WHAT IT’S LIKE TO DATE SOMEONE WITH SCHIZOPHRENIA
This is not your typical love story, however, there is nothing typical about love. Love is a hodgepodge of feelings and emotions that can cause someone to experience intense highs and extreme lows. A few years ago, I was depressed. This was not one of those moments of feeling sad that would last about a day or so and then go away, No, this was something more. I have never been one to ask for help. I always pretended things were fine even though they were falling apart. As Paul Simon said, “I am a rock, I am an island.” But even rocks begin to crack after a while. I was no different.
I’m not sure when I chose to wave my white flag, but I imagine it must have been several weeks into my depression. I finally decided that I would seek help. I searched online and found a few local support groups for depression and thought that I would give it a try. After all, I was getting nowhere on my own. So, after several weeks of walloping in my own self-pity, I made it to my first meeting. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Looking back, I don’t think I had any real expectations. I guess I always assumed that these groups were similar to what I saw in Hollywood movies. There would be the one quirky individual who used jokes to hide the fact that their life was falling apart. Then there would be the one fat guy that came simply for the desserts and refreshments that were served after the meeting. And let’s not forget the depressed neurotic whose arms looked like the edge of a cutting board. Thanks to Hollywood, these were my ignorant assumptions.
I am quite relieved to say that my assumptions were wrong. The group was nothing like that. There were individuals from every walk of life: teachers, receptionist, fast-food workers, disabled veterans. I was greeted warmly when I entered the small room. Some people looked at me curiously as I made my way to the back to grab a cup of coffee. I got the impression that most of the folks that were attending had been for a number of years. Everyone seemed to know everyone. I remember taking a seat closest to the exit. I wanted to be close to the door in case someone pulled out a gun. Looking back on it, I was afraid that someone would be triggered by one of the comments and start shooting up the place. Now that I look back on it, I can assure you that it was a crazy thought. I guess that says a lot about my state of mind at the time. I was not myself. Depression is a funny thing. If left untreated, it festers into something bigger, and once that happens, it absorbs your life like a sponge. I was no longer myself. I knew that, and worse than that, my friends and family knew that.
So, there I was, a young man in a group of mostly older individuals. In my mind, everyone was already judging me. I was sure that they would think that I was much too young to have any serious problems. After all, these people lived life. They had been to war zones, lived through job losses and childbirths, made it through bellbottom jeans and the Reagan administration. What have I lived through? I prepared myself for the onslaught of jokes: what happened to you, did you wake up with a pimple this morning? I didn’t feel like I belonged in that room, with those individuals. I felt my problems were small and mundane compared to these folks. I was just depressed, and worst than that, I didn’t know why I was depressed.
The meeting started. The group moderator introduced himself, and then everyone in the group took turns introducing themselves. I don’t remember for certain, but I think I was the last to introduce myself. I remember everyone saying simultaneously, ‘hello, Brian, thanks for coming.” As the meeting went on, I felt more at ease. People talked about relative deaths, suicide attempts, drug abuse, and some just talked about what they did over the weekend. As I listened, I said to myself, these people are no different than me. The problems were different, sure, but they were no different than me. I didn’t speak during the hour-long meeting, but I felt like it helped. Even without sharing my own story, there is something therapeutic in knowing that we were all going through a difficult time. To witness people at their most vulnerable, it allowed me to be humble about my own problems.
I started to go to the meeting more and more, finally feeling comfortable enough to share my own problems. And something surprising happened that I hadn’t expected. People didn’t laugh or snort at my problems, they listened. Some offered suggestions and feedback, others just politely listened. Here I was, in a room full of strangers, sharing my most vulnerable moments, and they listened. It wasn’t like talking to your family and having someone interrupt you mid-sentence because they had some advice to offer. No, this was real support, and better yet, it was support without judgement. The more I went, the more comfortable I felt. People started to greet me at the door, and I became a regular. People who I once considered strangers became my friends. I would ask them about their families, and how their children were doing, and they would ask me about life, and how I was feeling. And when they asked me how I was feeling, it wasn’t just pleasantries being exchanged. They really wanted to know how I was feeling.
After a few months, my depression lessened, and I wondered how much longer I would attend the meetings. After all, I felt like I no longer needed them, but I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the people who had become like a second family to me. Then something occurred to me: the group was my medicine. I wasn’t depressed because I was attending the groups, and if I stopped, my depression would come back. I was sure of it. It made sense to me now why so many of the group members would discuss their daily routines without mentioning their symptoms. They knew that they needed the group, even if it was to just talk about recipes and what new movies they watched. They were symptom free, but it was only due to their medication, which the groups became. I couldn’t understand at the time, why people would attend support groups just to talk about the mundane things going on in their life, but now I finally get it. The group became less of I need to go and more of I want to go. I wanted to go because I enjoyed talking to like minded individuals. I didn’t have to be smart, or funny, or dressed a certain way, I was accepted as I was. My faults were never mentioned, and I was treated the same as everyone else. It didn’t matter if the guy or girl next to me was a lawyer, Harvard graduate, or living in their parent’s basement, I was treated with the same respect as everyone else in that room.
