The only protection against death was to love solitude. // Brenda Hillman, Saguaro
As Ronald David Laing puts forth in The Divided Self: An Existential Study in Sanity and Madness instead of [(self/body) <> other], it’s [self <> (body-other)]. Schizoidness is like an enduring apathy, a perennial tepidness.
I’m probably what you’d call a somewhat, self-limited, or high functioning schizoid. As in though I’m still eccentric, I’ve had it all my life so I know how to somewhat work around and with my condition to the extent that I’m normal (whatever that means) if you don’t inspect too closely. Salman Akhtar’s phenomenological profile outlines me so well that I have a very hard time differentiating myself from my supposed disorder; where do I begin, where does it end, I don’t know.
The main factors for me are that (1) though I’m an emotional hyper-reflective being my emotions can either be labelled as diluted or too in-check, that (2) I derive no overwhelming special feeling from praise or condemnation or from being part of anything- be it family, group, social class, that (3) I work and feel better alone, that (4) I almost always have a different perspective on things, and that (5) as Laing put it though I am fully aware I am myself, relating myself to myself happens as a secondary process.
When you feel anger I presume you show anger, I on the other hand, at this point, just internally remark to myself “I should probably be angry.” The only situations that incite anger are when I make a fool of myself, when someone’s trying to pull some wool over my eyes, or when someone breaks a contract of sorts (be it verbal, logical, or legal) with me; and even in these cases my usual reaction is to just count the broken contract as lost and to either never contract again in the future or to contract foreknowing that the contract will be broken. This is basics in business and politics, but less so when it comes to family and friends. Example: if you, as a friend, say you need to borrow money from me and that you’ll pay it back at a certain date I’ll fully believe that you intend to keep your word, but if said date rolls around and you still haven’t payed me back I don’t feel any anger, and after giving you due notice of your late repayment, I don’t ever ask or pester for said money back unless it’s an extremely large sum and/or detrimental to my livelihood, I chalk it up as a failure/aspect of your character that I should be wary of in the future. And if you ever approach me for another loan I feel no tugging at the heartstrings in bluntly saying no even if it puts you in a life threatening situation, be you friend or close family. And on the rare occasions that I reenter into a second contract when you’ve broken the first, it’s not that I feel emotionally swayed, but because logically my relation to you overwhelmingly predetermines that I should.
I’ve realized that my ability to be lenient when wronged and to withstand condemnation without fuss impresses that I’m a push over, but so be it, it’s better than the alternative of egging on an oppressor who revels in their oppression or of losing a friend or lover to confessions of not feeling all that directly affected by anything they’ve said or done.
I inhabit a world where only I have direct emotional control of myself with the default state being one of emotionlessness (better put, affectlessness). If you punch me you don’t make me angry- I’ll become angry if in the context I have no logical positive other than to be angry, if you do something to make me happy you won’t make me happy- I’ll become happy if in the context I have no logical positive other than to be happy. The only feelings that I experience somewhat firsthand are genuine surprise and genuine fear, as in not the fear of failing to obtain an abstract concept like ‘rich / not poor’ but of being mauled by a tiger running straight at me (this, for survival’s sake, makes complete sense). (I’m drawn to great improv humour for its inherent quality of surprise.)
I have to forcibly be part of the group and upkeep relationships, they’re not my natural inclinations. Having survived a genocide which was, although political, largely based in group mentality, I’m always slightly sickened the moment it rears its head. I have a prejudice of group mentality that I have to logically counter, I presume group mentality prefigures a witch-hunt. (Team sports have never been my thing.) I’ve worked my ass off fighting myself to be part of groups and relationships. It’s very easy to misinterpret someone when they say that being friends or family or partners with you is a task for them, but this is how I feel about the daily requirements of relationships. Sherlock Holmes (fictional high functioning sociopath) said he abhorred the dull routines of existence while I rather feel nothing at all, to the point of forgetting about the social requirement of social existence for months at times. I’m apathetic about the dull routines, but I go through with them for the people I care for because they care for them.
