My Fight Against (Psychiatric) Ableism

Every night, I slip my fingers into a prison jumpsuit. The undertone of duty is flimsy and revealing and dispenses hard slabs that will improve my character.

Orange, the color of the bottle, the color of being corrected, sends the signal that I am off-limits. It communicates that I am stable but no longer desirable. The only "package" that I have is a set of behaviors that are associated with prudes and prohibitionists, neither of which I identify even remotely as.

Prescriptions are not flattering, and neither are the lifestyle changes that accompany them. I believe that I now have the complexion of a cobblestone path, bumpy and full of imperfections. There isn't a lot of makeup available in this institutional setting, so I do not have the luxury of looking my absolute best each day.

I thought that the stigma inherent in being bipolar with psychotic features, in addition to having PTSD from verbal/physical/sexual abuse, was something that I could turn my back on. Instead, I feel nearly as devalued for my current state of well being because this status is conditional.

For seven years, I was chronically suicidal and couldn't even walk down the street or perform day-to-day activities without great difficulty because a much more terrifying reality was constantly being superimposed on me. Ironically, it is only by experiencing optimal mental health (thanks to medication) and engaging in the practices that are necessary in order to maintain it that I have come to realize how ablest our culture actually is.

As a sopping hippie, I have absolutely no objectives to participating in a society that fully celebrates sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. Those are actually some of my favorite things in the world, at least, conceptually. But I cannot embrace them with open arms as my contemporary counterparts might, and as much as I would love to.

Everything serves as a potential trigger. When you possess brain chemistry that is being held up by stilts, or when you have an extensive history of abuse, eating disorders, drug abuse/dependency, and self-harm, the Roaring Twenties can come crashing down in the blink of an eye.

I feel alienated from the conversations that I cannot partake in, lest they be triggering. I cannot go to parties or even small gatherings because the overwhelming majority involve alcohol and put me at risk of either relapsing or re-experiencing trauma. The one and only drug that has actually been highly beneficial to me (marijuana) and offers a cornucopia of therapeutic application potential for enhancing my mental health is demonized by society and invites even more stigma. I fear the ubiquitous displays of sexuality because they symbolize what happened in my past, even though I desperately crave safe intimacy with another human being.

I can't enjoy the cornerstones of college life, such as caffeine and late night excursions, or other things that either make my medication less effective or make me more susceptible to relapse. I sometimes feel as though companionship will be rescinded as a result. It is lonely.

I cannot, under any circumstances, pull all-nighters unless I want to run the risk of being hospitalized or having a huge breakdown. Being excessively sleep deprived is enough to plunge me into despondency and crippling paranoia.

And in spite of how well my treatment is working, I cannot help but feel like compliance bars me from the rest of my community. It's like having a curfew on the most important New Year's Eve of the decade. Everything is on ice-champagne, vodka, dancing, and one night stands. It is a culture in which everything with a...spin is critically acclaimed.

I know in my heart that I am much better off taking care of myself.

But also in my heart, I want to be culturally attuned. I do not want to miss out on history. I want to be one of the writers.

So what can be done to overcome this sense of inferiority, this sense of being estranged from your own chronological age?

It is difficult when you are up against cultural staples. I will be working to neutralize the corrosive effects of the media and the messages that it promulgates until the day I die. Every school shooting rains acid on my parade. I wake up in the aftermath of a tragedy to find social media outlets facilitating the derogatory statements that are made about all people with mental health issues-namely, those who experience either psychosis or elements of it. It is a phenomenon that is highly misunderstood by the general public.

Laypeople frantically view you through the lens of LSD. You are seen as a caricature of the brain, a mockery of an organ.

Legislation approaches you as an archaeological find instead of a living, breathing member of an ecosystem. Your body can be understood and tolerated, but it is never meant to participate in contemporary, earthly matters.

I still don't have an answer. I am still fighting to assert an identity that defies the Hedonist/Puritanical dichotomy. I am lost in a world of synonyms and antonyms. All I know is that it will take more than a crossword puzzle clue to figure out what label I have an affinity for, and into which spaces I can fit.