I’m not sure how many of you are familiar with the term schizoid, it being a relatively unknown personality disorder. I myself was not aware of it until I was diagnosed. I wasn’t aware that I had the symptoms that I had. It seems difficult to understand, but let me explain: schizoid is the state of not giving a shit. You may ask yourself, why is not giving a shit a disorder? Isn’t it just a type of personality? No, it isn’t, because it isn’t a choice. It is often the result of childhood trauma, and in my case, abuse and indifference from my parents. I used to not understand what was wrong with me. I was so used to being inside my own space where there was only a flat, endless, and empty meadow. I didn’t feel anything when my mother had her birthday, for example. I didn’t feel anything when my friend was crying next to me. I once had a huge fight with her about this. “You don’t care about other people,” she said, tears in her eyes. I don’t blame her. But yeah, she’s right. I’m a schizoid. I didn’t choose to be one.
Sometimes, I explain this disorder by illustrating a fish inside a tank. I am the fish, watching people laugh, cry, and talk around me. But that’s all I do. I watch. I get closer and closer, but I eventually run into a glass wall. I see everything, but I can’t touch anything. Being a schizoid, it means your life is monotone. It means your life feels like an autobiography of someone else.
Some days, it doesn’t mean anything.
Trigger warning: I discuss self-harm and suicide.
I was walking up the hill to my dorm when I had a panic attack. It was a massive one for sure, because I couldn’t walk. Every step I took, I felt like something huge was pushing me back down, like I couldn’t move anymore or else I would die. Going to school itself is always a journey full of fear, but I have never experienced fear of that magnitude before. So I just stood there and closed my eyes, until I opened them and saw that everyone was staring at me. I had to walk again. I don’t know how I managed it, but I finally did.
So when I came back to my dorm, I harmed myself, for the second time ever. I did it with scissors, because they were the only tools I had on hand, but I wasn’t satisfied by that. I wanted something sharper. Then I stopped doing it because I felt stupid, and then I started crying, harder than I have in weeks, because I wanted to kill myself. For the first time in my life, I was forming a plan in my head. I felt like the worst person in the world. There was no one in my bubble but myself, and I would suffocate alone in that bubble because I would want myself to. I was tired of hating others, and I turned that attention back to hating myself, because that’s what I felt like I deserved.
That’s it for my first post. I know this would have been difficult for most to read, so I thank you with all my heart if you paid attention until the very end.
I am from Seoul, a place where there is no room for forgiveness, love, sharing, or caring. I am just a small girl that is just about to finish high school. I made this blog because it hurts to be alone, because I want to be out there but not in a way that makes me uncomfortable, because I want to talk about myself without having to feel vulnerable. Here I will post stories about my past and what it is like to struggle with schizoid personality disorder, depression, panic attacks, social anxiety, and all of the above. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this, and if you liked it, consider giving me a follow so I’ll have someone to share my stories with.