By Steve Colori

For many years, I struggled with the ability to discuss challenging topics with friends. I often chose to remain silent, fearing the potential strain on our relationships. My friendships became especially meaningful during the tough times I faced due to schizophrenia, a condition that made it challenging to form new bonds. I felt reliant on those around me and was too apprehensive to rock the boat. The social aspect of dealing with psychosis has been particularly tough, as I found it hard to navigate social situations until recently, when I began to regain the ease I once had before my episodes, making social interactions feel more intuitive.

For a long time, I was under the impression that my friend Anna was sharing my diagnosis with her partners. This thought caused me significant distress, yet I never confronted her about it. Our friendship spans nearly a decade, and she has always been a supportive ally, having a parent who also experienced schizophrenia. Her understanding nature has been a source of comfort during my struggles. She often seemed to advocate for me in social settings when others couldn’t grasp my perspective. Given the importance of our friendship, I didn’t want to jeopardize it by questioning her about what she might have disclosed.

I was convinced that Anna’s romantic partners were aware of my situation, as they often seemed to sense something unusual about me, displaying acceptance towards my quirks. This realization was infuriating yet oddly comforting; it allowed me to relax around people who, I thought, understood my diagnosis and provided a safe space among my social circle, which Anna facilitated.

There were also other friends in our group, people Anna had known for years, whom I assumed were aware of my condition. This ambiguity created awkwardness for me as I attempted to discern who was informed and who wasn’t, leaving a shadow over my relationships. Eventually, I reached a point where I believed that everyone in the group must have known about my diagnosis. This assumption brought me some relief, as I felt assured they would be kind to me, especially during socially challenging moments.

Nonetheless, I did not fully embrace this assumption, as I remained protective of my mental health narrative, guarding against any possibility that someone might discover it. Over the years, I expended considerable emotional energy trying to shield this part of my life or figuring out who might or might not be aware.

Recently, while driving with my friend Jen to meet another group that included Anna, I experienced a hallucination of a barrel in the road that, in reality, wasn’t there. Since Jen had been dating Anna for three years, I assumed she was aware of my condition. When I mentioned the vision, she seemed confused, prompting me to clarify that I sometimes saw things that weren’t present.

“Hallucinations?” she asked, surprised. A painful silence followed, which felt deafening.

“I don’t really call them that; I just refer to them as visions,” I responded. Her lack of familiarity with my diagnosis alarmed me. The following day, I reached out to Anna for the conversation we should have had long ago.

“No, I don’t share your diagnosis with anyone. There’s a lot of stigma, and I experienced that growing up with a mom who had schizophrenia. I keep it private, Steve.”

I was taken aback for many reasons. Throughout my time with Jen, I had believed she was aware of my struggles. I had even shared links to my writing with her, which I now realized she may not have read due to her poor responsiveness. This situation forced me to confront some undeniable truths about myself.

For years, I had assumed that people were kind to me because they were aware of my diagnosis. I regarded their compassion as a result of stigma, while also acknowledging that they were simply good people. I had frequently been reassured that no one perceived my schizophrenia, which I ultimately recognized as true. When I heard this, I thought that no one recognized my mental health challenges, leading me to believe they viewed me as similar to everyone else.

Looking back, I can see that people knew something wasn’t right; they interacted with me differently than they did with others. Reflecting on my own behaviors and social interactions, it’s evident that I was distinct from those around me. It would have been challenging for anyone to overlook my struggles, even if they didn’t specifically identify them as symptoms of schizophrenia.

Thus, while there were visible aspects of my condition, no one could accurately label them as schizophrenia. Simultaneously, I had invested years in concealing my diagnosis, using immense mental resources to do so. As James Baldwin wisely noted, “The trouble with a secret life is that it is very frequently a secret from the person who lives it and not at all a secret for the people he encounters.”

People didn’t have a specific term for what I was experiencing, but they could certainly tell that something was affecting me. More importantly, they recognized the differences in me yet chose to remain my friends and appreciate me for who I am. I often found various explanations for their kindness, failing to attribute it simply to their genuine appreciation for me as a person.

Over the years, this realization has been one of the most challenging to accept. I have faced numerous social traumas, including experiences in middle school, fraternity life, and losing substantial money to those I believed were friends after my second psychotic episode when I was still reeling from my struggles. I was clouded by past trauma, but it took time to understand that many people genuinely care for me, even when I couldn’t see it during my hardest moments.