the road from there to here (part 2)

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[if you haven't already, you might want to read part 1 first]

schizoid?

scary-ass word--conjured up all sorts of images from the three faces of eve and sybil--which is probably why whenever i ran across the term in my early, obsessive searches for what the fuck was the matter with me, i always skimmed past it in search of more promising leads.

turns out had i bothered to delve into its meaning way back when, i could've solved my mystery long ago.

see, i had confused the term "schizoid" with "schizophrenic"--an easy mistake, since both words have as their root the greek word schizo, meaning "split." difference is, schizophrenics are split from reality, whereas we schizoids are merely split from...well, humanity.

still confused? can't blame you; it's not like oprah's ever done a show on the subject [that could change, though--hell, with the right marketing, i could totally see this becoming the new bulimia].

anyway, here are (a) the definition of, and (b) the diagnostic criteria for the condition that so opened my eyes that day (along with my personal assessment of where i rate on each):

schizoid: a pervasive pattern of detachment from social relationships and a restricted range of expression of emotions in interpersonal settings, beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by four (or more) of the following:

1. neither desires nor enjoys close relationships, including being part of a family. on a scale of 1-10, i'm at least 7 (and probably higher) on this one--i.e., sufficiently aloof to find relationships painful, yet not enough to erase the knowledge of what i'm missing and the pain i'm causing the people who love me.


2. almost always chooses solitary activities. yup.


3. has little, if any, interest in having sexual experiences with another person. for the first thirty-four years of my life i was a virtual monk; for the next eighteen, i fucked anything that moved. didn't matter much either way--i was always by myself.


4. takes pleasure in few, if any, activities. wait--you're tellin me there's people out there who actually enjoy shit?


5. lacks close friends or confidants other than first-degree relatives. it is understood among my relatives that mkf is "different," but they put up with my standoffishness because they have to; conversely, i can count on one hand the non-relatives in my life who haven't finally thrown up their hands and walked away.


6. appears indifferent to the praise or criticism of others. this, believe it or not, actually intimidates people.


7. shows emotional coldness, detachment, or flattened affectivity. if i work at it (and it's hard work, trust me), i can fool most people into believing i give a shit. it's a pretty good show, but don't try to go backstage.

needless to say, i scored myself high in every criterion save maybe the last--and that, only when i actively resist it.

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anyway, back to the story--having digested all this information, next time the good doctor paid a visit, i asked him if, as in my case, schizoid and depression always went hand in hand.

he replied, "not at all. hard-core schizoids are often perfectly content in their solitary little worlds; it's the borderlines--the ones like you, who can't live with people yet can't give 'em up, either--that have so much trouble with the condition."

and in answer to my next question, he said, "no, personality disorders by their very nature tend to be treatment-resistant--once you're there, whether you were born that way or acquired it through trauma or loss, you're pretty much there for life."

"so," i said, "what you're telling me is, i can never, ever, hope to regain the feelings for people that i had before all the trouble started."

"i'm afraid that's it, mike" (checking his watch, checking his pager). "i'm sorry, but i have to go."

and there you have it--more useful truth from a tactless, competent psychiatrist in two fifteen-minute sessions than i'd ever gotten from a lifetime of compassionate, incompetent therapists.

it was shortly thereafter that i began my serious drinking and found, to my surprise, that the good doctor was, at least in one respect, full of shit--given sufficient alcohol, many of those good feelings for people that i'd been told were irretrievably dead came roaring back with a vengeance--but at a price, of course.

four years in, it's time to find a less lethal trigger, if such a thing exists; i guess we'll see.



[in case you're wondering what the title of this thread has to do with its content, i had originally intended to get all this background covered in part 1 (what can i say--i got tired), and then trace my trajectory from open, happy kid to shut-down, schizoid adult in part 2. i have since changed my mind about that (the history's not that interesting, really, and certainly not deserving of a part 3), but since it's out there already i'll let the title stand.]

the road from there to here (part 1)

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a few years ago i came down with a serious illness and was hospitalized for several weeks. once it became clear i was gonna live, my doctor (who had become concerned about my mental state after my prolonged confinement) had a friend of his, a prominent psychiatrist, drop by a couple times a week for a little chat.

[i was touched by my doctor's concern--gee, he sent so many specialists over to check on me--until, that is, i got the bill and realized that all those specialists, including said psychiatrist, dinged my insurance company an average of $400 for each of their 15-minute visits, but my outrage at doctors feeding like pigs at the insurance trough is a story for another day]

point is, this guy was good. after laying out the long-practiced patter of my background, i asked him one day, "so tell me, doc--what the hell's the matter with me?"

understand: i had asked this same question of every mental-health professional i'd ever encountered and gotten nothing back but bullshit, so i wasn't really expecting anything different from this guy; i was just askin for the hell of it.

but he surprised me; without hesitation, he replied, "is that all you want to know? that's obvious--you have a personality disorder; more particularly, you're schizoid."

"schizoid?! fuck you, i'm not schizophrenic--there's just one of me, thank you very much."

he smiled, shook his head. "schizoid is worlds away from schizophrenic, mike." he then pointed at the laptop on my bed, said "google it--i think you'll find it interesting," and left (my 15 minutes were up, you see).

i did just that, and in a flash my whole life was explained.

[and you can google it for yourself, and/or wait for part 2]