Since I've moved back into my parents' house, I've been reading one of my father's books on psychology. The subject interests me for several reasons. To begin with, I've always been curious about the workings of the mind, both mine and others'. Mine especially these days, as in recent years I've discovered I have several psychological disorders.

It's been over a year since I was diagnosed with non-differentiated schizophrenia, and since I learned of it this spring I've struggled with the decree. Schizophrenia is a broad category of disorders, and the usual trope of the hallucinating, incoherently babbling madman or madwoman doesn't fit all cases. To invoke a diagnosis of schizophrenia, one looks for three kinds of symptoms: positive symptoms—aberrant behaviors or thoughts which shouldn't be there; negative symptoms—the lack of certain capabilities common to a normal person; and thought disorder—jumbled or incohernt thoughts, indicated by garbled or circuitous speech.

I do no thave many positive symptoms. Though when I first sought psychiatric help I had a substantial amount of paranoia, I did not hallucinate nor did I have delusions proper. What I have had live with are somtimes invasive thoughts and unconscious fantasies of a disturbing nature, but nothing on the scale that a paranoid schizophrenic would experience. I do not have many negative symptoms either: I have a normal vocal affect, unlike many schizophrenics. The one negative symptom I do have is a lack of motivation.

However, when it comes to thought disorder, I apparently had significant trouble. One of my psychiatrists said that when she first met me, I would talk in circles around questions, using a lot of words but never getting anywhere. My current psychiatrist, who was also my first one, has made similar claims. I've always had a very flowery speech and writing style, but I had never considered it an aspect of a pathology. I was quite surprised to see it considered a symptom. Difficulty in decision making likely factored into the diagnosis.

Perhaps the reason I am so interested in learning more about psychology, in particular abnormal psychology, is that I don't quite feel like this is a solid diagnosis of schizophrenia. Having been through significant treatment, I realize that two years ago I was flirting with mental illness. I was lonely and severely depressed, unmotivated in my studies, and couldn't shake the worry that a minor head injury had robbed me of my intellect and creativity. Throw in some issues with identity, social awkwardness, a little obsessive-compulsiveness and introversion, and you have a strong cocktail of dysfunctional misery.

But what I went through is nothing compared to what a usual diagnosis of schizophrenia entails. I worried obsessively, but I never had an outright delusion, where I firmly believed something that was untrue. I had vivid fantasies, but never hallucinations. I definitely had the thought disorder, and I did have a lack of motivation, but I sometimes feel like my old psychiatrist cribbed the diagnosis. What I experienced definitely feels a lot like schizophrenia, but did it cross the line?

Certainly if it is schizophrenia, my father's psychology textbook doesn't have very positive prognosis from me. According to the book, schizophrenics usually don't amount to much: their disordered thinking and detachment from reality keep them from pursuing any particularly strenuous career. Given that mine is film, animation and writing, things don't look too good for me if you trust the textbooks. No, the real creative people are the manic-depressives. Their mania and disorganized thinking is grandiose and playful, while schizophrenics' disorganization is simply a pathetic shambles. I never expected to find myself wishing I had a different mental disorder.

There's also the question as to whether or not all of these oddities are biological. Since I was young I had the tendency to worry, and often about absolutely ridiculous things: mad cow in the school hamburgers and so forth. Was I born schizophrenic or schizotypal? Or was it my upbringing? I knew that certain members of my family being prone to worry more than is rational. Perhaps it is both? I've had enough bad experiences in childhood to make anyone depressed, or at least anyone who's as introverted as I am.

Two years ago, I was paranoid, melancholy, obsessive-compulsive and anxious. Today, depression and generalized anxiety disorder seem to describe my problems best: trouble getting out of bed, trouble motivating myself, losing interest in things. Saying "fuck the world!" in that silent voice even I don't hear. I don't get obsessed about residual cleaning fluid on dishes, or worry that airplane in the sky is really a flying saucer (even though I know it isn't). Trying to make my way in the world when everything I worked for in high school fell apart, trying to realize my seemingly impossible dreams of epic tales and of being a prolific writer in the face of discouragement, staving off loneliness and taking a little responsibility in my life—that's my task now. I suppose it always was.

I guess what I want more than anything else right now is a reason to feel human.