My Psychotic episode
After my Psychotic episode, I thought to myself that I would be able to recognise the signs easy peasy if it happened again. Because last time was so in your face. I should have known. I should have.
It all started with a question
It’s always something simple.
My friend Andrew, I was at his house that night playing games and watching TV. We were 23 and that’s what young pups do. Not much. He asked me where my friends were tonight. You see I had been hanging around again with people that were regular drug users. I had been buying drugs from them. And I had been getting stoned. Not for long, though, but enough time to kick it off, perhaps two weeks.
It was strange for Andrew to ask such a question. Most notably because of Andrews disdain for anything that involves intoxicating himself. Andrew wasn’t a drinker. Or a drug taker for that matter. Andrew was happy just being himself. So to ask such a question it had me pondering his intentions for quite a while.
Obviously his question was innocent. A filler to pass periods of silence. But of course, I was winging down that all too familiar spiral of paranoia. Drugs do that to me. They turn me into an untrusting jibbering wreck. I had questions for Andrew. So many.
I wanted to ask him why did he ask me such a “not like himself question”? I was curious. Somewhat parnoidly curious. I wanted to tear into the very fabric of his mind, get in there and see what he was thinking. But I didn’t quite trust myself to progress any further. I was too scared to ask any further questions. Too scared of what I might find. I might find an evil twisted plot hell bent on extinguishing the very life from my very eyes.
“Nah. I’m being too silly”
“But the question still remains,” I pondered.
My friend Andrew. He’s lovely. He’s still my friend today and all throughout my life he’s been like a brother to me. His parents have been like another Mum and Dad to me. I am somewhat an extension of their family in reality. Friendships can be like that sometimes. I have one or two people like that in my life. But Andrew isn’t the most sociable of people. I mean he is, but I’m sure he finds social interaction more complex than it should be, he is stiff and uncomfortable with others when he should be relaxed. I can’t put my finger on it, but it must be stressful at times to live with.
That night I went straight home and slept. No PC, no games, no nothing. I was stressed. I started to think about why my long-standing friend would ask me such a question, and it was playing on my mind all night. Like it would any paranoid question. I remember the deep coldness I felt in my belly every time I thought of the worst. Thought that my friend was hatching something against me. It started to scare me a little bit. I’ll sleep it off.
“Sleep cures almost everything,” I thought as I drifted off to sleep.
Yet, the next day I was still the same. I don’t know why at this time I was thinking sleep would cure anything. It never did for me. Not since the first time in the hospital. My Mum was out that day at work, and I had a lovely day alone, as always, with just me and my thoughts.
I remember the time when I began to slightly shake. Have you ever experienced that? When fear becomes too much and the tightness in the body starts to restrict the natural movement of one’s arms and legs? Then shaking occurs?
That was me about 4pm that day.
Little white droplets of fear were starting to trickle down my forehead in a vague attempt to unmask how I was actually feeling. I was trying to hide it. Who from? I don’t know. It was only me in the house, alone, with no-one to answer for but myself. Perhaps I was still in denial. In denial that the drugs I had been taking a few days beforehand had skewed my thinking and things were starting to go pear shaped for me.
A perfect concoction for Psychosis. Deluded thinking and denial.
By the time Mum had arrived home I could hear the shouts from the local ball park. A crowd was gathering in an attempt to kick my door in and grab me. A massive mob to lynch me. They were going to fucking kill me. The auditory hallucinations had started.
Mum, well. She’s always been a supportive mother. She always has. She’s always let me have my own space and let me do the things that I’ve wanted to ever since I moved in with her again at 22. But relaxed in a time of crisis she was not. I can remember her furiously trying to believe me but not quite being convinced. I told her about the drugs, the question from Andrew; I remember her furrowing her brows as if she couldn’t quite put two and two together. She couldn’t understand it.
Because she’s in the plot.
It must be hard when a Son stops trusting his mother. When he’s always trusted her 100% and then bam. This happens. It must’ve been just as hard for her. We rarely think about the others we effect when we go down a bad spiral.
I start to go quiet, preventing myself from giving her any further information. I can’t be giving away feelings and emotions to the enemy. That’s just suicide. Complete suicide. She’ll hand me over and let them have me.
She did the right thing in the end. She called the doctors amongst the hysteria and booked a double appointment for me. I needed it. And he would judge what to do with me next. I was lucky. Because I trusted our doctor.
I didn’t sleep a wink that night. All through the night I could hear the crowd chanting my name and that they would do unspeakable things to me. The TV was telling me to commit suicide and I couldn’t concentrate to do any reading. I sat there, silently shaking with little droplets of sweat dripping from my forehead and a god-fearing coldness in my belly. I was shaking. It was hell.
Luckily the doctor sent me to the hospital. He saw the state that I was in. I was unwashed, sweaty and unkempt. I spoke of paranoia and delusions and things that he couldn’t hear or see himself. It was off to hospital in the nee-naw I went, where I got better, slowly, over a period of three months.
Don’t do drugs kids!
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