The Scale of Intelligence

I am often asked what my worst symptom is, and my answers vary from day to day. When my hallucinations are consuming, I might say that (if I can even get out the words). Anxiety has made a normal life challenging most days and impossible other days. Delusions, trouble taking care of myself and my body, depression, mania, and disorganized thinking have all been my answers, too.

People get uncomfortable when I use the term disabled, but that’s the language we have for just my case . . . at least some days. And that might not make sense to you. Disabled one day and not the next? Weird, but that’s exactly how it is. I would guess most people with a disability would tell you the same thing. Some days it is obvious that our lives are less than normal – that we have disabled days, the bad days. Other days might be better. Maybe our disability doesn’t come into play that day. The symptoms or circumstances align themselves just right to let us have a normal day. But, I suppose these are all disabled days because we cannot chose when these days happen. We are thrust into a life without choice, without prediction, without an ability to find our way back to normalcy.

So, to say my worst symptom of a brain disease is my brain would be of little surprise. However, the medical field is pretty firm on this point: schizophrenia doesn’t affect a person’s intelligence

. . . oh, but yes, it does.

I don’t view my intelligence in terms of grandiosity or through a lack of a critical self. I think I am smart . . . well, some days. I’m not talking genius, but I can be thoughtful, well-reasoned, and have a good recall for information. Most people would agree with me about this assessment of my intelligence to a certain extent.

But, it’s not every day.

And that’s the issue. My intelligence is a sliding scale. My doctors would correct me; they would say it’s not intelligence that moves up and down, it’s executive function. I understand this argument, but it’s not how I feel. Give me an IQ test and I will score differently based upon my level of function, based on where on the scale of intelligence I just happen to find myself that day.

Let me put you inside my head for a little bit (don’t worry – you won’t hear or see anything too scary).

The lower side of the scale:

I . . . can’t . . . think. Lights and noise and screams and thoughts that are not my own and not even real, at least to you. It’s an onslaught of stimulus with the only aid being unconsciousness. Nothing exists on this days. Only the prison I am trapped in inside my skull. Somedays I know I’m in there, crying out for reprieve. Somedays I lose even that. My brain is hijacked, and I hope I survive.

The lower middle of the scale:

I have limits. Not only with my vocabulary and attention span, but limits on how comfortable I am talking and expressing myself. I get tired, my energy used up just trying to look normal. I put myself on autopilot. I speak without thinking in order to hold myself steady. The person in front of you is not quite there, but is enough that you might not even notice. I let my mind do what it needs and only take control to censor myself when I feel some slipping. And when I slip, I disappear. It’s easier to stop responding to texts than it is to use up the energy to explain that, “no, I’m fine, just tired.”

The upper middle of the scale:

I’m off autopilot. You have me in front of you. I’m thinking through issues, but limiting myself in order to stay where I am. I’ll talk to you about whatever you want, and I’ll be as present and genuine as I can. I might even get into some arguments because I’m confident enough to think through whatever might be said. I’m having a “good day.” I can use my full vocabulary, and I’ll enjoy reading because I can understand and think through the chapters. I’ll be careful not to exert myself, but I’ll give you what I can.

The upper side of the scale:

I am comfortable in my mind. It’s basically as simple as that. It’s not some heightened level of intelligence.

It’s just me.

My training wheels come off, and I am free to let my mind wander.

I’ve heard this more times than I wish, but I will get something along the lines of, “it’s good to have the old Nate back.” And as hard as this can be to hear, I am glad I get to hear it, sometimes.

I am present. I am aware. I am smart.

I don’t get to choose what day I get – how much of my true self I and you get to see. It’s all left up to my brain, and we don’t always get along. I can be smart. I can also be so locked inside my head that I can’t even think enough to answer a simple question like, “are you okay?”

Everyone has days that they are more and less capable, and for you, those are random, too.

I don’t think I’m unique in that I can sometimes surprise myself with saying something smart. I’ not unique in that I have a foggy brain that’s just not quite operating at full capacity. Get a hangover and just try to do some math. We all deal with inconsistencies in how well we can think. The sliding scale is more predictable and kinder to you than it is me, though.

I guess what it really comes down to is that my intelligence, wherever on the scale I find myself on any given day, isn’t the issue that I find so disheartening.

It’s that somedays I’m scared of or uncomfortable in my own mind.

I get lost to the whims of a brain.

My stupid, bad days are days I can’t even be myself.