When Words Escape Me – Schizoaffective Disorder And Written Communication

TW: Mention of suicidal thoughts

If you knew me in high school, you would probably have seen me scribbling in a journal or adding another freewrite filled with metaphors to my binder. My computer is full of short notes, poems, essays, and stories. But at a certain point, they stop. The scrawled pages of my journal go blank. The files on my computer run out. With its onset, schizoaffective disorder stole the words from my mind.

Words were more than communication or a hobby for me.

Words were how I sorted out my thoughts and emotions and how I figured out who I was and who I wanted to be. I immersed myself in the music world, wrapping lyrics around myself like a weighted blanket when I needed comfort. Reading was how I explored new ideas. And writing is what kept me alive. I’ve struggled with suicidal thoughts since I was very young and words were how I took the confusion and pain and chaos in my head, and rearranged it so that I could learn to live with it.

Schizoaffective disorder attacked the words in my head.

It tangled them, shredded them, and erased them. I wasn’t known for my snappy comebacks before, but now carrying on even the simplest of conversations could be difficult. Because of cognitive issues and disorganized thinking, my access to words, both written and spoken, was now being controlled by the illness. And for a very long time, I felt like I forgot who I was. And while there were many factors that played into that, one of the biggest was my newfound struggle with words.

I was angry. I was heartbroken. And I felt more lost than ever.

Writing, speaking, and reading were all still possible. But doing so was like pulling teeth whereas it was once a free-flowing waterfall. My disorganized thoughts, the thought blocking, the connections that made no sense, not to mention the constant swapping of the words I intended to say with words that were similar in sound but wildly different in meaning became markers of shame for me. I went through periods where I would talk less because I became so frustrated with all of the stupid things I said and with my internal wars fought trying to turn an idea in my head into actual words.

It was not all just my perception either.

In high school, I won awards and my writing scores on standardized tests were always perfect or nearly so. But because of how poorly I did in my first writing seminar in college, I was required to submit a writing portfolio to my school in order to graduate. And it wasn’t just that my university had higher standards than my high school. I put my essays side by side. The quality and flow of the writing was undeniably rockier on the essays from early on in college.

With a great deal of support and practice, I was able to pick things back up again.

Before my senior year of college, I took the GRE in preparation for applying to Ph.D programs. The results letter I received showing that I scored in the 92nd percentile for writing is still tucked away in a drawer somewhere. I keep it as a reminder that I can turn things around.

But writing has never gone back to being as easy as it once was for me.

These days, my capacity for writing is something that must be balanced along with countless other things in my life. And there are times where those things outweigh writing. To my great frustration, good things happening in my life often send my writing capacity into a locked box and I must bargain with schizoaffective disorder to get it back.

The space between when my writing ability flees and when I am able to grasp it again can be infuriating. My anxiety and obsessive-compulsive personality disorder begin to clamor early on. My writing schedule for my blog and social media accounts is completely arbitrary and self-imposed, but it gets under my skin like the beetles that I occasionally hallucinate.

It’s not so much about pleasing others as it is about feeling secure.

Words keep me safe. They give me power. And they are how I define myself to a certain extent. Without free-flowing words, I feel exposed. It feels like everyone can see the bad parts of me and my inadequacies, whether real or perceived. But, try as I might, forcing it doesn’t always work. Instead, I sit, staring at the white screen and that flashing line, waiting to paint text across the screen. Sitting in this state is uncomfortable. Bit by bit, I tear myself apart. And if this writer’s block is due to a good thing in my life, my pessimism creeps out from the shadows to pick that positive thing apart.

I am working on being more patient when stuck in this limbo, but it’s difficult to sit with myself, my fears, and my anxiety.

With the aid of my therapist, I am learning how to change to avoid this place. I am learning how to hesitantly embrace the idea of happiness. And I am learning how to take steps to redirect the thought processes and impulses that I don’t like. I’m also trying to learn to be okay with the ones that I can’t.

Though writing is certainly easier now than it was a few years ago, I don’t think it will ever be quite as effortless as it once was. And while I am glad I am able to use my time in the writer’s block limbo as an opportunity to address my raw feelings, it doesn’t make schizoaffective disorder’s theft of my words any less devastating. But that’s what schizoaffective disorder does. It takes. And all we can do is learn to work with what’s left.