I saw a disability evaluator last week. She was a stocky
African American lady with a polished, clipped voice and a skeptical look to
her.
“Whoever told you you were schizophrenic was an IDIOT,” she
said, “There is NO chance you are schizophrenic. I know schizophrenia, I
evaluate it all the time, and you are NOT a schizophrenic.”
I started to cry. She just glared at me. Having shattered my
identity she went on to tell me how I was not entitled to disability, that I
was not schizophrenic, blah blah blah. I sat there for 30 minutes listening to
her wail on me. I hated her. I hated her from the deepest part of my soul. It
is not nice to try to dismantle somebody’s identity. Schizophrenia is part of
my identity. It is part of what defines me, and I don’t like people trying to
wrestle out my soul with brittle disgust, like she did.
Two days later was my doctor’s appointment. I told her my
Master’s program was going well. Then I asked her what my official diagnosis
was.
“Schizoaffective,” she said, double checking with the
computer’s information. My mind was restored, in a sad way. I knew I was
different, sick, ill, not normal. Now, it was re-confirmed. I had spent two
days wondering what I was, why had I hallucinated and heard voices if I was not
schizophrenic? But everything was okay, or rather, it was back to being not okay--I was schizophrenic. It made me feel happy, in a weird way.
Note to self: Don't trust anyone. DTA.
I hope you have a nice day! Thanks for reading!
