prozac, Depakote, Risperdal, Wellbutrin. Now I take Zoloft and Depakote in the morning and Seroquel and Zyprexa in the evening. The meds are supposed to help control my emotions and help me sleep.

It’s Serious

It wasn’t until a little more than a year ago that I started to admit to myself that I have a serious but controllable disease. My group home told me that I needed help with my illness and that I was being sent to a day treatment program at Fountain House. At first I was reluctant. I thought I’d be with weird or crazy people who’d smell and dress all raggedy. But I soon realized I was wrong.

At Fountain House everyone who was a member had a mental illness and every member was paired with a staff who was like a big brother/sister type. We were equals and we made decisions that affected Fountain House together. Going there, I had so many people in my corner to help me and be there for me.

One time I got angry at myself over a situation with my ex and I couldn’t talk about my emotions, so I took a lit cigarette and burned my left hand. When another client saw what I was doing, he got a staff member to talk to me, and she helped me calm down.

Eventually, I started living at Fountain House (they have a residential program). I loved it there, but it wasn’t long before the conflicts started. The staff told me I couldn’t work between Monday and Thursday. I work every day, hustling or writing for Represent. When they told me I couldn’t work, I felt like they were taking all my happiness.

I started to feel trapped. There was no curfew, but they told me I had to be home by 10 to take my meds.

I felt I couldn’t express my true feelings, so I kept my mouth shut. I began to feel mad all the time, but disguised it with a fake smile until, out of anger and plain stupidity, I overdosed on pills too many times and got kicked out.

Ups and Downs

Since then, I have been without a treatment program or therapy for almost 15 months. I have been going up and down mentally, in and out of the hospital for cutting and suicide attempts. I was referred to at least three programs but didn’t go to any of them because I fell into a denial that I needed treatment.

Soon I was smoking weed to blanket the sadness and pain I felt. I thought that the weed would chase away the pain, but it did the opposite. Around that time I was on and off my meds, and that made me suicidal.

Not taking my meds always leads me to the hospital. Sometimes I’ll miss taking them because I got home too late, or sometimes I run out and it can take days to get a refill. Then I become anxious and soon I am cutting or popping pills.

When Bad Things Happen

Being in the hospital is hell. I can’t go outside, smoke or watch TV for most of the day. The doctors ask a lot of questions all the time, like, “Do you want to hurt yourself?” Some are just plain weird questions, like, “Do you have powers from God?”

The worst thing about being in a locked ward is that everyone thinks we’re crazy so we can’t have things like shoelaces, belts or plastic knives. It also feels bad that other people have to decide when you can go home.

When bad things happen to me I do stupid things, things I really don’t want to do but that at that moment seem right, like cutting up my arms or taking a lot of pills. One time I was going to the store and got robbed. I went home, got my knife and went out looking for the people who robbed me. Thank God I didn’t find them, because if I had, who knows what would’ve happened. My anger feels out of control to me.

My goal in life is to understand my illness and learn to conquer it. I know I need therapy, a regular psychiatrist and a treatment program. I also need to keep telling myself everything will be OK.

Tools to Help Me Fight

For me, just writing this story was a big step. But a month ago I was hospitalized again. This time, they didn’t give me the option to attend a day program—the court ordered me to go. If I don’t, I can get locked up. The court sent me to a new treatment program for people with a mental illness and a chemical addiction.

I feel hopeful. I made it to the first appointment, did the paperwork and soon I have another appointment. I intend to go. I hope to get clean, better myself and learn about my illness.

I know I need tools that will help me fight my illness, to give me a fair chance when my emotions hurt so deep that I don’t know if I’ll make it through the night. It angers me that I’ve gone so long without treatment. I know that my mental illness can’t control me unless I let it.