I’m a nail-biter, as a kid I had mild on and off cases of dermatophagia and obsessive-compulsive disorder (which are common among male schizoids with a schizophrenic lineage), I showed signs of having attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and asperger syndrome (late to start talking, fascination with puzzles and details, obsession with perfection, processing things better if a part of my body is moving rapidly, information just acquired feeling like it’s flowing directly into long-term memory, endlessly talking about a subject when given free reign and stopping when realizing that people are tired of me spewing, being so engrossed in an activity that I lose track of time or of my need to eat, &c. [every test I’ve ever taken concludes that I am, in fact, very much an aspie]), and though seeking contact with another person was the last thing on my mind (to the point that I never noticed until my teen years) I was extremely sensitive to touch and attention directed towards me (now it’s just not so extreme). I’ve forcibly desensitized myself a great deal (through actions like making it mandatory to make eye contact and hug people no matter how awkward it is) but even now if someone directs their attention towards me or enters my personal space and touches me I become hyperaware of their touch and of the world/context in which we’re in while touching. There’s a theory that the too sensitive person develops schizoid personality disorder as a form of necessary desensitization, and I believe this to be true, partially; (1) I’ve always been a tad oversensitive to sights, sounds, pain, and such, (2) I’m consciously aware that in order for me to converse with someone smoothly I narrow my scope of focus, sense, and memory, and (3) I almost always slow down my processing speed (in a way, I turn a part of my brain off).
With that said about my sensitivity, I’m neither timid nor guarded about my body, though I abhor grandstanding. As in if I was fat (physically unattractive by society’s standards) or nudity was the norm I would be publicly topless or nude from time to time, but with me being in good shape I remain mostly clothed because an aspect of schizoid personality disorder is both a desire to be ambiguous, unfixed, and ungraspable by society and more so reality, and a realization that actions are by their very essence fixed to be determined from an objective standpoint by society (multiple subjectives don’t count as objective, but it’s the only workable model), and so actions like staying clothed are adopted from a perspective of, “Would society think I’m seeking attention or applause?” without much regard to my being since my being/self is seen as other from my own body and society at large [self <> (body-other)]. I’m definitely not histrionic (nor sociopathic, sociopaths lack empathy to the extent that they fail to grasp what others think and feel about their actions, schizoids don’t).
This schizoid desire of ambiguity also forces itself into my work. My work has to either be perfectly and simply clear, or creative and must kill two or three birds with one stone for me to feel at all at ease with it. Although complex abstract concepts are easier for me to grasp (subconsciously I hold that the whole world I operate in is abstract so going one or two steps farther isn’t a big deal), this need for complexity or extreme simplicity is stupid and I would instantly change it if I could. I have turned down too many simple and easy straightforward jobs just because they were muddled by peoples’ human nature, and ambiguous and/or complex work is rarely cared for by the public (but this is where the subconscious detesting of grandstanding and group mentality rears its head again). Before I started working creatively by/for myself I had countless day and night jobs- I far prefer night jobs, simply put the fewer the people the better I work. Unlike the sociopath or full-blown aspie I’m very much aware of the social cues around me and of my actions and place, socially, in regards to other people, but like the sociopath I’m not much seduced by relations and like the full-blown aspie I tend to care more about the work (about solving a problem, patterns, perfection, the art of it all, &c.) more than I do the people I’m working with.
