I should be included in the census.
I should be included in the census.
复制标题
我应该被纳入人口普查。
DOI：
10.1093/schbul/sbq170
复制
发表时间：
2012
影响因子：
6.6
通讯作者：
Johnson,Amy
中科院分区：
文献类型：
--
作者：
Johnson,Amy
这是一个诅咒，这种精神分裂症，因为它让我问问题，它让我失去平衡，它让我每隔15分钟就质疑最基本的基本知识，一遍又一遍。我永远无法取得任何进展;除了基本问题之外，我永远无法取得任何进展。看起来我是在故意浪费时间，就像我在逃避成长或逃避责任。我希望能像普通人一样工作。我喜欢忙碌的忙碌。我喜欢觉得自己有用。我很想以我的名义举办一个晚宴，一个聚会来宣传我所有的成就，来庆祝我和我的人。我从来没有得到过这个。我没有得到庆祝或鼓掌，因为我没有什么可以展示我所有的日常辛勤工作。这种不被欣赏、不被庆祝的感觉太可怕了。我被诊断为“偏执型精神分裂症”。我是"偏执狂"因为我不相信真实的。一切都是威胁，因为一切都是新的;我似乎不记得在我面前的任何物体或人在过去的200次中是“安全的”。相反，我必须经历这整个过程，这整个现实检查过程。我好像得了老年痴呆症。我不笨，但我好像记不起24小时前的事了。你以前问过我为什么我做决定这么困难。你让我谈谈让我很难做出决定的内部过程。因为我总是质疑现实，我无法前进。有些事情必须被信任，必须被认为是理所当然的;为了继续前进，我必须相信当我拨动开关时，电力会工作。如果我不相信灯会亮起来，我会为"我会被电死吗？"“我怎么知道它是安全的？”"如果灯不亮怎么办？“那你打算怎么办？“也许我应该打电话给电灯公司确认一下，”等等。但是，如果我只是相信事情会解决，我可以打开开关，走进房间，坐下来写作。看看信任是如何与学习、成长和完成任务联系在一起的？这是第22条军规，进退两难。精神分裂症发生在1%的人口中。我们说自己的语言。我们说一种你听不懂的语言。我们是无助的，无助的，因为我们，我，和世界不能相互理解。我越想说话，你就越不理解我。这就是为什么我们停止尝试沟通。就像流沙一样。这是一个不可避免的缓慢死亡。无法表达我的基本感受，无法认同另一个人，在我的经历中感到完全孤独，这让我非常痛苦。我独自坐在家里，我的身体因为孤独而受到伤害。我蜷缩在胎儿的位置，抱着我的头。我盯着墙，几乎没有呼吸。这就是我的孤独。我的寂寞是死一般的寂静。一片漆黑。它无限延伸。我不想诗意。我并不是想想出一种新的、戏剧性的方式来表达孤独。我的真实经历正如我所描述的那样。我没有添油加醋;我没有添油加醋。我的情感，事实，我用客观主义来讲述。你觉得我太戏剧化了，无中生有。我认为我在讲述一个正常的经历，因为我平静而正常地谈论我的情绪。我看着你生气，在我说话的时候对我大喊大叫，我不知道是什么让你这么生气。你就跺着脚走，再也不跟我说话。我觉得自己像个跟屁虫，像昨天的垃圾。我觉得你对我吐口水，我不知道我可能做了什么，以保证这种侮辱。我无力去纠正“错误”的我，但我是人，需要别人的接纳。我需要人们接受我，愿意建立一个...
It is a curse, this schizophrenia, because it has me asking questions, it has me off balance, it has me questioning the very basics of the basics every 15 minutes, over and over, and over again. I can never get anywhere; never make any progress past the basic questions. It looks like I am wasting time on purpose, like I’m avoiding growing up or avoiding responsibility. I would love to be able to work like a regular person. I love to be busy. I love to feel useful. I would love to have a dinner celebration in my name, a party to tout all my accomplishments, to celebrate me, and my person. I don’t ever get to have this. I don’t get celebrated or applauded because I have nothing to show for all my daily hard work. It is horrible to feel this unappreciated, this uncelebrated. I am diagnosed a ‘‘paranoid schizophrenic.’’I am ‘‘paranoid’’because I do not trust what’s real. Everything is a threat because everything is new; I can’t seem to remember that whatever object or person is before me was ‘‘safe’’the last 200 times. Instead, I have to go through this whole procedure, this whole reality checking procedure. It’s like I have Alzheimer’s or something. I am not stupid, but I can’t seem to remember stuff from 24 hours ago. You asked me before why I had such a hard time making decisions. You asked me to talk about the internal processes that make it so hard for me to make a decision. Because I question reality always, I cannot move forward. Some things must be trusted and must be taken for granted; in order to keep moving forward, I have to trust that the electricity will work when I flip the switch. If I didn’t trust that the lights would go on, I’d be agonizing over,‘‘Am I going to get electrocuted? How do I know it’s safe?’’and ‘‘What if the lights don’t go on? Then what am I going to do?’’and ‘‘Maybe I should call the light company just to be sure,’’and on and on and on. But, if I simply trust that things will work out, I can flip the switch, go into the room, sit down, and write. See how trust is so connected to learning, to growing, and to getting things done? This is the catch-22, the double bind. Schizophrenia happens to 1% of the population. We speak our own language. We speak a language you do not understand. We are defenseless and rendered helpless because we, me, and the world can’t understand each other. The more I try to speak, the less you understand me. This is why we stop trying to communicate. It’s like quicksand. It’s an inevitable and slow death. Not being able to communicate my basic feelings, not identifying with another human being, and feeling completely alone in my experience are killing me. I sit at home alone, and I physically hurt from just loneliness. I curl up in the fetal position and hold my head. I stare at the wall and barely breathe. That’s my loneliness. My loneliness is dead silence. It is pitch black. It stretches on and on endlessly. I am not trying to be poetic. I am not trying to dream up a new and dramatic way to express loneliness. My true experience is exactly as I have described. I am not embellishing; I’m not adding to the facts. My emotions, the facts, I tell with objectivism. You think I am being dramatic, building fluff when there isn’t any. I think I am telling a normal experience because I talk calmly and normally about my emotions. I watch you get angry and snap at me as I talk, and I have no idea what’s made you so mad. You stomp off and never speak to me again. I am left feeling like a heel, like yesterday’s garbage. I felt like you spit on me and I have no idea what I could have possibly done to warrant such indignities. I am helpless to correct the ‘‘wrong’’me, but I am human and need other’s acceptance. I need people to accept me enough to want to build a …