My adventure with mental illness began in my early teens, when I was about 14 or so. I had always heard voices and sounds that weren't there, as far back as I can remember, but I had long learned to ignore them. But starting when I was about 14, over a course of a few months, I went from an outgoing, happy-go-lucky kid to a moody, painfully shy, paranoid person who periodically experienced periods of highs as if I was on drugs and long, dark periods of deep depression. The hallucinations became more acute, and the voices often woke me up at night or led me to believe that someone was calling me, and became more vulgar in nature, often telling me unkind things about myself or consisting of shouted curse words.

I had always been the studious sort, so soon after my 15^th birthday I got on my bike and pedaled down to the base library (I was living on Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station at the time, as my stepfather was a Marine). There, I found a book called DSM-I, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Illness. In this book, I looked at the list of illnesses and found one that fit my symptoms: Manic-Depressive Disorder With Psychotic Features. The features of this illness matched my mental state almost perfectly.

So, what to do with my newfound knowledge? I wanted a military career, to fly for the Air Force (this in the days before I was diagnosed with nearsightedness and that hope dashed). I already knew that military service absolutely excluded any sort of mental disorder.

So, I sat on the knowledge. Told no one. I continued with my life, in addition enduring ever-worsening physical and emotional abuse at the hands of my stepfather that was probably the genesis for the additional diagnosis of Social Anxiety Disorder that would come over a decade later. It took a long time for my life to reacquire direction after I started wearing glasses and could no longer be considered by the Air Force as a pilot. My depression went and came, until it finally stayed for many years, increasing in intensity until I began thinking of suicide. It seemed that almost all girls were out of my league, lacking almost totally in self-confidence as I did, and I began to withdraw more and more. I knew what was going on, but no longer seemed to care, and my parents, siblings, and relatives had no idea. My grades began to plummet, and I spent less time studying and more time goofing off.

One day, in my first year of college, I suddenly woke up from this funk. It was as simple as waking up one day with a new attitude. Once again, I knew what was going on (but wondered why so long between mood swings), but didn't care. Again looked at the military, and found a new role: I would become a member of this country's elite fighting forces, and join the Army.

After finishing college, having highs and lows during the time, but not to bad, I enlisted in the Army. Soon thereafter, another bout of depression hit. This lasted for nearly a year, and I was a pretty terrible soldier during this time, barely getting by. Then another high hit, and for almost a year, I was up, working past duty hours, excelling at everything. Then I was on an even keel for a few months, acting almost normal, then more depression for several months. Etc, etc.

In mid 1992, I started on my highest high ever. I was physically capable of great deeds, excelling on PT tests, parachute jumps, running, working through injuries, carrying heavy loads, everything. I was confident to the point of blustering. I stayed awake sometimes for a week, then slept for a few hours and stayed awake again for many days.

This was followed by my lowest low. One day, about a month after my 28^th birthday, after coming back from a leave that I didn't really enjoy, I was on a live fire range, where you are armed with live ammunition and move through the course shooting at pop-up targets. I got down in the bushes and placed my M-16A2 on burst. Looking down the barrel with my right eye, I put my thumb on the trigger and pulled it.

CLICK. The weapon did not fire. I looked in the chamber, and it was worse than a double feed, there were three rounds that had feed fed from the magazine. I cycled the weapon, cleared the rounds from the chamber, then looked down the barrel with my right eye again. And pulled the trigger.

CLICK. This time, when I looked into the chamber, there were no rounds there. I pulled the charging handle 3 or 4 times, but no round would chamber. So I removed the magazine, put a fresh one in, then pushed the bolt catch, watching to be sure that a round fed properly. I looked down the barrel with my right eye, put my thumb on the trigger, and…

WHAM! I was tacked by my CO, who I had heard shouting at me earlier because I was out of position. I grabbed for the rifle again, but he was faster. I considered fighting him for it, but all the energy had gone out of me. I sat down on a nearby log and started crying like a baby.

My first sergeant and the CO led me off the range, took away my bayonet, utility knife, dagger, and even my Swiss Army Knife. I was told to sit down near the range CP, and the first sergeant called for the HMMWV and took me into garrison, where I took a shower and changed into civilian clothes. Then he took me to the hospital, where I stayed for 3 months.

Sometime after that, I was diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder. Remembering the DSM I had read many years earlier, I asked the doctor if that was the same as Manic Depressive Disorder with Psychotic Features. He said yes, but it had not been called that in over a decade. The doctor prescribed medication, and, after an adjustment period, began to improve (for the most part). In addition, he diagnosed me with Social Anxiety Disorder.

Eventually, I was taken out of my unit, put in Medical Hold, and retired out of the Army, at first at 30%, and eventually after about 5 years, increased to 100%.

