I was diagnosed late in life with paranoid schizophrenia at the age of 36.  My family and I knew something was going on, but did not know what.  When I was around the age of 26, my parents thought perhaps I had ADD(Attention Deficit Disorder), so they paid for me to see a psychologist; it turned out I did not have ADD; we were all dumbfounded at this point.

Finally, I was officially diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia in 2006 by UNC Hospital Psychiatrists, and it felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders; I was not a total screw-up after all.  It confirmed what I had thought all along after watching A Beautiful Mind; that I was a lot like John Nash.  I remember after an extensive interview with the UNC doctors, they asked me if I thought I was a paranoid schizophrenic, and I answered yes, and then they said, “We think so too.”

I don’t think I could have mustered up the courage to go to my primary care doctor without the support of my awesome wife; she was right there beside me through it all.  I still remember how nervous I was about telling my doctor about my symptoms, and even worse, he had an intern with him which helped me feel even more uncomfortable.  I thought the doctor was going to think I was crazy and laugh me right out of the clinic, but he was very professional about everything; he gave me a number to call at UNC to talk to someone about getting a medical record number and setting up an appointment.

Unfortunately, one of the trends of a paranoid schizophrenic is substance abuse.  I was fourteen years of age the first time I got drunk off of beer.  I was at Lake Gaston in Virginia with my parents, grandparents, and two older brothers.  My grandparents owned a camper on a decent sized lot at the campground; we had a view of the lake and the boathouse from the lot.  At the end of the campground was the man-made beach with a long pier going out over the water, and a nice sized game room behind the beach where my brothers and me played pool, foosball, pinball, and video games.

I spent some of the best days of  my life at Lake Gaston, but it is also where I learned some life lessons.  Lake Gaston was in the middle of nowhere; sometimes in the off-season we would go there just to get out of town; my parents would also spend their vacations there.

Daddy used to take us water skiing and hydro sliding all the time; perhaps you can understand why these days were so special to me, with all the water skiing, swimming, riding my dirt bike, and girls hanging around.  My brothers and I called my grandparents Grandma and Pop, and being able to grow up around them was special; I loved spending time with them because they were so fun to be around.  My parents and grandparents used to spend nights playing cards while my brothers and me would spend time at the game room.

So, one night when I was fourteen, my brother Chad and I go to a party across the lake; we had to leave the camp ground in order to get to this lake-house which was on the water.  There was not many people there, but there was a bar in the basement.  For some reason I decided I was going to get drunk, so I asked the man behind the bar if I could have a beer?  He said, “Sure!”.  I take the beer outside and drink it relatively quickly, so I go back in and ask for another, then another and so on.  I lost count somewhere around five or six beers, and before I know it I am down by the waters edge throwing up something fierce; I am talking projectile vomiting!

The next thing I know I’m back in the car almost passed out, and I remember my brother telling me if I got sick in the car he would kick my butt!  We get back to the camper and it is time to go to bed because it was late at that particlar juncture; Momma, Daddy, Grandma, and Pop were all in bed.  So, I stumble into the camper, and I have to climb onto a suspended bunk hanging over Grandma and Pop; I struggle to get up there, and as soon as I make it,  I start feeling sick; uh oh!  Immediately, I get back down and run out of the camper door, and out the door of the screened-in-porch and I am throwing up once again.

As I am sure you have predicted, I got caught being drunk.  Grandma said she knew something was wrong because I was wiggling around too much while trying to get on that bunk.  The next day was one of the worst days ever; I had never felt so terrible physically.  I got grounded, and I got lectured while I was hung way over, but of course, at the same time my parents were very concerned and very angry with me.

Well, that was my first drunken experience.  A dark memory among many fond memories, and a life-lesson that did not quite take.  Does anyone else think the guy who gave me the beer was trying to teach me a lesson: as in, you are too young to be drinking?  Stay Tuned!

Take care and God bless!

Chris