Working With the Mind I Have

By Matthew Wilson

I’ve always been drawn to things I can learn and build.

Music, ham radio, and writing all give me something to

explore. I enjoy the details, even when those details don't

stay with me as long as I'd like.

For years, I thought I could solve that problem with

enough effort. I'd make a plan, develop a routine, or

come up with a better system. Sometimes it helped.

Other times I'd return to something I had already learned

and find myself starting over. That can be discouraging,

especially when the subject matters to me.

Schizoaffective disorder affects more than my mood. It

can interfere with memory, attention, motivation, and the

way I interpret what's happening around me. Some of

those difficulties are hard to explain because there may

be nothing outwardly unusual about the moment.

Paranoia and delusional thinking can make an ordinary

situation feel loaded with meaning. The feeling itself may

be powerful, even when my interpretation is wrong. I've

learned to be cautious about acting on a conclusion

simply because it feels convincing. That takes practice,

and I don't always get it right.

Then there are the quieter days. My thinking may feel

slow. A task I want to do can be difficult to begin. I might

need to rest sooner than I expected. Those experiences

don't make for dramatic stories, but they affect how I

spend my time.

Medication is essential to managing my illness. I'm

grateful for the stability it gives me, while also recognizing

that treatment doesn't erase every difficulty. There are

trade-offs, and I still have to make decisions about what I

can reasonably take on.

I've become a person who writes things down. I keep

notes, use checklists, and simplify workflows whenever I

can. If I need to relearn a step in making music, I try to

give myself the time to do it. I still get frustrated. But

having a note to return to is better than expecting my

memory to do a job it often can't do reliably.

My creative life gives me room to work this way. I can

build a spoken word piece one layer at a time, leave it

alone for a while, and come back when I'm ready. Some

projects take days; others take weeks. I don't have to

keep the pace that a conventional job would demand.

That distinction matters in my life.

I also have to think about what I take on outside music.

Plans that look manageable on paper can feel different

when I'm tired or anxious. I try to notice that sooner,

make fewer commitments when I need to, and give

myself permission to step away from a problem until I can

think about it more clearly.

I wish some parts of living with this illness were easier. I

wish I could count on my memory more often and move

through a day with less mental effort. Those wishes

haven't disappeared, and I don't expect them to.

What has changed is how I arrange my life around the

mind I have. I make music. I write. I rest when I need to,

and sometimes I begin again with my notes open beside

me.

Creativity, Identity & Belonging

This essay is part of a collection exploring creativity, identity, mental health, uncertainty, music, and community.