Schizoaffective Disorder is a type of Bipolar Disorder (formerly Manic Depressive Disorder). It is characterized by mood swings similar to normal Bipolar Disorder. These consist of periods of deep depression, where one has no energy, has dark thoughts, lack of self-confidence, feelings of malaise, worthlessness, and fear. These are punctuated by periods of mania, where one had boundless energy, flights of fancy, feelings of no limits, not sleeping or sleeping very little, and like you can do anything. Often the mania comes complete with behavior such as speeding in cars, spending and running up charge cards, mad bouts of things like deep cleaning the house, wanting to outdo everyone else, and creativity. (Patty Duke, a notable Bipolar person, has described the mania as a "brilliant madness.") In between these states, there is a relatively short period of behavior that society would term "normal."

Schizoaffective Disorder also has a component of psychosis. This is not being what society would term as a "psycho," which is properly known as Sociopathic behavior. The psychosis is characterized by hallucinations (in me, most commonly auditory hallucinations, but sometimes visual and even olfactory). The sounds I most often hear are curse words, people calling my name, train whistles, growling, and a sound as if standing outside a sports stadium. Visual hallucinations are most often vague black shapes out of the corner of the eye, but sometimes when driving, I see deep potholes in the road when none are there. Olfactory hallucinations are most often of dog feces or white glue.

Another part of this is paranoia, characterized by excessive worry, fear, and paranoid fantasies. These can be mild, as thinking something of all the things that can go wrong with some minor issue, to staying up at nights thinking of various detailed and scary paranoid fantasies, such as happened with my recent jury duty date.

Another part of my diagnosis is Social Anxiety Disorder. This has been linked in many cases (such as mine) to childhood abuse, especially emotional abuse as occurred to me with my stereotypical abusive alcoholic stepfather. (Those who are in chat rooms, message boards, or email with me will sometimes seem him referred to me as my stepmonster.) I am still afraid of him on some level, even though he has grown over the years from a trim Marine to a grossly overweight, feeble old man. I have often described Social Anxiety Disorder as the "shyness from hell," and it is basically a fear of people, interacting, and crowds. (It is also called Social Phobia.) Basically, I never feel I am doing good enough, question people's motives, look for danger in crowds, fear the very idea of dating except from the most persistent of women, and distrust most social contact. It is a catastrophic loss of self confidence.

The standard treatment for these disorders is a combination of psychiatry and psychology. The psychiatry is primarily medical treatment with medication. I have required a variety of these over the years, as I tend to build up a tolerance to medication and they have to give me ever-increasing doses, until the doctor cannot prescribe a higher dose without poisoning me. Then we have to switch to a new set.

Medication is a two-edged sword. It can do wonders, replacing the neurotransmitters that nature has given me a shortage of, but all have some sort of side effects. My first ones were a combination of Lithium and Wellbutrin. The Lithium raised my already mild high blood pressure to dangerous levels (my psychiatrist was watching for that and I was put on strong BP medication the same day). The Wellbutrin had an initial effect of causing hypomanic episodes (very short, strong manic spells), for about three months after I started taking it. After about three years, I had built up a tolerance to it, and I was switched to a combination of Valproic Acid (Depakote) and Zoloft. The Valproic Acid caused extreme weight gain (eventually about 50 pounds over the course of a year), near constant diarrhea, and nausea. The Zoloft gave me lactose intolerance, which increased the already ever-present diarrhea. After a year of this, I was tired of the side effects, and demanded to be changed off the Valproic Acid. (I was willing to put up with the lactose intolerance, at that time.) I was switched to Tegretol. For about the first three weeks, I constantly felt like I was leaning over to the right, walked with a wobble, weaved when driving, and sometimes sidestepped when standing still. This gradually abated, to be replaced with almost constant cramps and gas.

About this time, I fired the VA mental health system (who constantly used 2^nd-year residents on me who, with the exception of one, didn't know what they were doing -- the exception being one named Dr. Kelly Cowan). I used Tricare, an HMO for military and retirees, and saw a civilian named Dr. Gary Penny, who I see to this day. I told him about the side effects, and that I was tired of being socially unacceptable and lactose intolerant (I love cheese). He put me on different medication, the first one being Neurontin, which did nothing, including no symptom control, there were others, which were equally ineffective. At the same time, my hallucinations increased in severity. The decision was made to treat my symptoms with a combination of antipsychotics and antidepressants, using Loxitane and Effexxor. The problem with antipsychotics is that there are extremely sedating, and I often slept for up to 16 hours a day. The Effexxor caused extreme nausea, sometimes to the point of vomiting, if I didn't eat a considerable quantity along with the medication. After about a year on this medication, in increasing doses, I built up a tolerance to this medication duo too. Dr. Penny tried a new medication that he had been having a good effect with on other patients called Geodon. It was supposed to replace both medications and be non-sedating.

