“I never would have guessed you have schizophrenia!” My fellow support group member says it as though it’s a compliment. “You’re so articulate.”
I know social etiquette dictates I say something in response. But I just…don’t want to. I force a smile. I wear lipstick on days like today when my diagnosis makes me feel disgusting.
“Yep,” I finally muster. The group moves on. But the woman’s comment lingers in my mind.
I frequently experience microaggressions disguised as praise. A therapist once attempted to reassure me by saying, “I don’t think of you as schizophrenic.” These comments imply I’m the “good one.”
I struggle with survivor’s guilt. Being “well-presenting”—our community’s preferred term over “high-functioning”—is a form of privilege. Yes, I work hard at my recovery. But some working just as hard experience profound symptoms daily.
While the “bad ones” are banished to psychiatric wards, jails, and the streets, I get to enter spaces where decisions are made that define the circumstances of our lives—spaces ruled by doctors and caregivers staunchly in favor of legislation like California Proposition 1.
Disability rights groups have argued this proposition would expand involuntary treatment for people like me. Though Californians voted nearly two weeks ago, the vote is so close that the Associated Press has not called the race.
To many, I’m the perfect poster child for involuntary treatment. I managed to recover and return to work—something less than 30 percent of us accomplish—despite a particularly severe bout of psychosis at my onset. I graduated from U.C.........