I’m lost. Confused. Angry. Scared. Lonely.

So many emotions, yet none of them joyous.

I miss joy.

I miss laughing for real. Without being told I have an ugly laugh.

I miss thinking, alone.

Now, every thought is commentated.

By her.

Who is she?

Apparently, nobody really knows.

Nobody can define the reasoning behind schizophrenia and schizoaffective disorder.

Nobody can explain why there are moments I can’t hear anything because the voice in my head is too loud.

She is Jeanine.

She is mean.

And I believe she will kill me.

I didn’t meet Jeanine all at once.

First, there were sounds.

A nagging, yelling noise—constant, unrelenting.

I would joke, “They don’t even stop for a breath.”

Dark humor, trying to lighten the cold, hard truth of what my life was becoming.

Then, a different voice—

My dad’s voice.

The nickname he’s called me since I was little.

Stern. Strong. Mothering.

For two seconds, I would feel safe.

And then Jeanine would rip me back.

The radio came next.

Far in the distance. Low. Playing the same song on repeat..

Some days, it’s Chingy’s “Right Thurr.”

Other days, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.”

Sometimes, just talk radio.

I don’t know why.

I don’t know how.

I just know it was always there.

It started after my biggest mistake.

The moment I destroyed the people I loved most.

And maybe that makes sense.

Maybe I needed them to hate me.

Maybe that made my next choices easier.

(Stay on topic, idiot.)

Oh—there she is.

(Slut.)

Jeanine didn’t show up alone.

She arrived with distractions, with illusions.

A black cat darting across my bed.

The feeling that someone is standing outside, watching.

Because why else would I feel like someone is breathing over my shoulder right now?

(Because you’re a stupid, psychotic piece of shit, bitch.)

This is my story.

Of bipolar disorder.

Of schizoaffective disorder.

Of learning how to survive myself.

I’ve always heard a voice.

I thought it was normal.

Doesn’t everyone have a dialogue in their head?

Isn’t everyone their own harshest critic?

I didn’t realize my harshest critic was an illness.

That it would eventually take over everything.

(I’m real, you stupid pig.)

I’ve spent so long fighting my own brain.

Fighting the delusions that became my reality.

Fighting paranoia that turned loved ones into enemies.

In January of last year, I broke.

The noises were too much.

The radio was too loud.

The voices wouldn’t stop.

I snapped.

A fight with my boyfriend.

A knife in my hand.

And then—

13 stitches and a psych ward visit.

And denial.

I wasn’t ready to believe this was real.

Because bipolar disorder was hard enough.

Bipolar disorder was something I could name.

Something I could explain to people without them looking at me like I was insane.

But schizoaffective?

That was something else.

That was the stigma.

That was what I thought only happened to “crazy people.”

Turns out—

I was one of them.

Why do I put this pressure for perfection on myself?

Why do I feel the need to please everyone but myself?

Why can’t I ever just say no?

Is that the illness?

Or is that just who I am?

Is that all I am?

Leftovers.

Something people are grateful to have around late at night,

But easy to forget about and neglect until it’s gone bad.

Have I finally gone bad?

Better bad than nothing at all.

(Oh wait—you are nothing, you pathetic pile of nothing.)

Nobody wants you here.

I just want to be happy.

I’ll say it a hundred times throughout this.

Because it’s the truth.

I just want a “normal” happy life.

I want a home with an extra bedroom and a little too much grass.

An open concept that brings everyone together, even when they’re in separate rooms.

(Nobody wants you near them. Shut up)

This entry is years in the making.

Different stages of this journey.

From the deepest, darkest holes of despair

To moments of clarity.

And today?

I feel good.

I know that could change tomorrow.

Or an hour from now.

But I’m not scared anymore.

Because I’ve learned something—

Even in utter misery,

Even when it feels hopeless—

The misery itself is healing.

The voices are almost silent.

The mania is predictable.

The episodes are manageable.

Because I have worked for this.

Not just for my children.

Not just for my family.

But for me.

And for the first time in my life—

I can say that without shame.

I still have a long road ahead.

But for the first time,

I’m excited to see where it leads.

And I’m going to take in every single detail along the way.