Redefining myself….

I’m in the process of rewriting the pages (what you see up top) here so that they read a bit differently.  What you will see when I am done will clarify how I was misdiagnosed with schizoaffective disorder.  So folks will come here and understand that yes, I did end up with that fake diagnosis on record, but never even had it!  So the page will explain how that misunderstanding got made.

I am going to reword my eating disorder pages to clarify how that came about.  I do have an eating disorder but I don’t believe eating disorders are mental illnesses. So the word “disorder” I can take out. Binge eating is not a word I use anymore. What I suffer from is inherited polyphagia.  I still use the term anorexia and I believe in my case, my extreme dieting was a response to polyphagia, a desperate attempt to reign it in.  Much of that happened simply because I had no clue what else to do, and no one to discuss the problem with.  It was all a big secret.  Same thing happened to my mom, but she was younger at the time and it resolved on its own for her.

I ended up with schizoaffective disorder on my record because I showed up at the System’s doorstep, begging for help.  I literally asked for meds for binge eating. They said, “No way, you aren’t sick.”  I should have gone away, but I was desperate for pills to fix the polyphagia.  I thought there must be a pill for it.  I went running to the hospital ER when begging outpatient didn’t work.

They had no clue what to do with me.  Finally, I got admitted and they gave me an antianxiety drug (just to shut me up) kept me for five weeks while I dieted and shrank myself before their eyes, and then they sent me home, wondering how I’d gotten so skinny.

I came home and nothing had changed.  I went running back to the warm, safe hospital.  So the cycle began.  This was a place where they loved me.  It was a nice club.  They gave me antipsychotics and noticed the drugs gave me akathesia.  Akathesia means you have restless legs. I couldn’t stop pacing back and forth!

“Look, she appears to be schizophrenic!” remarked one doctor.

“She sure paces like a lunatic,” said another.

“Her speech is slurred.”

“She’s confused.  She’s stiff and her movements are jerky, just like one of those schizos.  We’ll put her on the books as schiz, shall we?”

So this was how I ended up with my psychosis misdiagnosis.

Funny, but not so funny cuz once you get misunderstood like that, you are discredited for life.  Legally, too, and permanently, and that’s not all that funny.

There are answers.

But first, you have to be committed to walking away from the merry-go-round, that is, to NOT returning to the “club” of the hospital.  This is not where your friends are.  No, they don’t love you here.  It’s fake love.  They are being paid. They turn on you.  Even the nice ones.  But it takes years to find this out, and the nice pretty pills turn, too.

I stopped calling it “recovery” a while ago.  I had no clue why I refused to call it that.  Now, I know. Why call it “recovery” if there was no illness to begin with?  There was nothing to recover from.  Much was “treatment-acquired,” just childish habits I quit doing.

You can, too, but please, decide for yourself.  You are not what someone else says you are.  No one is a hopeless.  No one is “incapable of change.”  Only you define who you are, and the person you can become.

 

Feedback and comments welcome!