In approaching my work and how I live I can best be described as partially sadomasochistic, partially narcissistic, and partially depressive. In that since I’m almost always apathetic about everything I do (from reading to watching a movie to writing to working out to traveling, &c.), I must lambaste myself into doing anything. This is the defining factor for my considering myself high functioning; though I’m perpetually lethargic, I force myself to go through the motions of daily life because I realize that my apathy isn’t the best judge of what’s worth doing or not. (If you picture indifference to others as a given, imagine that indifference spilling over into other areas of life every once in a while.) At the end of it all the fact that while consumed with my perpetual day-long struggles against apathy and lethargy I still accomplish more than most people who work with-in relationships just makes me more driven to be alone, no matter how detrimental that is to my very being. And it also makes me narcissistic in that I know to the core that I can sustain myself without need of anyone. In comparing myself to others I’m narcissistic in that I feel superior because while others need others, I don’t. But, in comparing myself to my own ideas of self I’m depressive. An aspect of schizoid personality disorder is that my fantastical life is grand and logically possible, and so are my opinions of what the world should be and what I myself should be. As the world fails to meet my high expectations I think myself superior to it (which eventually leads to what David Foster Wallace rightfully titled as “a mood of jaded weltschmerz”), but as I fail to reach my own high expectations I think myself the greatest failure (appending the apathy, this is why praise and condemnation rarely affects me- I simultaneously praise and berate myself more than you ever could). The depressive, self-berating, stages are particularly concentrated in that when I fail to reach my own fantastical expectations I still think myself ‘other’ in relation to society, so that I simultaneously hold society above myself (it didn’t fail, I failed, I’m the failure) all while narcissistically thinking myself above it (it doesn’t aim high, I aim high). And in this depressive state I’m again narcissistic in my regard that I’m able to be completely truthful with myself as to how much I suck while society at large fears facing itself… Yes, it’s complicated.
Language-wise I have a monotone voice and I alternate between eloquence and inarticulateness constantly without much noticing this until it’s pointed out (someone pretty much summed how I’m taken when they told me, “I don’t know what you’re saying, but it sounds beautiful”… I don’t really fancy not being understood). And with schizoid personality disorder being a detachment disorder I have a hard time with the concept of “I;” I don’t fully grasp the person I see in the mirror as myself, and although I’m practicing to change this, when leaving to-do notes and such for myself I must address myself with the secondary “You” in order for me to feel that the note is addressing me, if I write “I must visit so and so tomorrow” it takes me a second’s pause for me to relate to the I, but “You must visit so and so tomorrow” arises no such pause.
This schizoid detachment from self is also apparent during sex. If say I have sex with you, I won’t truly feel I’m having sex with you unless in the act I also imagine myself having sex with you. Are you cheating on someone if you’re picturing them while having sex with them? I’ve tried to answer that for years. I also lack any normal sense of ownership. If we’re in a sexual relationship and you want to add someone else or be with someone else while with me, I think nothing of it outside of the whole STD aspect of things. In my perfect world sex would be just an aspect / bodily encounter of social life, not the aspect of social life, something akin to a long-held hug.
Before the whole dance that’s sex, in courting, I’m a natural at the hot-and-cold approach I guess. If we exchange numbers I’ll honestly never think all that much about calling you; (1) I’m rarely the first to call anyone unless I need something I can’t provide for myself, (2) when people call me for reasons that aren’t specifically “help with this problem” based I’m very slow to respond, and (3) just conversing via phone is awkward for me in itself (if I speak in a way that’s comfortable for me I can clearly tell my tone’s too monotone, that it doesn’t convey that I’m actually invested in the conversation, and so I have to affix an emotional veneer; texting and email are lifesavers). I have to motivate myself in order to approach people, but I have no drastic qualms with casually talking to anyone outside of business, no matter how they look or are (biologically that certain kind of beautiful woman still always gets my heart-rate up something fierce though), because I almost always feel like there’s nothing on the line sexual or otherwise since I prefer being alone over all forms of relationships (most conversations I’m mainly trying to gauge what expectations of me are [what hopes are placed on my shoulders] and whether or not I can or should fulfill them). I’ll usually unintentionally ignore you if something else like music or the dance floor draws me in with its beauty, and I’ve never truly hit on someone verbally to this day. It’s taken me a while to realize that no matter the topic if I’m sexually aligned with someone they’ll always presume my driving force is sexual (“Me, Man! You, Woman! We, Sex!”). (I find it weird that a gorgeous man or woman would start a conversation with you while their body language screams that they think you just want to have sex with them and thus somehow they’re above you.)
