Honestly, if you were to look at my childhood from an aerial streaming video ( and in retrospect ) you'd have guessed I was crazy from the beginning.
There is mental illness on both sides of my family, and I'm not blaming anyone that I bore the brunt of it all, just stating a fact.
I was angry beyond just regular teen angst, did the kookiest things, and had a raging cage of undiagnosed Tourette Syndrome that my family pretty much neglected to acknowledge.
Oh yes, I was crazy. But I was also smart and talented and pretty. People thought I was simply charming, or particularly daring, or a good sport or radical, or or, or, something and somebody out of the ordinary.
Kenosha, Wis., was probably not the best setting to grow up as a teen with undiagnosed Tourette's syndrome and bipolar disorder. You know, there were small-town attitudes, judgment, gossip and all that—and on top of that, I was a dyke. I did have a supportive, loving family and I turned what could have been several "strikes" against me into a way of life. Thinking and acting out-of-the-box before that buzz term became popular and overused. A non-conformist, as it was called back in the day; a queer anti-assimilationist activist and writer today.
Then, I was "quirky," "intelligent" "kooky," "charming," "endearing," "too smart for her own good," "a good writer," "defiant" and "hyper." Defiant? You bet. I was hyper—well, manic, really—but none of use knew it then. That my angsty teenage brooding was actually depression and my excessive energy was really mania.
At 17, I moved to the big city, Chicago; did stints at both Loyola and Columbia College; studied journalism for two years; and dropped out of college, much to my parents chagrin. I moved to Philadelphia and then New York. It was all calculated to become a writer in the city that never sleeps and supposedly makes artistic dreams come true—and it was all planned and carried out at a frenetic place.
I think I had just turned 25, maybe 26, when I landed in an unheated, rented room in Chinatown in October 1990, the hottest autumn in NYC ever. Totally by happenstance, I met a fellow Kenoshan who lived on the floor below me—small world, indeed. I interviewed for jobs all over the five boroughs, but no one would hire me and I didn't understand why until I worked at the Charles H. Gay Shelter for Homeless Men on New York's Ward's Island. The consulting psychiatrist mentioned that my Tourette's might have played a part in being repeatedly rejected in workplaces all over Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx.
I worked with mentally ill clients without knowing how strikingly similar I was to them. I work also in close proximately to the Kirby Forensic Institute for the Criminally Insane where, walking through the screams and shrieks and stench of those labeled "demented," I regularly went for lunch in the basement deli.
I fell for the psychiatrist who diagnosed my Tourette's and put me on medication to pretty much squelch it. It was a tumultuous, nay, abusive relationship that lasted 10 years.
I ran directly into the arms of another woman to escape the abuse—how lesbian! She manipulated me and cheated on me. I ran to yet another lover. And, I have to admit I not only rained on the parade of each these relationships, I destroyed already tenuous situations; I attempted suicide during each of these three relationships.
The final time, I was incarcerated in a loony bin. I reflected a lot, wrote about my experience, and finally found a useful, respectful and caring therapist who has helped me to turn things around 360.
I no longer follow my old bad relationship patterns, and I refuse to surround myself with or engage in drama. I am in a healthy primary relationship with a wonderful woman who is a talented and quirky writer in her own right. It sounds so Harlequin romance—yuck!—but it's really just a matter of pulling it all together and accomplishing the impossible: being happy.
Until a few years ago, I never through being happy was a part of my life's lexicon. I've been lucky to have a "team" helping me to recover—a cadre of people including friends, family, friends who are family, extremely supportive and flexible mental heath professionals, and others.
I was also writing about my experiences as they were happening. A cathartic process for sure, but nothing publishable.
Now, I'm finally ready for prime time. I'm rewriting the draft of a manuscript of my memoir that has been collecting dust for two or three years.
Beautiful Wreck: Sex, Lies & Suicide is the project of my lifetime; it tells my story and helps demystify mental illness and erase the incredible stigma still attached to it. I know how to write; I've got a byline in various lesbian and gay niche media outlets—you may have seen my name in Curve Magazine or GO Magazine, or on Shewired.com or what have you. Now it's time to write for and about myself.
If you'd like to find out more about me and my book project, and how to support both, please check out my website: stephanieschroeder.tumblr.com .
I invite any and all feedback. You can reach me at Stephanie@beautifulwreck.com . Please let me know what you think.