The Geodon made me psychotic. Hallucinations were more severe than ever, paranoia was extreme, and with what little was left of my sanity, I stopped the medication cold turkey, and refused to see the doctor. As the paranoia subsided, I eventually saw Dr. Penny again, and he put me on what I am on now, a combination of Risperdal and Celexa. The Risperdal is sedating only to a slightly lesser degree than the Loxitane, and I generally sleep 12-14 hours a day. The Celexa caused gas and cramps the first month I took it, but then went away. My weight (I lost the additional 50 pounds within 3 months after stopping the Valproic Acid), I put on 9 pounds, but now my weight has stabilized.

The medication is not a cure-all. The mood swings are almost, but not completely, stamped out. There is still a large component of paranoia in my life, leading to worry all the time about almost everything and the occasional parnoid fantasies, such as during my recent jury summons (which my doctor would not let me go to, writing a letter to the court to that effect), and the weekend downing of my web page along with the rest of 100megswebhosting.com. I am abnormally sensitive, and can go off the handle at the drop of a hat. And my Social Anxiety Disorder is still strong.

People are afraid of the mentally ill, no matter how benign. The looks the give you when you tell them are priceless, as if they expect you to leap at their throats at any moment. Almost all people seem to associate any sort of mental illness with "going postal." When I go to job interview, the conversation goes along fine, the employers are impressed with my skill set and certifications, are very positive, seem about to hire me…then, "the question." What have you been doing since you left the Animal Defense League (my last job, where I left after hearing unkind voices from the dogs and after a run-in with my new boss, who didn't want a mentally-ill person working for her)? It's been 6 years without a job, after all. So, I can go with one of three routes at this point: 1) I can tell them straight out, which abruptly ends the conversation (thank you, but I don't think you are what we're looking for in this position, etc, etc, suck off and die). I can 2) Tell them that it was due to a disability or long-term illness, at which point they always immediately ask what the illness or disability is (even though that is patently illegal in this state). Here, I can either tell them (thank you, goodbye), or inform them that such a question is illegal (thank you, goodbye). The third route is to lie shamelessly. I have tried this, but I think they know, something in my eyes or face maybe, or I don't make up a good enough story, something. Anyway, at this point, the answer is always thank you, goodbye. I have gotten this answer from workplaces from tech firms and temp agencies to places like Burger King where they hire snot-nosed kids with no work experience and even less motivation.

I few years ago, I had prostatitis, an infection of the prostate gland. My symptoms were vague, exhaustion, nausea, a low-grade fever, difficulty urinating. I want to the Primary Care clinic at Willford Hall, where I saw a doctor. He examined me cursorily then called the Psychiatric Department and told them that I was having a psychosomatic illness and needed to be evaluated. I immediately walked out, went to the front desk, informed them that this doctor was worthless, and demanded another doctor, or I would complain to their commanding officer. They actually listened, and got me in with another doctor after about an hour. He listened to me, then put on a rubber glove, and told me to drop my pants and bend over. I thought, "Great, another worthless doctor." But after the examination, he told me about the prostate infection, and told me that the exhaustion was because an infection in the prostate is very difficult for the body to fight. Everything he said made sense. All it took was a doctor that didn't automatically consider the worst in the mentally ill.

Even psychiatrists can go overboard. When I first arrived in San Antonio after leaving the Army, I went to Wilford Hall, the hospital on Lackland Air Force Base, which is the closest hospital to my home. I was seeking to continue my psychiatric care. One of the questions in the intake was "do you ever think of suicide?" I told the tech that I don't think of killing myself, but I think of my suicide attempt all the time, as it was a big turning point in my life. He immediately called Security Police, and they escorted me to the emergency room. I recounted my tale to the emergency room psychiatrist, who pronounced me unstable and the Security Police took me up to the psych ward. As it was Friday night by this time, I was stuck there for the weekend. By Monday morning, I was livid, and when I again recounted my answers, they told me that I was being kept there for at least 10 days and possibly longer for observation. I told them that if I was not out by close of business, there would be a lawsuit, asked for a piece of paper upon which I wrote down their names, and demanded to use a telephone. They wouldn't leave me alone, but let me use the telephone, where I called a lawyer and told him to stand by. I was out less than two hours later. I never went back to Wilford Hall for psychiatric care again, and to this day never go back there except for emergency cases.

Mental illness is something that should not be a curse, as it can be treated to the point where the victim is useful to society. However, until society gives up its prejudices and welcomes the mentally ill into the fold, they will be kept on the fringes and shunned.