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R., my son, decided to share this essay, written for a writing contest sponsored by the human service organization that runs his group home.
Labels belong on jars, not people. I remember the doctor who told me I was schizophrenic. When someone labels you with that type of disease, it's like blowing smoke in your face—it's like being at Bridgewater in the 1960s. Everyone stops listening to you.
Now everyone in my family thinks I'm schizophrenic. It doesn't matter what I say or do; they think that because I got labeled with that. The label makes people pigeon-hole you. I went to the social security office and they asked what was wrong with me, and my mother said, "He's schizophrenic." At least three people turned around to look at me.
The word brings to mind sociopaths who kill people. There's a Garbage Pail sticker called "Schizo Fran" that shows a girl with two halves of herself beating each other up. That's another misconception, as though it's some kind of freaky split personality. I don't know much about the definition of the disease, but I'm not sure anyone really knows what the word means. Wikipedia says "Schizophrenia is a mental disorder characterized by abnormalities in the perception or expression of reality. It most commonly manifests as auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre delusions, or disorganized speech and thinking with significant social or occupational dysfunction."
A diagnosis like that can ruin a person's life, but it hasn't ruined mine. If you recognize your own delusions, are you still delusional? That's why the labels don't bother me. They become less demeaning and less damaging to my psyche. I don't believe the diagnosis; I think it's a made up word. My reaction to the diagnosis? I laughed. I can admit that my delusions of being manipulated by people who aren't there are false. I know now that I'm safe, and that I've had thoughts that weren't 100% accurate. But I think doctors feed off a person's confusion; they like to make you feel sicker than you are and there's no reassurance or therapy in the system. People think that mental patients did drugs and that's why they are the way they are, when in fact they're fed drugs daily. Some make them sicker, some cause pain. Nobody knows the exact science of someone else's brain.
So I will not become my label, a word that means nothing to me. I shouldn't be judged or stigmatized or criticized. The fact is, it's a confusing world for everyone at some point or other. If you don't do things in a conventional manner, then you're labeled crazy—but maybe you're an artist.
I'm recovering from many years in the system. They make you feel unimportant and like you're like nothing when you're in the system. I stumbled away into group homes where they're a little more caring. I know myself and I know the truth and that's all that matters. Who knows what did what, when you're thrown on every new medication that comes out. I don't know what to credit my getting better to—drugs or myself. But I know it's myself.
At the same time, the word never leaves you. It comes up in situations like job interviews. It's in my file. But then again, half the people in federal prisons in America are innocent. Maybe half the people with psychiatric diagnoses don't really have them.
My reptiles make me feel like an individual. My love for nature will never die. I love nature because it's life—it's alive. Snakes are beautiful animals: they eat, they grow, they reproduce. It's magical. There's a Monty Python skit where someone is talking to a crowd of people, saying "We are all individuals!" And one guy in the audience says, "I'm not." Not to ruin the joke, but the point is, what does it even mean NOT to be an individual?
Labels belong on jars, not people.
