I’ve only been told something that shattered my entire world once in my life, and it came from my psychologist at the end of our very first appointment. 

“I am sure you have schizoaffective disorder.”

Schizoaffective disorder is the love child of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. The affected are blessed with both psychotic and mood symptoms. Hallucinations (audio and visual), delusions, mania, and depression are the symptoms that I happen to experience. 

My visual hallucinations vary; sometimes I see monsters while other times I see people. Sometimes, I’m sitting in class and everybody’s head is turned, staring at me with unsettling eyes. I’ve hallucinated trains and even an entire CVS once. However, in my case, audio hallucinations are more common, creating annoying paranoia. I hear footsteps in my home, whispers, my name, doors opening, sirens, etc. 

I also get delusional, usually coming hand-in-hand with mania. My brain loves to believe things that aren’t true, ranging from believing I’m God’s equivalent with a higher understanding that everybody else to believing my loved ones are plotting against me.  

I was diagnosed exactly halfway through college, in the summer before junior year. I had known something was wrong for a while, but I never would have guessed that it was this. I felt like the world stopped as she prescribed me anti-psychotics. I knew what this does to people. I knew what my fate was. 

I started taking the medicine. The dosage was adjusted and mood stabilizers were added until they actually started working. It was amazing, I felt normal for the first time in my life. My morale improved. My grades improved. I went from barely passing classes to barely missing the dean’s list. It felt amazing, until it didn’t. I made the mistake of doing research on schizoaffective disorder out of curiosity. 

My life expectancy is about 15 years shorter than yours (assuming you’re an able-body and able-minded individual). This isn’t because of the disorder, it’s because of the probability of what I might do while having it. Fifty percent of individuals with schizoaffective disorder attempt suicide at least once. This scares me. 

“When your schizo gets bad, are you just gonna kill yourself?” one of my best friends asked me while driving us home from a concert. It was a joke, but what if she’s right? What happens when I get worse? Schizoaffective disorder, like most psychotic disorders, get worse as you age. I’m doing okay now, but what happens in ten years? Some people go their whole life just fine and they snap in the blink of an eye and do terrible things. What happens at 30? What happens at 40? 

I minored in Legal Studies. We were learning about the insanity defense, when and how it can be used, and examples. We watched a documentary about a man on death row. He had lived a somewhat normal life. He had some ups and downs here and there but was, for the most part, normal. One day, something in him snapped and he killed multiple members of his family. He was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder in prison. 

I didn’t struggle more than the average student, but I did struggle differently. Dealing with the daily battles that come with schizoaffective disorder added to my stress, but this is not where my biggest struggle came from. What good will college do me if I’m destined to succumb? Schizoaffective people often end up on the streets or incarcerated. I wouldn’t consider myself a pessimist, but this is different. Is this what I have to look forward to? Statistically, maybe. Stereotypically? Absolutely. Why should I waste my time, effort, and money on a degree that might be overshadowed by my disorder? I know how wrong it is to believe that, but sometimes I just don’t care.  

I should want to break the stereotype. I should want to prove society wrong. I should want to be as successful as I can and this should motivate me. But it doesn’t. I am scared I am not the type of person who has enough drive in their soul to break out of the dark places schizoaffective disorder takes you. 

It’s lonely here. Any disorder starting with “schizo” comes with a heavy stigma that I still am not sure I can carry the weight of. I told very few people throughout my four years at the University of Evansville about my struggles and my diagnosis. Only a handful of my close friends know. I am embarrassed of who I am and what I deal with, even if nobody can tell from the outside. I convinced myself that once people found out, nobody would look at me the same. There’s so few of us, and plenty set a bad example. 

I don’t have to be one of them. 

I need to remind myself of everything I have already accomplished. I graduated high school and passed two years of college undiagnosed and unmedicated while working over 30 hours a week. I kept my bills paid and my pets fed, and maintained a good relationship with my friends and family. Knowing about my disorder doesn’t change what I’m capable of or dismiss what I’ve already done. Getting diagnosed as schizoaffective doesn’t allow me an excuse to fail, it provided me with the opportunity to understand myself.

I’m finally coming to terms with being schizoaffective. I’m letting myself learn what it means to me, and I’m getting closer to forgiving myself for being this way. I’m slowly understanding that I’m not just a schizo waiting for my inevitable demise because I’m so many things. 

I am a strong woman. I am fun to be around. I am a great friend. I am smart, I am resourceful, and I am a soon-to-be college graduate with nothing short of my whole life ahead of me. I am Bev.