You Don't Look Schizophrenic: A Decade of Misdiagnosis Before the Truth - Part 2
Part 2
Psychosis, Abuse, and the Truth I Fought a Decade to Hear
Guest Voices Contributor: Mackenzie Robbins
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and are shared as part of the Escape the System Guest Voices project.
Missed Part 1?
The man I was with—a cult-leader figure—held my illness over me as leverage. He threatened to "out" my condition to my family if I told anyone about the sexual abuse. At the time, the thought of exposure brought not only deep shame, but a paralyzing fear that no one would believe me if they knew I had schizophrenia. The silence only broke when I finally confided in a trusted friend. I unburdened myself of the surreal horrors I had been living through: how my ex forced me to call him God, Devil, or Master; how he pressured me to recruit women for a planned compound while he worked on a ministry degree; how he convinced me that people were stealing organs from my body; and how I was forced to sleep on a mattress on the floor. I also revealed the truth that he had drugged and raped both me and his other exes. Because my desperate pleas for proper psychiatric treatment had gone unheard, I had fallen entirely into a chasm of severe abuse, my reality further distorted by regular psychedelic drug use.
After escaping, I believed that my symptoms would alleviate, but naturally, they persisted. I still believed that my loved ones or coworkers were demons and that my mind was being read by my ex or evil psychiatrists through phone lines. I had bought $500 worth of emf blocking products, including a steel wool hat. Soon, I began to hallucinate: neon words floating in the air, a clown head in a tree, people who would disappear, and flowers or geometric shapes.
In 2023, I decided to give the medical system another try out of desperation. At the time, I was convinced my family had sold me into a satanic cult as a child, and that psychiatrists had found out I knew and were sending aliens to erase my memories. I saw an alien at the end of my bed and felt like I was being hit with direct-energy weapons. That same night, I had my first seizure of many, and decided I’d had enough.
I went first to neurologists, who once again told me I had PTSD. I was put on a year-long waitlist for an eight-hour cognitive exam and MMPI, while in the meantime undergoing brain scans and a sleep study. I sought a psychiatrist for sleep, run ragged from a manic episode, and was only offered Zyprexa (one of the most physically taxing antipsychotics on the body). I had unraveled into believing my mind was going to be sucked into AI. I was late to work every morning out of fear that if I drove my car I would have a heart attack and cause a severe accident on the road. I was checking myself for various illnesses dozens of times a day, at one point going to the ER convinced my foot was necrotic. I was, once again, told that I had PTSD.
When the cognitive exam finally came, my results indicated Bipolar 1 with psychotic features. The neuropsychologist said I’d have to be monitored for a six-month period for schizophrenia, which hearing aloud unleashed a decade's worth of pent-up pain. Seeing my distress, he laughed and asked “why are you crying? This is not a death sentence. You’re a bright young woman who is going to be very successful.” I admitted my fear of being seen as delusional, especially since I was taking an ex to court at the time for domestic violence. He said words that will forever stick with me: “just because you have bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, does not mean you deserve to be abused.”
I switched practices again and did eventually receive the diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type, receiving the treatment I had fought for a decade prior. It was a treatment that would have saved me from years of a fractured reality and the total erosion of my quality of life. Instead of my insight being used as a tool for recovery, it was weaponized against me as a barrier to care. I was not only gaslit by an abusive partner; I was gaslit by the very institution that was supposed to be my safety net. My agonizing reality was dismissed because I didn’t fit stereotypical medical perceptions.
We drastically need a structural shift in medical education. We must dismantle clinical stigma and recognize that severe mental illness does not look like a textbook caricature. It doesn’t always look like the extreme cases or like a psychological thriller. Early detection should not have to rely on a person reaching absolute rock bottom. Professionals must be trained to listen to a client’s self-awareness so that years-long battles for accurate care can finally become a thing of the past. I went on to come out to my family about my condition, and instead of the rejection I had always expected, I was met with support and understanding.
Today I am a peer support specialist who is able to advocate for others who are still living in the darkness I once did. I successfully live on my own, attended college, and now work three community mental health jobs, while balancing hobbies like the gym and sketching. While living independently and managing symptoms may be difficult at times, I am blessed to be able to support others as they transition into their own fulfilling lives.
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