Early on I guessed I was doing something both right and wrong when later, much after the fact (after the missed opportunity), women I’d conversed with would ask me something along the lines of “What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you want to fuck me?” To which I’d reply something along the lines of “Of course, I don’t know about that implied actor / acted-up term you’ve got there, but you’re beautiful and we’d have had amazing sex if we did.” “So, why didn’t you get the hint that I was attracted and ask for my number and insist on prattling on about mundane things?” they’d counter. And in realizing we weren’t mentally compatible I’d answer, “Because even though I recognized the look in your eyes, I liked talking about those mundane things and that’s all I really wanted to do. You’re attractive but sex wasn’t a priority on my list. Why didn’t you ask for mine?” And they’d either verbally or non-verbally say “You’re the man!” (I probably wouldn’t be so awkward at relationships if they were as straightforward, casual, and honest as I am with myself. But since they’re not, I prefer being alone [“I used to think the worst thing in life was to end up all alone. It’s not. The worst thing in life is ending up with people who make you feel all alone.” // Robin Williams as Lance Clayton, World’s Greatest Dad].) The fleeting attractive nature of casual aloofness coupled with the incompatibility of the schizoid mindset leads to a lot of one night stands rather than anything resembling a long-term relationship. What always skews people’s idea of me as a mentally compatible partner is that although I feel perplexed and a false sense of self amidst adult relationships, I have no such barrier when it comes to interacting with kids and aloof animals; as with my liking for improv humour with its inherent quality of surprise, so too is my fondness for children and animals with their inherent quality of bluntness.
If the option of being alone is non-existent I’d much rather be in the playpen or the zoo than at an adult social gathering. A great aspect of schizoid personality disorder is that I hold no special feelings for anything (which includes things like norms, traditions, institutions, classes, race, nationality, sexuality, status, ideas of good or evil), I get to go wherever I go without much being affected by some feeling of what people think of me (unless what they think of me directly affects my physical safety). Only what I think of me is of importance to me. The negative aspect of this being that I also care not for how much time I put into something or how much something costs to the extent that if, figuratively, my house burned down with everything I cared and worked for inside I’d shrug and at most berate myself for the act of stupidity on my part in letting my house burn down (more focus is had on the act that caused the loss than the loss itself). Although this seems positively stoic or zen-like in its detachment, realize that one needs a sense of attachment to care for anything, and thus do anything. Since I intrinsically lack this sense of attachment, I logically append it (picture the mind flogging the body in order to get the day’s work done). Don’t get me wrong, I do have love for people and things, and in turn want to be loved by people and such, but at my extremes either everything’s calmly delightful and easy and enjoy-worthy or it’s a shade of bland so insipid it’s all tasteless and unnecessary and pointless and unreal and whatever… quite redundant. For some reason, when everything’s horribly pointless it’s also more pronounced; music I’m listening to becomes excruciatingly loud, colours become more vivid, smells more noticeable, and patterns more easily perceptible; hearing, seeing, and smelling things others don’t, even if they’re in fact existent, is enough to make anyone question their sanity.
Looking back, I can clearly see how my schizoidness manifested itself, and how it didn’t. In both cases the cause was and is my relation to people. I grew up in what most people would call harsh environments, and I moved around a lot as a kid (and still do). I was forced into constant contact with all manner of people, this has developed my sort of high functionality through a dire need to survive in quickly changing social environments. In this I’ve also realized that the longer I stay in one social environment the less at ease I feel due to the ensuing requirements/hurdles of having to form deeper relationships with people who I don’t quite get (hurdles I have a hard time with). If I’m with people (better put, the same people) too long I feel claustrophobic (this includes seeing the same employee at a cash register more than once).
