Schizosensitive and Me, and Clarice Lispector

(...and why I cry too much)

Besides paranoia, one of the biggest side effects of schiz includes extreme sensitivity—and I believe it often a misconception when interpreting those levels of sensitivity as unruly. The paradigm of being schizoid almost always feels non-conceptual, delegating reactions as intrinsically obscure, and I almost always take offense as a mentally impaired person myself. I’m certain that pain can be regulated, but pain inflates and encrusts the process of someone who manages their disorders; it may be a poke, but it feels like a kick. I’m trying my best to modify my uncanniness, and maybe I’ll eventually be able to write about what it means to be gentle to someone living outside of their brain.

Love sometimes feels ripe, but just a little too ripe. Biting into it when it hasn’t had the opportunity to develop taste, and the skin doesn’t tear against the teeth like it should. I’m sometimes too malicious for love, and I’ve convinced myself that that was okay, some people choose to prey on it I’ve learned—place it in a tub of batter and watch the flakes fall off as it ruptures. Then others, the decimal of others, will really make me believe that there’s value in my chaotic thoughts. My intrusion feels welcomed, and my dreams feel claustrophobic. I sometimes speak into the sky, demanding validation that could somehow cure this disturbance. It’s sometimes difficult to even feel a connection to my own name, when I can’t always assert myself as Jade.

I broke up with my therapist January 2nd, 2025. She had been my therapist for a little under a year, and I am someone who has been in therapy for nearly a decade—so I knew what good therapy looked like for me. I broke up with her because she wanted to issue this idea that I wasn’t confident in the person that I am. I’m unwell, but I’m not unconfident. It wasn’t the first time I attempted to put an end to our relationship, the last time I did, she called and texted me several times requesting to speak to me. The call resulted in a FaceTime video where she again, reinstated this idea that I don’t know what I want or what I need. During our last meeting, I challenged her rhetoric and I told her that I’m thankful that given my very complicated upbringing, I’m able to continue to give myself some kind of grace. This is how I knew I needed to end things.

There’s a void that I felt I was trying to expend with my therapist. The absence of a black parental figure, and having a therapist who was an older black woman made it difficult for me to not see her as a family member. That was something I also had to recognize for myself. My therapist wasn’t a family member, and though she sent me Happy Holiday text messages in the same way a family member would, I still paid her for her time. I cried when she would criticize my actions, and felt personally dismissed when ridiculed my persistent crying.

Something I know about myself, is that my feelings get hurt and they will get hurt. I cry ugly, with my mouth open and snot slipping round the contour of my wailing mouth.

Subconsciously, I’ll pick apart the anatomy of any relationship that I am in because every relationship feels predetermined by my past. My fortune is gunky and it makes a mess. Simple is an ideology that gags at my consideration of it. My ex once told me something, and that something I might live by, “You can’t expect to have a normal relationship, when nothing about your life has been normal.” So, I had to start asking myself, should I stop striving for this level of normalcy that I desperately wish to achieve? Instead of fight against my urges to retract, I have to live in them. Not let them overwhelm me, but allow them to become a catalyst for some kind of growth. I can’t push against this grainy outlook, I have to reconstruct my vision of relationships, and the person who can see that, will really see me for me—and during the moments I struggle to.

I picked out a book recently, which is a compilation of stories by Clarice Lispector, and when understanding Clarice and her form of expression, I had to understand what it meant to be her. There are countless essays written about Clarice and the way she understands self, and I feel there is power in that. I’m on a journey to learn Portuguese, and that derives from both my Angolan roots but interest in living in Latin America, potentially Brazil. “E tudo é muito para um coração de repente enfraquecido que só suporta o menos, só pode querer o pouco e aos poucos.” Which roughly translates to: And everything is too much for a suddenly weakened heart that can only bear the least, can only want little and little by little.

To live with a mental health disorder feels as if you’re going through an existential awakening every quarter, and maybe more if you’re unable to manage symptoms. I spend a lot of time talking out loud, and this can be extremely off putting for some or those who aren’t used to impractical conversations, but it’s how I also reset my mind, but draw validation from others who may not be as warped as me—even if their point of view contradicts my own. Under the umbrella of relationships that feel catastrophic, friendships are where I become stunned. It’s easier to mask in relationships sometimes because softness and lust can cloud those anxieties, but that’s something you can’t do with friendships. You’re left having to expose yourself sometimes, and I want my friends to like me.

There isn’t a lot of sympathy for the schiz, and I had to stop asking for it. In all honesty, I think sympathy is lacking across the board, and it’s not something you find lying dormant in the streets. The age of understanding is dwindling and we’re left recording videos of ourselves dancing to the background of loneliness. This disorder is trying, but it forces me to self reflect and make a greater attempt at relating to others. Because, when you feel like no one can really connect with you, you make a hell of an effort to build a bridge.

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Jade, Founder of Papers Publishing