A Southern daughter grieves for her Daddy
I mentioned to my sister the other day that I thought I was becoming paranoid schizophrenic.
Now I know there are the “clinical” types out there that will tell me that I need to be diagnosed by a doctor before I start batting around the word schizophrenia. Let me start off first by saying: I didn’t mean it in a hyperbolic fashion. Second, I take mental illness seriously; on one occasion I gave my middle-school aged mentees a verbal lesson on not to use the word “crazy” (as in “that teacher is so crazy!”) lightly because mental illness is a serious condition and you never know who might be listening and deserve our compassion.
Back to what I consider a second manifestation of grief: paranoid schizophrenia.
To borrow Webster’s Dictionary on paranoid schizophrenia: characterized especially by persecutory or grandiose delusions or hallucinations or by delusional jealousy.
Okay, so as it turns out I am using the word schizophrenic a bit hyperbolically, but only just a tad.
Within minutes of my Father’s death I felt a sudden onset of paranoia.
There was a close family friend that my mother had me call to come over within minutes of my father dying. That was understandable and I wanted to do it, so I did. But on this family friend’s arrival (we’ll call the friend FF), I began to feel . . . suspicious. I’ve always liked FF and even have even concerned about FF when FF has been ill. All of a sudden, complete distrust welled up from somewhere inside of me.
I am so ashamed of my feelings of distrust for FF, that I can’t even share them with anyone. I am dismayed and distraught that I would feel this way about someone that both my parents loved and I have loved and trusted up until this point.
I brought all these feelings back to Maryland with me where sometimes they seem just as sever. I don’t trust the people I work with. I think they must be out to get me. I don’t trust their kind words or their looks. Case in point, a couple of the managers wanted to take me out to eat for Admin Professional’s day; I just knew they were going to lay me off. They didn’t, of course; they really just wanted to take me out to lunch.
I suspect everyone’s motives. There are people here I’ve known for years and consider close friends. Now, I pick apart every word, every action, wondering what it must mean. I try to deduce their great plan to bring me to my downfall (insert creepy laughter here).
Okay, so the deducing-my-great-downfall-part is also a bit hyperbolic.
Fortunately all of my friends are high-functioning integritists (I just made that word up).
Equally fortunate for all of my friends, I am quite a rational person. So much so, I can stop mid-crying-hyperventilation, take an emotional step back and think “Wow! That I feel this way is quite extraordinary.” Maybe it’s the actor/writer in me watching all my responses, feelings and subsequent actions. That’s what I’ve done with the paranoia. I’ve noticed my new inner commentary when I listen to extremely trustworthy friends talk and think “Wow, her too? That’s very interesting.” Then I remind myself why I actually do trust this person and move on. The paranoia becomes an annoying snore in the back of my head, like a sauce on simmer on the back burner of a stove. It’s there, I can smell it but I don’t have to hover over it enjoying the aroma for 20 minutes.
Over the past few weeks the paranoia has begun to wane. I’m sure it’s partially in part to the fact that I recognized it and refused to let it take hold of my thinking. I capture the good thoughts about people and hold on tight to them.
I remember that people love me.
I remember that people do want me to succeed.
And when I stand on the stage of my life and look out over the audience of my friends, I imagine them naked and close my eyes. Since they have often brought me into the inner sanctum of their life, they can be trusted with my life.
* * *
The curious thing is that I’m not sure which came first the insecurity or the paranoia. They both seem to feed each other. Though I would say (to continue the imagery from the previous post) that if insecurity is the slug then paranoia is the slime the slug leaves behind.
Though I find slugs fascinating, I abhor their slime. Yick. Yuck. Yak.
I mentioned to my sister the other day that I thought I was becoming paranoid schizophrenic.
Now I know there are the “clinical” types out there that will tell me that I need to be diagnosed by a doctor before I start batting around the word schizophrenia. Let me start off first by saying: I didn’t mean it in a hyperbolic fashion. Second, I take mental illness seriously; on one occasion I gave my middle-school aged mentees a verbal lesson on not to use the word “crazy” (as in “that teacher is so crazy!”) lightly because mental illness is a serious condition and you never know who might be listening and deserve our compassion.
Back to what I consider a second manifestation of grief: paranoid schizophrenia.
To borrow Webster’s Dictionary on paranoid schizophrenia: characterized especially by persecutory or grandiose delusions or hallucinations or by delusional jealousy.
Okay, so as it turns out I am using the word schizophrenic a bit hyperbolically, but only just a tad.
Within minutes of my Father’s death I felt a sudden onset of paranoia.
There was a close family friend that my mother had me call to come over within minutes of my father dying. That was understandable and I wanted to do it, so I did. But on this family friend’s arrival (we’ll call the friend FF), I began to feel . . . suspicious. I’ve always liked FF and even have even concerned about FF when FF has been ill. All of a sudden, complete distrust welled up from somewhere inside of me.
I am so ashamed of my feelings of distrust for FF, that I can’t even share them with anyone. I am dismayed and distraught that I would feel this way about someone that both my parents loved and I have loved and trusted up until this point.
I brought all these feelings back to Maryland with me where sometimes they seem just as sever. I don’t trust the people I work with. I think they must be out to get me. I don’t trust their kind words or their looks. Case in point, a couple of the managers wanted to take me out to eat for Admin Professional’s day; I just knew they were going to lay me off. They didn’t, of course; they really just wanted to take me out to lunch.
I suspect everyone’s motives. There are people here I’ve known for years and consider close friends. Now, I pick apart every word, every action, wondering what it must mean. I try to deduce their great plan to bring me to my downfall (insert creepy laughter here).
Okay, so the deducing-my-great-downfall-part is also a bit hyperbolic.
Fortunately all of my friends are high-functioning integritists (I just made that word up).
Equally fortunate for all of my friends, I am quite a rational person. So much so, I can stop mid-crying-hyperventilation, take an emotional step back and think “Wow! That I feel this way is quite extraordinary.” Maybe it’s the actor/writer in me watching all my responses, feelings and subsequent actions. That’s what I’ve done with the paranoia. I’ve noticed my new inner commentary when I listen to extremely trustworthy friends talk and think “Wow, her too? That’s very interesting.” Then I remind myself why I actually do trust this person and move on. The paranoia becomes an annoying snore in the back of my head, like a sauce on simmer on the back burner of a stove. It’s there, I can smell it but I don’t have to hover over it enjoying the aroma for 20 minutes.
Over the past few weeks the paranoia has begun to wane. I’m sure it’s partially in part to the fact that I recognized it and refused to let it take hold of my thinking. I capture the good thoughts about people and hold on tight to them.
I remember that people love me.
I remember that people do want me to succeed.
And when I stand on the stage of my life and look out over the audience of my friends, I imagine them naked and close my eyes. Since they have often brought me into the inner sanctum of their life, they can be trusted with my life.
* * *
The curious thing is that I’m not sure which came first the insecurity or the paranoia. They both seem to feed each other. Though I would say (to continue the imagery from the previous post) that if insecurity is the slug then paranoia is the slime the slug leaves behind.
Though I find slugs fascinating, I abhor their slime. Yick. Yuck. Yak.
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