Again, don’t misunderstand, I’m not deterred by people, I quite like people, I just have a problem with human nature and I don’t quite totally connect with the individual person all that much. The idea of being alone on Earth puts too big a smile on my face (a schizoid woman held an online Q&A, and though I relate to her more than I have anybody I’ve ever met, and though I think we’d be fantastic friends or neighbours, I’d probably comfortably/enjoyably see her about twice a month, if not twice a year). The average sways of human nature, albeit horribly beautiful in their self-destruction, self-delusion, insincerity, and inefficiency, are on their front so predictable and boring to me that I don’t understand how anyone could either be fully emotionally involved or enthusiastically move so (in realizing that people don’t usually want to move so yet are unable to stop themselves I find myself an outcast for the very fact that I’ve always controlled my emotional extremes too well, something akin to a sword with no discernible sharp-edge; what good does a dull blade serve in battle?). “I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go.” // Charles Bukowski
I’d give anything to connect with people long-term without it feeling fake or claustrophobic or hard on my part. I’d give anything to find true love, or true friendship, or true &c.. I’ve searched and searched and I still haven’t met anyone who felt right for me emotionally or anything close to right, and I’d have a hard time saying that watching people who seem truly in love doesn’t depress me about my own make-up (“I’d love to be that idiot in that romantic comedy,” says the Tin Man).
I can’t apprehend the multitudes of people who happily label themselves as schizoid. Why the hell would you consciously want to be someone who’s more comfortable alone? Because you can’t muster enough courage to deal with the world? Because you have some Ayn Rand-like desire for a title that explains away your failures to form deep relationships with people as a positive? Because you have this wrongheaded belief that you’re above all else since “they just can’t fathom you?” Being schizoid leaves you with the ever-present thought of there being nothing for you here. Why would you want to feel that? Please don’t group me in with anyone who pridefully calls themselves schizoid, most likely they’re not (I’d rather call myself weird, but schizoid comprehends me better) and I can’t stand the idea of a diagnosis being distorted by means of the impostors outnumbering the genuine (which I wholly suspect they already do).
Myself, I mostly like being around people for the same reasons a scientist or writer does; as a way to submerge in something that fascinates me, that I yearn for deeply, I’ll ultimately find myself a stranger in a strange land, and I’m purposely floundering as a means of growing closer. Just call me weird, or something like that.
Why? Because, though I’m here confessing I’m schizoid, I’ve always had a problem with labels (I can’t tell whether I’m insane or smart for writing “though” instead of “because,” somehow ironic, or just redundant [let’s not question whether my use of redundant is in itself itself]). I find labels to be too short and easy interpretations for what’s actually happening existentially. To consider mental disorder to be disorder you first have to believe that the normal (again, whatever that is) way of thinking, reacting, and coming to terms with the world and self is solely synonymous with right and ordered, which I don’t (we are afterall heterogeneous through necessity, but the sine qua non of a set norm/baseline is easy to understand). I side more with schizotypy than I do the DSM‘s shorthands of illness anddisorder– there are no clear boundaries between sanity and madness, psychosis is simply an extreme expression of thoughts and behaviours that are present to varying degrees throughout the population (but I’m presuming the general population has no idea what introverted anhedonia means so the value of that word in simple, time constrained, conversation is almost nil). We’re all surviving the best way we know how with the differing tools equipped to us. I accept myself as schizoid because it’s the label/shorthand that best interprets the way I’ve learnt to survive with my tools and because it gives me a simple term to point to when communicating simply (something along the lines of, “I have that thing Kafka has, and look at that we’re both boy-faced writers with fast metabolisms, weird.”). The best thing that ever happened to me is that for most of my life I was ignorant, I and the people around me never knew of this label (I still consider myself ignorant), I wasn’t compulsorily labelled nor wrongly and involuntarily medicated, and thus I was forced to think indiscriminately and come to terms with myself by myself; the way it should be, for all of us.
And please, if you feel overwhelmed, moved, by all this confession, realize that though I write to be more open this’s most likely a form of schizoid exhibitionism.
love, from a schizoid’s perspective:
but how can i not be complex
if i’m nothing but
the simplest thing
you’ve ever held is the lover’s lie
i give nothing
but the truth
but i fear i no longer
issue what honesty is
the simplest thing
your only love
i am everything
but you love me
but how can you
if i’m nothing but