“Perversity is the human thirst for self-torture.”
–Edgar Allan Poe
Telling my father about my schizophrenia was a task I dreaded. I had nightmares about it. I told my mother not to tell him. Finally, after several weeks, I gave in. I told him we needed to talk.
I brought out the list of schizophrenia symptoms, and rattled off the ones that matched me. I had him read my first voices simulator, in which I attempted to capture what it was like for me to hear voices over the span of about ten minutes.
He was more understanding about it than I expected, lecturing that mental illnesses were really just mental differences. It was going quite well until it took a sharp downward turn.
“These voices, they sound like you.”
“What?” I stared at him.
“They’re just you.”
I stared at the lengthy abusive rant my voices had gone on. Since then, he has provided more insight into his comments. The voices prove that I am a masochist, and the Otherworld proves I am a sadist, according to him.
I don’t want pain. I don’t enjoy pain. I don’t intentionally inflict pain on others. That is not who I am. I am not my voices. Schizophrenia is part of my identity. I am schizophrenic. But I am more than just schizophrenia, and just because my mind attacks itself does not mean I am causing my own suffering.
Post 55 in Socially Unacceptable: The Daily Life of a Queer Schizophrenic Wreck (2022)
This is an autobiographical series about my life, something I have wanted to do for a long time. I intend to add new content daily.
For the whole series, follow this link.