Adversity Creates the Strong

A Slap on the Back Because of my Life Struggles

Going literally days without sleep while manically driving… going without eating… pushing myself to physical exhaustion because I’m listening to voices in my head.

All of the above feels like it should qualify me for a medal—or at least a recognition for struggling a little harder than most. But does it make me “tough”?

Humorously, I wonder: does spending two weeks eating only Wild Cherry Pepsi and Little Debbie Swiss Rolls qualify me for an award? I don’t even remotely remember the schizophrenic voice or the specific prompt that led to that diet. I just remember the empty pit my stomach grew to become and the frantic, hollowness that followed.

Am I a tough guy?

I suppose, in the end, what does it matter? Whether we are “tough” or “weaklings,” the real question is how our lives measure up against the standards of success we set for ourselves.

For someone like me, who has struggled with schizophrenia—and later, schizoaffective disorder—since the late 2000s, the measures of success are different today. Success isn’t about surviving a manic road trip; it’s about whether I can hold down a job or avoid a return to the psychiatric hospital.

A hallmark of this illness is delusional thinking. I’ll admit, in the past, I have believed myself to be a spy. I’ve believed I was special forces or an agent of God. I felt “tough” because of the hardships I endured—but those were self-imposed hardships, born of a mind that wasn’t grounded in reality. Back then, I mistook the chaos of the illness for the strength of my character.

Today, I strive for a different kind of strength: self-awareness and honesty.

My reality now is that with concerted effort, I can maintain employment. With discipline, I can exercise daily. By marshaling my skills and my knowledge of this disease, I can stay out of the hospital ward. This requires a quiet, repetitive bravery that the “spy” version of me never understood.

Does it matter if I am a “tough guy” in an existential sense? I can say wholeheartedly: I am not. Not in the way the world defines it. My successes today are much smaller, but they are much deeper.

I succeed when I attend my social support and educational groups every week. I have something to be proud of when I maintain good attendance at work, even on the days when the schizophrenic impulses are a little bigger than usual. I have written about small successes in life in the post: I Began Wearing Contacts Again.

Our culture encourages us to feel “less than” if we aren’t a gold-covered rapper in an Escalade or a “Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson” in military fatigues. We are taught that being “special” means being famous or physically invincible.

I want to be special. I want to be a tough guy. But I am not.

I’m just a man doing the best I can with a serious mental illness. I celebrate the fact that I can be less of a burden to my family. I celebrate the mundane stability of a Tuesday afternoon spent in clarity. I celebrate because I hope to help people with my writing.

It takes a certain kind of strength to admit you are ordinary. If you are struggling today, know that just staying in the fight is enough. May this writing bless you in a small way.

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As an extra note, I have documented my life with schizo-spectrum disorders in my memoir - “Torn Bindings” by Mathew Poehler - found on Amazon here - I would love to have a positive review.