Together in the Darkness

We had our fifteenth support group meeting today, and five of us came together. There was something particularly joyful and refreshing about today's meeting. We felt more collective, more connected, and there was a sense that we could genuinely support and care for one another. In this walk of life, where we each carry our own struggles and challenges related to schizophrenia, being able to come together and simply be with each other feels like a beautiful gift. As the support group continues to unfold, I can increasingly feel our original vision becoming something real on the ground—a community where people can belong, be respected, and care for each other.

One member shared that they had been living with schizophrenia since 2020 and had been doing well. What touched me was not only what they shared, but how they held the space for others. They spoke briefly, making sure there was room for everyone, and also allowed themselves to say that they could return later and share more when they felt ready. I could see something changing in them. They were learning to hold space for another person while also learning that their own experience deserved space too. Their voice sometimes broke with vulnerability, but they did not hide it. For me, this was a beautiful sign of growth, and it also gave me a sense of support and care as I facilitated the meeting.

Another member shared about having lived with immense suffering for almost forty years. They spoke about a decade of their life that felt like hell, where they felt nobody really cared or listened to what they were going through. There was so much anger towards their family and so much grief about the ways they had been neglected. They had experienced self-harm and suicide attempts, and later entered a marriage that became abusive and deeply traumatic. Now they are trying to find their way towards a more authentic life, while carrying the sorrow of how their life has unfolded.

They spoke about being told as a child that they were not beautiful, that they were ugly, and being bullied about their appearance. Over time, these messages became part of how they saw themselves. They began to feel unworthy and unlovable. Yet today they are trying to tell themselves something different: I am lovable. They repeat these affirmations to themselves, trying to build a different relationship with the self that has been hurt for so many years.

They also spoke about their belief that there may be an evil spirit behind schizophrenia. I appreciated that they could bring this belief into the group without being ridiculed or immediately dismissed. It reminded me again that people's experiences of schizophrenia can also be deeply connected with their spiritual and cultural worlds. We need spaces where people can speak about these meanings openly, while also having room to explore them with curiosity.

Another member joined us from Singapore and shared about a recent solo trip to London. During the journey, they began hearing voices and eventually returned home and experienced another psychotic episode only a couple of weeks ago. Their first experience of psychosis had happened two years earlier, when they felt completely out of control and disconnected from their own body and consciousness. They became dependent on their family to care for them.

Coming from a Muslim family, their parents had tried to make sense of what was happening through their own spiritual beliefs and brought a religious figure to perform an exorcism. They understood where their parents were coming from, but during the experience they themselves could not make sense of what was happening. What they wanted most was support, care and safety, and there remained a painful gap between what they needed and what their family knew how to provide.

Since then, they have been trying to find their own way of making sense of psychosis through a combination of medication, therapy and spirituality. I found this particularly meaningful because recovery does not always happen through one single pathway. Sometimes we need several ways of understanding ourselves at the same time. We may need medicine, therapy, relationships, faith, spirituality and community. Perhaps the important thing is that we are given the freedom to discover what helps us feel grounded and safe.

We then spoke about the importance of love and connection. One member shared that if they had someone who could truly love and care for them, perhaps they would not need some of the medication they currently take for depression. They felt comfortable with their antipsychotic medication but struggled with the effects of antidepressants and the difficult thoughts that sometimes came with them. Beneath the conversation about medication was a much deeper longing—to be connected, to be loved, and to feel that someone genuinely cares.

Another member spoke about how social situations can sometimes make their symptoms stronger, particularly when the environment feels unkind or rude. They may not necessarily hear voices, but they experience fear and mistrust and begin to contract into themselves and withdraw. It can feel overwhelming to remain present in an environment where they do not feel safe.

We then returned to the experience of feeling watched. One member spoke about the fear that somebody might be watching them and how difficult it can be to escape that feeling. Yet alongside the fear, there was also an extraordinary determination. They described pushing themselves to remember that they have autonomy, that they are more than the voices and paranoia, and that they can fight their way back towards reality. There was something powerful in hearing this—not as a denial of the fear, but as a declaration that the fear does not define the whole person. Another member shared that even taking a shower can sometimes bring up the feeling that somebody is watching and could hurt them. Another person immediately recognised this experience. The bathroom, which should be one of the most private spaces, can suddenly feel unsafe. There is no privacy, no boundary, and nowhere to hide. Beneath the paranoia is often a very painful loneliness—the feeling that nobody is there to protect us, love us, or care for us. I found myself thinking about the persecutory figure that can become so powerful in psychosis. Sometimes the terror we carry from childhood or from experiences of being hurt becomes so difficult to contain that it seems to move outside of us. The boundary between the self and the outside world becomes fragile, and the terror can feel as though it is everywhere. What we carry inside can begin to feel as though it is coming towards us from outside. Something similar can happen with thought broadcasting. The feeling that our thoughts are no longer private, that other people can hear everything happening inside us, can be terrifying. It is as though the boundary between ourselves and the world has disappeared.

Another member spoke about trying to live more authentically and move away from the layers of pretence they had built throughout their life. They had grown up feeling that they had to be perfect, and now they were beginning to discover the feelings underneath that perfection. There was sadness and sorrow about having lived differently from others, about having a different adolescence and a life that did not follow the path they imagined. Yet there was also a determination to discover what their real self might feel like. We spoke about anhedonia too—the feeling of having no desire to do anything, of becoming low and empty, sometimes wondering whether there is any point in continuing to live. One member spoke about not wanting to respond to these feelings only through positive affirmations, but instead wanting to acknowledge the reality of the feelings themselves. Another described depression as being inside a dark tunnel, walking without knowing where the exit is or when the light will return. And yet, sitting together, there was light. There was connection. There was a sense of coherence in today's meeting that felt different from some of our recent gatherings. We listened to each other patiently. We allowed people to speak. We did not have to rush towards an answer. There was a sense that we could hold difficult experiences while still laughing, learning, and caring for one another. This, to me, is one of the greatest gifts of the support group. Belonging. Respect. Connection. We do not always need to make the darkness disappear. Sometimes we simply need someone to sit beside us while we are inside it. And perhaps that is how a community begins to become a home—not because everyone is well all the time, but because even when someone is struggling, they know that they still belong. I left today's meeting feeling grateful for this community and for the people who continue to show up for one another. There is something beautiful happening here. We are slowly learning that we do not have to walk through this life alone.

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