Omi Strong – Loss, Support, and Schizoaffective Disorder
I keep seeing cats out of the corner of my eye. I enter a room and there’s a grey striped cat on the lowest stair. As I bring a box into the kitchen, a long haired feline awaits around the corner. They don’t stay long, but they’ve appeared four times in the last three hours. They’ve been here since shortly after I heard the news about Omi.
Let’s back up.
This morning, I received a call from my cousin. He asked if I had heard and I instantly knew what he was going to say. Our grandmother, who we call Omi, passed away peacefully early this morning. It wasn’t unexpected by any means. In fact, the last few months have been a rollercoaster of declines and, as Omi put it, resurrections. But she was ready to go. She wanted to go. And, though I was sad, my first reaction to my cousin’s news was a small, warm glow of happiness for her.
After hanging up the phone, it felt as though my head slowly filled with water, splashing side to side as I walked.
My thoughts swam, flowing in and out of reach. The moment I thought I understood how I felt, the emotion would backflip away, following the current to another part of my mind.
During therapy, my thoughts derailed more than once.
We discussed my relationship with Omi, then my family, then friends, then back to Omi, and on to the demands of perfectionism in relationships. My perceptions shifted, answers changed, eyes welled, then dried, repeat.
My psychiatrist said I’m on a revved up version of autopilot.
We moved – well, we’re wrapping up moving, and it’s been incredibly stressful. Add in Omi’s, as she put it, slow exit, and it was overwhelming. I’ve spent this month powering through the days with impressive productivity. The problem was, I couldn’t stop. I had no idea how to turn it off. I would pack a room, then tell myself I would stop to eat lunch, only to walk into another room and pack more instead. It was how I outran dealing with my emotions, but it wasn’t entirely successful.
I find myself back in this pattern again.
I’ve spent most of the morning unpacking and reorganizing. Empty boxes and bags are piling up as I relieve them of their contents. By 11am I was hungry, but I couldn’t stop. It wasn’t until my pattern was interrupted when I crossed paths with a large spider that I finally stopped to eat. And then I saw a cat. Not the first, but the third. I had chalked the first two up to tricks of the light. But when I caught a glimpse of a tabby cat with tail softly flicking, I had to acknowledge that they were hallucinations.
What’s really behind the cats?
One of my recurring hallucinations is a very large, fluffy grey cat who brings feelings of comfort and hope. Today’s cats are different. These cats are the size of an average cat. But though they don’t bring the same wave of comfort, I believe they bring a similar message: All is well. You need not be sad. Don’t stop living life.
Omi has always been a pillar of strength in my eyes.
Omi’s life was extraordinary, and, in whatever way she could, she spent it learning more about anything and everything. She overcame many obstacles and was incredibly independent and active, even at 97. Amongst my immediate family, the phrase “Omi strong” became a staple. After I moved out of state for college, Omi and I only saw each other at family gatherings and we didn’t correspond much, but I never felt like our relationship changed.
When I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder a year before moving away for college, I didn’t want anyone to know, even Omi.
Over the years, I began to feel more and more like I needed her to know. I attempted to tell her at the end of a family gathering, but it was too loud. She put her hand on my shoulder and told me that her hearing wasn’t what it used to be. After launching my blog, I sent her a printout of an article I wrote that had been published.
I keep the card in which she responded on my desk at home.
Omi thanked me for sharing my article. She said it answered some questions for her – she had noticed things changing, but it was a puzzle where some of the pieces don’t belong. She apologized if she had ever come across as insensitive, mentioning that her inquiries were always subtly deflected. Omi wrote that she was in awe of how I have tackled my illness and that, though it was a challenge, I was well prepared. And Omi said she hoped I kept sharing future articles.
In the last conversation I had with Omi before she passed away, she asked me if I was still speaking and writing. I told her yes. And then she asked if I was still learning. And I told her, every day.
For me, loss is always a little bit disjointed and a little all over the place, but schizoaffective disorder can’t help but have a hand in it.
My thoughts and feelings are still swirling in my head and I’m on the lookout for the next cat. I don’t know how long my feline friends will be around, but I am happy to host their brief appearances while they are here.
I will always remember Omi and the things she taught me. Live your life to the fullest, whatever that may look like for you. Even if you must take the long way around, don’t let obstacles stop you. And never stop learning. Stay Omi strong, my friends. Whether you feel you are or not, everyone is inside.
For similar stories about schizoaffective disorder and personal events, click here.
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