By Sally Littlefield
My story begins after the most stressful work meeting of my life. I drove home after the meeting and parked my car at around 10:30 am outside my San Francisco apartment. I paused to collect my thoughts for a few minutes, but when the sun started going down, I realized I’d been sitting there for six hours. During that time, I struggled to remember what had just happened in the meeting, but the more I tried to remember, the more memories of things that couldn’t possibly have happened started to fill my brain. Memories of things like seeing people die, of being sued, of being interviewed on CNN. Unbeknownst to me, I was experiencing the onset of schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type.
Eventually, enough of these fake memories filled my brain that I became convinced that a team of psychologists had assumed control of my life and was experimenting on me against my will. I believed that they controlled every circumstance of my life, and I believed everyone around me was a paid actor being fed lines by the psychologists. I thought even my own parents were wearing teeny-tiny earbuds through which the psychologists were feeding them lines. Except, of course, on the few occasions when I thought my parents were robots.
During the ten months I believed this, I talked to myself on the street like every stereotype of a schizophrenic homeless person you’ll ever come across; I picked other people’s used cigarettes up off the ground, put them in my mouth, relit them, and smoked them; I broke into houses and cars; I got tackled by police officers; and I got sedated by injection against my will four times.
My 10-month bout of psychosis came to an end all at once after several medication adjustments greatly reduced the number of signs and clues from the psychologists I was seeing in my surroundings. One day I bit the bullet and googled “characteristics of schizophrenic delusions,” and I realized it fit what I was experiencing to a T. In that moment, I went from being the future president of the United States as my delusions had me believe I was, to being a member of a marginalized population.
The initial stages of my recovery were the most difficult, as I experienced rejection from some family members and was given a pretty grim prognosis from doctors. But I beat the odds and made a full recovery, and what’s more is that I found healing through advocacy work. I began to speak publicly about my struggles, and it felt great to not apologize for who I am, mental health condition and all. I also became a support group facilitator, and I’ve found it rewarding to help others on their own mental health journeys.
Though it’s certainly been trying at times, I’m grateful for aspects of my journey. Because of my schizoaffective disorder, I’ve found a greater purpose in life advocating on behalf of those with similar challenges. I hope that my story can give them hope in a world in which people like us don’t have nearly enough role models.
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