I Gave a Keynote & My Heart, Too
how embracing vulnerability transforms your writing & the world
Last night I arrived at one of Manhattan’s tall buildings, gray and nondescript save for the laser-printed flyers on the glass doors, and I took the elevator up to the eighth floor, where NAMI NYC’s offices lie. The purpose of my visit—and my visit to New York—was to give the keynote speech for Mt. Sinai and the National Alliance on Mental Illness’s NYC’s event for World Schizophrenia Day.
I’d written the fifteen-minute keynote on the flight over to JFK, My Riverhead editor, whom I met for lunch yesterday, helped me print it at one of the New York Public Library buildings. As the day wore on and I napped, read, and worked, I slowly forgot what the speech said, but I checked my bag several times to make sure that it was still there. Other things that I had in my bag, which always has far too much in it, included a brand-new copy of Ashley Herring Blake’s new Bright Falls (queer) romance, Iris Kelly Never Dates (aff); three or four notebooks, each with a different purpose; my journal, which is made by the small business Onion Skin Journals; a grab-bag of Le Pens and my favorite Vanishing Point fountain pen. The speech lay folded against my laptop, waiting for me to unfold it at the appropriate time.
The event organizers recognized me immediately. Recognition never ceases to surprise me—when I was a Taiwanese American with a platinum pixie cut, I could understand more readily why I was easy to glean from a crowd—but I still introduced myself by name, even as they ushered me to what served as the green room, where, thankfully, there was a couch upon which I could recline. A woman with black-rimmed glasses said to rest and indulge in the hors d'oeuvres until showtime, which I didn’t touch because nerves generally kill my appetite when I’m hired for a speaking engagement. I distracted myself by journaling and chatting with the lone woman enjoying her plate of food on the other side of the room. We traded war stories about antipsychotics and weight gain. She explained to me that it was a question of sanity over vanity, and I nodded vigorously, although she was beautiful to me.
By the time it was my turn to give the keynote, my nose was running non-stop, which is one of my body’s more irritating habits when I’m giving a talk, regardless of how calm I feel. I wore a mask to speak through while using the microphone, gazing out at the audience in their folding chairs—people with schizophrenia and their loved ones, researchers and doctors who have a special interest in the field—and I gave my talk with as much passion as I could summon. It concluded:
There's a saying that people associate with me. Keep going. You're doing great. I even had it put on a mug. It sounds extremely corny, I know, but it's something that means a lot to me. It means a lot to me because for so many people, being alive is no small thing. I have taken one overdose and been hospitalized as a psychiatric inpatient three times. If you are alive, and if you are proverbially putting one foot in front of the other, you are doing great. Resilience matters. Support systems matter. We are all here because, regardless of your diagnoses or lack of diagnoses, we have managed to put one foot in front of the other for a long time. And we will continue to do so, because we are living human beings who, despite our challenges, are people who deserve respect: now, and forever.
There had originally been a book signing planned, but they’d neglected to purchase the books necessary for a signing. Instead, I stood at the front of the room and spoke to what felt like an endless number of people who approached shyly, seemingly not wanting to bother or interrupt. But I was glad to talk to them—the keynote was important, but not as important as making a human connection with people who live with schizophrenia in their lives. I met mothers (always mothers) who told me of their sick children, detailing long narratives of hospitalizations and college leaves. I spoke to people who research schizophrenia as part of their work; one woman told me about her work using computer models to try and make diagnoses based on human-written notes. I spoke to a man whose job as a doctor enabled him to save his son from the awful side effects I’d had from Clozapine, an antipsychotic that’s generally known as the drug of last resort.
What I really value about my job as a speaker is vulnerability in storytelling—both in my talks and in my interactions afterward. I find that my openness fosters genuine connections, no matter how brief, with the people I meet. Some can’t make eye contact. Some immediately ask for a hug. A lot of the audience members had read The Collected Schizophrenias and found it to be helpful to their lives, whether those lives entailed leading research at Mt. Sinai or dealing with a schizophrenic brother. I stayed for as long as I could, adrenaline coursing through me until I went back to the hotel and collapsed into bed with a bloody blister on my left heel from the boots I’d worn all day.
I try to give as much of myself as possible to the people who hire me for speaking engagements. After all, they’ve flown me out. They’re paying me to do a job. But it’s so rewarding to me that it feels like a wild gift—as a person diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, I never forget how much I cried in my psychiatrist’s office when she said I had medication-resistant schizoaffective disorder. I’m still putting one foot in front of the other. I’ll keep doing it for as long as I can.
Paid subscribers will be able to attend an hour-long class I’d be teaching called Writing Personal Nonfiction About the Body on Thursday, November 2 at 4 PM PT. The class, which is not part of the Academy, will be about the ways in which we can access our bodies to write about them, and/or understand other people’s bodies to write about them, among other things. Upgrade your free subscription to a paid subscription to receive access.
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