FROM THE BLOG DIARY OF EMILY HUNTER

Entry #3: July 19, 2013

Tonight
Tossing and turning again.

Sweating, freezing.

They are calling me.
Do I listen?
Do I dream?

Do I stop swimming against the current?
Do I lose (give) myself to madness?

They don’t stop.
They won’t stop.
They can’t stop.

I can’t fight.  Or can I?
I can’t sleep. Or can I?
I can’t dream.  Or am I?

Maybe I’m not crazy.
Maybe I’m not dreaming.

Yes dear? What do you need?

-E.H.  

Entry #4 July 23, 2013

When I was a little girl, I had an imaginary acquaintance.  This is how I knew something was wrong early.

Most little girls have imaginary friends.  They play together, they go on silly adventures.  They make up stories.  They get silly names.

Carrot was not my friend.  We didn’t play or have fun.  Lots of times, she was just there.

Sometimes she was scary, or mean.  Sometimes she was sad.  Sometimes she would smile.  But we never really played.  I always pictured her with a stuffed toy bunny, which might be why I came up with the name Carrot.  She also never opened her eyes or spoke, which is what made my mom curious when I was a kid.  She thought I was progressive and forward thinking, like I made up a blind, mute imaginary friend and wanted to include her in my life, and I would grow up to be a caring individual who took care of people less fortunate.  It wasn’t that.  Carrot could see, she just kept her eyes closed.  When I explained that to my mom, she stopped asking about Carrot. In hindsight, it is a weird and sort of creepy detail for a kid to make up.  Not the weirdest I ever heard though.  I was in a group therapy session once and brought up Carrot, and one of the others had an imaginary friend named Marley who’s scalp was made of sponges.  So who’s the weirdo now, mom? :)

It was comforting to know she was there.  "There."  Of course, she was never really there.  I know that now as an adult.  Dr. Harper seems to think she was just a way for my mind to visualize inner emotions or turmoil. To deal with things my mind didn’t want to deal with, or didn’t know how to deal with.  Granted, this is why a lot of kids have imaginary friends.  Carrot didn’t want to play with me, probably because I didn’t want to play with me.  That’s either sad or ridiculous.  Maybe both.

What can happen, especially with children with my diagnosis, and with me in particular, is that these imaginary people or creatures can sometime manifest themselves into full blown hallucinations, because your brain is already using these archetypes to deal with stress.  It’s likely the reason I believed in Carrot for so long (embarrassingly long) is because I started really believing I could see her.  Though I never heard her, even though off my medication, I would hear things every now and then.  Voices, or banging sometimes.  Not really banging, more like a loud thumping, like a heartbeat.  That was the worst.

I’m sure it seems weird to believe in imaginary friends as long as I did.  The medications I’m taking really curtail the hallucinations, but I still have vivid dreams sometimes.  And sometimes she’s in them.  This little girl I made up when I was barely able to talk (something that also took some time for me) and I’d still think of her.  My brain would still reference her as a way to cope with stressful situations, or emotions I couldn’t handle.

My point of bringing this up is really just fascination.  They say the most a human develops in any given time is between birth and 3 years old.  In that time, you grow a personality and a paradigm of life, the universe and everything. (Douglas Adams reference... thank you.)  These moments in this time, the lessons that you learn and things you see shape your entire life from that point on.  It’s where you learn how you fit in socially.  If you’re hugged a lot, you tend to be okay with touch.  If you are left alone screaming in your crib, you tend to grow up cold.  Child psychology (and as you can probably tell, psychology in general) is all so interesting.  At least to me.

I eventually, through certain circumstances that I’m not up to sharing quite yet, decided to take control of my life.  I have it good when it comes to mental disorder.  I’m still very cognitively aware and high functioning.  Not everyone has it this good.  So rather than be a victim of the hand I was dealt, I have done what I can to be as knowledgeable about my diagnosis as possible. I didn’t go to college, and I was home schooled after 3rd grade, so I never really took any psychology courses.  I had planned on taking some classes at the community conir, but then I decomped (meaning I basically lost my shit again) and couldn’t.  I do however have a library card, and I read everything I could.  I got a copy of the DSM IV for my birthday (weirdest birthday request ever), and when the DSM V came out, I bought it immediately.  I don’t want to be in the dark about what’s happening in my brain.  I did that for too long.

And like I said, I’m lucky to be able to understand what’s happening.  I’ve lived with people who cannot, and it must be hell.  They’d probably give anything to be able to cope how I do.  Who am I to waste it?

Okay, I’m getting tired, so I’m calling it a day.

All the best!
-Emily

FROM THE BLOG DIARY OF EMILY HUNTER

Entry #2: July 17, 2013

So this week, the assignment is to be a little more forthcoming.