After attending the group for more than a year, I saw many people come and go. Some folks attended one meeting, never to be heard from again, and some would attend only when they needed someone to listen. There was one girl, a lot younger than most of the attendees, that would come in every now and then. She rarely ever attended a full meeting, always looking like she had somewhere else she’d rather be. There was something unusual about the girl, and I felt myself drawn to her peculiarities. One day she finally opened up and shared an aspect of her life with the group. I couldn’t tell you what she talked about as I was too awestruck that she chose to share anything at all, but I did manage to pick up one tidbit of information. Her name was Nicole.
It occurred to me, Nicole didn’t spend a lot of time socializing before or after the meetings, she would simply come and go, sometimes without sharing anything at all. Along with the rest of the group, I knew very little of Nicole. There were many instances where she would come to group, sit down, and leave before group ended. There were times when I caught her texting, looking perplexed and annoyed. It seemed to me, at least at the time, she may have been arguing with her boyfriend. One day, after the meeting had ended, I went outside to get some air. Nicole was behind me, and I held the door for her. She simply said, “thank you, Brian.” It was a nothing special, just a friendly gesture, but it took me by surprise. The girl who barely said a word to anyone knew my name.
Eventually, Nicole started to socialize with people in the group. She didn’t go out of her way to discuss her problems, but she talked about things that were important to her. I discovered she was a talented artist, and that she was graduating from Marywood with a Bachelor of Science degree. One day, a few of the group members and myself decided to grab coffee after the meeting. To my surprise, Nicole decided to tag along. I still didn’t know too much about what brought Nicole to the support groups, but she seemed like an intelligent and talented individual.
It got to the point where I didn’t just see members of the group at meetings, but outside of meetings, too. These people, who I so shamefully judged in the beginning, became good friends. They weren’t just friends; they were the type of people that would go above and beyond for you. I’m talking about the type of friend who would help you move on a Sunday morning, or the type of friend who will listen to you vent about a breakup at three in the morning. These were the type of friends that I knew existed but never had the pleasure of knowing. There were some that were coffee friends, there were others I played guitar with, and some I would go hiking with. I didn’t judge them, and they didn’t judge me. We didn’t see each other’s faults or discrepancies; we saw the individual. I spent time with people from all walks of life. I imagine to some people; we might have looked like an odd bunch. I remember one time in particular, a group of us decided to take a walk through the park. Our group consisted of one elderly woman who used a walker, an older hippie type gentleman that used a cane, another fellow who wore a mullet, an atheist, a black man with a learning disability, a man that wore a bright orange safety vest, and Nicole and myself. We did manage to get a few stares from what I recall, but no one in the group seemed to notice. A few years ago, I wouldn’t be caught dead associating with a group like that. I used to be a somewhat shallow person who would embarrass quite easily. The group helped to abolish the superficial me, allowing me to see people for who they are not what they are.
As time marched on, Nicole and I started to spend more time together. What started out as a group friendship, blossomed into something more. One day, Nicole and I were talking over coffee and she confided to me that she had schizophrenia. I tried not to gasp but I was quite taken back by the revelation. In my eyes, Nicole seemed like the epitome of everything normal. She was a good student, she was a brilliant artist, she was a good listener, she excelled in mathematics, and she carried herself well. To look at her, she seemed more put together than myself. I looked at her, convinced that she was playing a terrible prank on me, but it was not so. If she wasn’t joking around, then I thought that there must have been a mistake. Perhaps the doctor misdiagnosed her. She couldn’t have schizophrenia, after all, everything I heard about schizophrenia was negative. Whenever I saw a school shooting or a murder on the news, 8 out of 10 times they always blamed the behavior on schizophrenia. There is no way that this sweet girl had schizophrenia I thought. Her behavior never hinted to me once that she might be schizophrenic.
I did my best to remain calm and supportive as she revealed this secret, but I was still quite confused. That night, I went home and googled schizophrenia. In my search for answers I came upon many websites dedicated to the mental disorder. According to the Mayo Clinic, “Schizophrenia is a serious mental disorder in which people interpret reality abnormally. Schizophrenia may result in some combination of hallucinations, delusions, and extremely disordered thinking and behavior that impairs daily functioning and can be disabling.” After reading the information in front of me, I was more convinced than ever that Nicole was misdiagnosed. There was no way that she had schizophrenia. She always behaved so well when we went out. No one looked at us strange or pointed in our direction when we were together. She was more normal than most of the people I know. Whenever I or anyone else spoke, she listened intently, always offering careful and well thought out feedback. There were no signs of delusional behavior, no silly hallucinations. She was an extraordinary girl with more insight and talent than most of the people I knew. I put the conversation in the back of my mind and continued to spend time with Nicole as if nothing had happened.
