A Day in My Life with Schizoaffective disorder – Moving Day
It’s moving day – well, day 2. We spent the night in our new apartment. It’s still skeletal when it comes to furnishings. Bags and boxes litter the rooms, stacked on the furniture and the floor. Despite all of that, I already feel at home.
I lean towards the mirror as I put on my makeup.
It might seem strange to some that I would wear makeup when I’ll be spending my day lifting and carting around boxes, but, for me, makeup is a form of self-care. I don’t think I look awful without it, but I feel more secure when I’ve spent time taking care of myself. It’s not more confidence necessarily, but more prepared to face whatever the day throws at me. Logically, I know that having my makeup the way I want it has little to no effect on how my day will go, but there is a small, obsessive-compulsive disorder-influenced part of me that refuses to believe that.
Coffee, breakfast, then its time to get started.
Stress taps at my shoulder, softly reminding me we are behind where we wanted to be. It curls up in my chest like a cat, leaning against my lungs. I suppress it as much as I can, but I can’t fully ignore it. We’ve barely started and I’m already nervous about the end of the day.
I’m good at moving. In the last five years, I’ve moved four times. I can pack up an apartment quickly with ease. I get creative with packing to minimize any need to buy packing supplies. In this situation, we’re only moving down the hall and around the corner. Our belongings are in boxes, bins, and bags. We thought it would be easier than moving to a new building, but I don’t think either of us is surprised that we’re running behind.
We pause after bringing overflowing carts and dollies in and I wander through the rooms of the new apartment.
I find myself in the master bathroom. From behind the wall, I hear two men discussing something. Voices like these have been popping up more and more. It started as chatter at a distance, but they’ve been getting closer. I don’t know what they’re saying, but I know it’s about me. Is it criticism? Praise? Gossip? Do they know something that I don’t know?
Over time, the voices have come closer and are becoming clearer, but I still can’t tell what they’re saying.
My doctor patiently waits for the day I can understand the voices so that we can address the issue they’re discussing. In the mean time, we discuss why it’s mostly men and the reasoning behind how many there are, but I’m impatient. My need for control is primarily about information. I need to be involved in decisions. I need to know all the details about an inclination, an incident, or an individual. Thoughts about these voices can slip to the back of my mind, but when they rise to the forefront of my attention, the not knowing eats at me. Sometimes I wish I could summon the voices so that I can finally know.
As we prepare to make another trip, piling things on carts, dollies, and throwing bags over our shoulders, I catch my frustration before it gets past my teeth.
I struggle with it, forcing it down so I don’t lash out. Sometimes I think I have it all figured out. The frustration tells me he isn’t doing it right, that something should be packed or loaded differently. It’s stamping its feet, arguing that he should know this. I shove the frustration down, telling it that I have more experience moving, but just because I think differently doesn’t mean I’m right. I’m able to suppress it, but frustration challenges me a few more times throughout the day. At times, I voice the frustration, but counter it by adding that I know I might not be right.
At last, it’s our final trip of the night.
I push a cart with one hand and pull another. My feet throb and I bargain with my muscles, asking them to hold out just a little longer. With every trip, the walk felt longer than the last. Despite our best efforts, we’re still behind. As we pass door after door, I start to notice the sounds and voices coming from each apartment, but then it changes.
As if smoke swirled from under the doors and projected an image in front of me, I begin to see what is happening in each apartment.
Two men sit on a couch watching football, yelling at the TV as their team makes a play. In the next apartment, a woman’s daughter drops a wooden spoon as they cook dinner together, talking about their day. This is not like anything I’ve ever experienced before – not quite a hallucination but more visual than a delusion. It makes me long for the days when life was simple. Growing up I never felt like my life was simple, but between adulthood and mental illness, my life today is overwhelmingly more complicated. These days free time is a luxury and my responsibilities seem to constantly expand. Like for many others, there is never enough time for everything, and life is exhausting. As we turn the corner towards our new home, the images dissipate.
At 2am, it’s finally time for bed.
The heater coughs to a noisy start before humming along. I notice another sound in the background – flutes? Recorders maybe? I ask him if he hears it. He tries his best to listen, but can’t discern that sound. Within a couple of minutes, the music stops, giving the heater a solo performance for the rest of the night. I get into bed, breathing a sigh of relief that I can finally rest. Tomorrow we will make the trek back to the old apartment again. I remind myself that one way or another everything will get done, but that cat-like stress remains in my chest. I can’t wait for this move to be over.
For additional content, follow Not Like The Others on social media