Yeah, assignment.  This blog isn’t entirely my idea.  And while I am getting credit for listening to my therapist and actually starting it (not something she was entirely sure I would do), the goal is to not hold back.  So I guess I should re-introduce myself.

My name is Emily Hunter.  I have been diagnosed with schizophrenia.  Specifically, my files say "auditory and visual hallucinations and nihilistic delusions."  Currently I am in partial remission.  (How’s that for forthcoming?)

In simpler terms, I am fucked up.

Now notice that I’m not saying the government is out to get me.  I am not currently wearing a tin-foil hat.  Schizophrenia is not something that is very fairly represented in popular media.  We aren’t all rocking in corners, babbling incoherently, and screaming at shadows.  (I have lived with those people though, and some of the stories they tell are better than anything you’ll ever see on TV.)  I can hold a conversation, I can hold a job.  I keep track of my own medication (Clonazepam twice a day for anxiety, clozaril, one in the morning, four at night, and one shot of haloperidol and a blood draw every two weeks.  The chloropromazine gave me a fever when I was 21 and put me in the hospital for a week and a half.)

Here’s what they don’t tell you about anti-psychotic medication:  It’s good for your mind, but shit for your body.  It makes you feel drowsy, achy, constipated, and just generally miserable.

I seem to be breaking records for forthcoming.  Hi, I’m Emily and I can’t poop sometimes.  Nice to meet you.

So yeah, sometimes I see things.  Sometimes I get confused and think strange thoughts.  The meds help, as much as I hate to admit it (and especially since Dr. Harper is reading this.  Hello.) Although I do hate the way they make me feel, but I guess it’s better than some of the fucked up nightmares I used to have.  Sometimes while I was awake.

Sometimes I would see thi

Okay, per the rules I can’t delete anything, but I don’t have to keep typing either.  That’s enough forthcoming for today.

E

FROM THE BLOG DIARY OF EMILY HUNTER.

Entry #1: July 10, 2013

Okay, so this is supposed to be helpful in some way.  I’ll believe it when I see it, but here’s hoping...

First of all, I have to apologize.  I am not a tech savvy person.  I don’t have a facebook and I don’t tweet.  So me starting a blog is a little strange, I’ll admit.  I had an old email address that I just tried to log into for the first time in god knows how long, only to find it overrun with ads for male enhancement drugs and people from Nigeria trying to give me money.  Turns out you need a google email address to start a blog on blogger, so I guess I got a new one.  If anyone ever reads this, I guess you can feel free to drop me a line.  Unless you’re the prince of Nigeria, in which case, fuck off.

Second of all, I might have to apologize again.  One of the conditions ("rules" is more like it) of this blog, is that I’m not allowed to delete anything except typos.  So if I ramble or say god knows what, it’s here for posterity for all eternity.  Sorry to any readers out there.  Luckily, I doubt anyone but me and one other person will read this.  So no worries, imaginary readers.

So this is supposed to take the place of a diary; somewhere to collect my thoughts.  I’m supposed to add something every week if I can, no matter how big or small it is.  So apology number three if I bore you with an entry all about how I like sushi.

I’m also supposed to be as honest and forthcoming as I can be.  But, as I’m firing these thoughts deep into the web without knowing where they’re going, we’ll probably get there slowly.  I’d hate to see people at work look me up and read some of this.

Can I swear on a blog?  Oh, I guess I already did. 

So this is entry #1.  Numero Uno. So here we go on a tour of my brain.

I guess I should start with the introduction.  Hello world.  My name is Emily Hunter.  First time blogger.  Pleasure to meet you.

Where to go from there?  I work in a grocery store.  It’s a little place, family owned.  The owner is a pretty nice guy. I stock shelves and pretty much run the place on the third shift.  It’s great for me because I’m kind of a night owl, and I like my alone time.  Not many people come in, so I’m usually by myself. The owner doesn’t seem to mind leaving me on shift alone because he’s got plenty of security cameras, a police panic button, and the police station is less than a block away, and fully visible from the front entrance.  Still we’ve been robbed twice, never while I was on shift, and both times they caught the robbers.  Once as they left, once an hour and a half later.  So it’s perfectly safe.  (My mom doesn’t like me working there alone.  I’d usually not worry about her finding this and reading it, but she just got her first smartphone two weeks ago and has apparently gotten really good at using it.  So, just in case you’re reading this mom, there’s nothing to worry about.)

So I just got off work at 8, took the bus home and walked in my door at 9:15.  I got to work on this stuff, wrote my first entry, and now I need to go to bed.  Working third shift also means you miss out on the sun.  I never sleep as much as I’d like.  (I’m following the rules and not deleting that sentence.  Just so you know.) 

So signing off,
Emily