I wake up to whispers. They creep in before my eyes even open, murmuring things I can’t quite understand but feel deep in my chest. Some days, the voices are kind, like old friends keeping me company. Other days, they turn dark, telling me I’m not safe, that the world is watching me, judging me.
At first, I thought everyone heard them. I believed the shadows moving in my peripheral vision were real, that the strange looks from people meant they knew something about me that I didn’t. It wasn’t until my sister found me arguing with someone who wasn’t there that I realized—I was different.
Schizophrenia isn’t just about hearing voices. It’s the overwhelming paranoia that makes me doubt my loved ones.
It’s the disorganized thoughts that make conversations exhausting. It’s the struggle to tell what’s real and what’s not. Sometimes, I get lost in my own world, where the lines between reality and delusion blur.
But I’m learning to fight back. Therapy helps me untangle my thoughts. Medication quiets the voices, making the world feel a little less chaotic. Routine keeps me grounded—waking up at the same time, eating well, and getting fresh air. I lean on my support system, even when paranoia tells me to push them away.
I’m not just my diagnosis. I’m an artist, a brother, a dreamer. Schizophrenia may be a part of my life, but it doesn’t define me. With the right help, I’m learning to navigate this world—one step, one breath, one quieted whisper at a time. – Anonymous