It was apparent to everyone in our group that there was some chemistry between Nicole and I, however, if there was anything between us, we were both too afraid to do anything about it. I, for one, was afraid to tell Nicole how I felt, unsure if she felt the same way. If I told her how I felt and she didn’t feel the same way, I would risk losing her as a friend, and I didn’t want that. My friendship with her was too important.
One day, after an emotional conversation, I made my move and kissed Nicole. It was a bold move, but one that I needed to make. I needed to know, one way or the other, if this was friendship or something more. Much to my surprise, Nicole kissed me back. I believe she said something like “what took you so long,” or “it’s about time.” I was relieved that she didn’t slap me across the face. After months of friendship and chemistry, my suspicions were correct: we both had feeling for one another. It was a simple kiss, but one that I will never forget. All the anticipation and waiting for the right moment was worth it. The spontaneity of the moment is something that I will never forget. After the kiss, I went home feeling like a new person. I had girlfriends before Nicole, but never anyone so pure and open. She didn’t shy away from being herself, and because of that, I could be myself. As I rested in bed that night, still grinning from ear to ear, I couldn’t help but think about something other than the kiss. I made a bold move in kissing Nicole, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the bolder move was taking a chance on someone with schizophrenia.
After several weeks of dating, I started to get a better understanding about Nicole’s diagnosis. One Saturday night, my brother invited Nicole and I to go to the club with him. We weren’t particularly fond of the bar scene, but we agreed to go. After about thirty minutes, Nicole wanted to leave. If you ever witnessed a cat or a dog in a corner after feeling threatened, that is the type of look Nicole had. Her eyes wandered, and she held onto my arm, afraid to be alone. My brother sensed something was wrong and asked if everything was alright. I lied and said that she was not feeling well. It was a little unusual, but I shrugged it off. After all, I didn’t particularly care for the bar scene, either.
Nicole and I continued to go to our support groups, and most of the members were thrilled when they discovered that we were officially a couple. I put the incident at the bar in the back of mind, and soon I forgot all about it. A few weeks later, Nicole called me in a panic. After I managed to calm her down, she told me that she was at work and that she saw someone that scared her. I didn’t ask who or why, that was unimportant. I just rushed over there to pick her up. I assumed it might have been a crazy ex-lover or someone she had a falling out with in the past, but I never expected to hear what I heard. To help clear her mind, I took her for a long drive. She was obviously distraught, so I comforted her, and told her to tell me everything. She talked about a woman, a homeless woman. Apparently, for one reason or another, Nicole believed that this lady had the ability to put spells on her. She explained to me that every time she saw this woman, something bad happened to her or her family.
I tried to listen with an open mind, but it was hard to wrap my head around what I was hearing. To me, this was obviously a crazed delusion, but to Nicole, this was real. I tried to rationalize with her, explaining that nobody had the ability to put spells on anyone, and besides, why would this homeless lady want to put spells on you? I did manage to calm her down, but she was still convinced that the homeless lady had the ability to cast evil spells on her. I asked her how she could be so certain. She explained to me that the last time that she saw her, a few days later, her mother had a stroke. She refused to believe that the incident was merely coincidental.
I wondered what I had gotten myself into. I was already in love with Nicole, but I was about to be tested on how much I really loved her. There was never a moment where I had to second guess my love for her, however, I wondered if I was the best to handle her situation. I wondered if I would help, or would I just make the situation worse. I was dealing with my own demons, and now I was forced to reckon with someone else’s demons. I really had to take a step back and figure it out. I prayed about it and talked to a therapist. My therapist asked how often her symptoms were present. I explained to her, that most of the time Nicole is as normal as anyone else, but certain places or people trigger these behaviors. We can go out to dinner and not one person will stare or assume anything is wrong. 99 percent of the time, it is perfect. My therapist said, I think you are the perfect person to be in Nicole’s life. She assured me that Nicole needed someone who is understanding, patient, and kind, and that I was the perfect match for her.
I learned to accept Nicole for who she was, and she accepted me for who I was. It is a learning experience for both of us, but I am pleased to say that we make it work. No relationship is perfect, and there are always going to obstacles, but we maneuver those obstacles together, as a team. We all have our skeletons in our closet, our personal demons that we battle, but it is nice to know, when the ship starts sinking, I have someone to help paddle through the storm.
