In adolescence my thought process was often marked by the instinct to rationalize and interpret to the point of deconstructing every event, piece of literature or sentence spoken to me, always with the intent of grasping any hidden meaning that could have come out of it. Every possible rational or otherwise conclusion was taken into consideration.
This often led to an indulgence of my own fantastical beliefs and fantasies in themselves, and the creation of conversations plus events dwelled upon in secret.
I will proceed further in the description of a childhood habit of mind: to take a story – a movie – a novel – to re-create it and make it my own.
To the observer it looked as such: a repetitive motion, bouncing to and fro, back and forth, on the balls of my feet, “waving my hands,” and staring fixedly at an image (such as the cover of a book or film). In later years I used music as the basis or the ‘inspiration’ for my imagination.
This was harmless for the most part, but as a child I would often lose myself in public in this respect and was poked fun of for it by no fault of the observers. But when brought to my attention that it was not appropriate to continue on I proceeded in secret; closing the door to my bedroom and going on for hours per day. I would do it almost unconsciously though I was in control, as an outlet for my active imagination, and later in life played over scenarios from my otherwise productive day and put the twist on it in regard to how I really wished these situations to be, and to imagine the future for myself.
I did this until around the age of 19 or 20, then it became far less necessary, and I was able to concentrate more acutely in regard to productive outlets such as reading and writing: my true passions. Not that I was not reading or writing. I was, but the predominance of imagining lay in my old habit, and it was far more difficult for me to concentrate for extended periods of time. It was a cure for the social anxiety and depression that plagued me during my teenage years; it was habit of imagination in childhood. Even now if I don’t take the time to pace about my house, lost in thought, for a half hour each day while imagining social events I feel rather unsettled throughout the day.
All this, while I acknowledge that I am nowhere near licensed in the field of psychology, is necessary in the understanding of my persona and of my unfortunate descent into mental illness. I simply have that queasy little feeling of discomfort I get while sharing something of significance. That’s how I know.
All I have ever wanted is for understanding, of my own self, of others, of ‘things,’ in all forms of perception.
I am a person who is afflicted with a neurological brain disease which causes me to have hallucinations and delusional thinking. I am also prone to substance abuse.
I am an alcoholic schizophrenic person.
Perhaps life is easier for you. Perhaps it is not. Perhaps you can relate. I sure as hell am not the only one.
I do not state these labels casually. I do not wish to make assumptions. I write them bluntly and with clarity now because of how long it took me to come to these realizations. It took me up to six years to come to terms with being an alcoholic. It took three years after my diagnosis to take it seriously. I am so lucky to have developed the insight into my condition that I now have and I work tirelessly every day to keep it.
Such is life.
Thoughts of Reference
I can trace the history of my disease with my journals, or rather how my innocent fantasies escalated into full blown delusion. Reading them over now, I cringe at how redundant and at times illogical they are. But they showcase my teenage years to perfection: the breakdown of my every little thought, at times the thoughts of a select few others, often to the point that I prevented myself from acting on any given impulse.
I see patterns in my stream-of-thought writing, ruminations, that cause me physical aches to look back upon.
I can’t even count (I mean, I could) how many times I wrote in varying ways (and can be shown by this paragraph): ‘My issues in regard to depression and social anxiety, in a way, define me. The ways in which I deal with these problems are what have helped me develop myself and that is why I need each person I am close with to have a decent understanding of them. I do not wish to call attention to myself or to flaunt mental illness. I simply wish for my close friends to understand my mind in full form, and in order to do that, they must know and even experience my history. With each new social experience, I have taken to going through a similar form of anxiety/depression without being 100 percent aware of it. When I am exposed to new people and have the ideal of developing relationships with them, I don’t know how to handle it other than to revert to showing them the process of my development, and most people do not have the time or the patience for that, which is very understandable. This makes it very difficult for me to establish relationships, though the ones that I have thus far are all I need.’
That’s really all I need to say about ages fifteen, to, say, nineteen.
But the important concept to grasp from that particular journal is that I thought way too f***ing much about myself. I was too private and set in my ways to allow any spontaneous experience to take place.
Resulting from the technical way I viewed my inner and outer self, thoughts, actions and emotions sprung what later became harsh delusional thinking at times in the form of thoughts of reference.
During moments of great mental stress, I believed that anything even a random stranger said or did had to do with me. I believed the lessons my professors were teaching were in actuality specific messages that were coded and being taught to me for the benefit of my life only, or vice versa (that they were meant to offend me or to make the point that I was affecting people in an entirely negative manner). I believed that my thoughts were open to the public, that every little thing I thought, wrote or spoke was being heard by all and that I was constantly being judged and pressured to make a decision that would define my life and others’. I thought that messages were encoded in license plates and numbers, every movement that I witnessed even out of the corner of my eye referred to my thoughts. I refused to eat. I refused to sleep. I constantly thought myself to be on the verge of a discovery that would enable me to live freely without depressive thought.
I struggled with auditory hallucinations daily, and still suffer from these symptoms from time to time, though far lessened with the addition of regular and effective therapy and medication.
I suppose there is no true way to tell if my ruminations, silly in comparison, even trivial, and full-blown delusional thinking are interconnected in any way. It is a hypothesis of my state, for me.
I digress. I generalize.
The Importance of Even Numbers
It is difficult to write of the delusions and obsessive compulsive behaviors that once plagued me, firstly because many of them are horribly untrue to my inner nature and the logic and rational that I valued of myself in my youth and as a part of my intelligence. Secondly, they are disturbing generally as well as to recollect.
Of the most innocent was my obsession with numbers, particularly the number 48. Simply the shapes of each individual number, the evenness and harmony that I associate them with sparked my love for it.
But during my time of ‘breakdown’ (for lack of a more encompassing descriptor), I would associate my inner balance with certain analogies for the number.
If a license plate, for example, read DDH 1317 my thought process would be as such: D is the fourth letter of the alphabet. H is the eighth. 1+3=4. 1+7=8. And this would be a wonderful combination, symbolizing that my thoughts and actions were correct throughout that day. It would go on occasionally (the worse my state of mind, the more in depth the delusion); 4+4+8+1+3+1+7=28. 2+8=10. 1+0=1. Further, if to this point, it would mean that I needed to be alone and was going to be alone for the rest of my life, or simply that my inner balance was off for 1 is an odd number.
I would go so far as to break sentences down to this point, and even the initials or names of my friends or even random people to rate our compatibility as either life partners or as to their place in my life.
I did this in the middle of class as I was taking notes. I did this constantly as I was driving with every single plate in front of me.
Evenness was always very important.
I have vague memories of the importance of even numbers from childhood, too. If I caught myself fidgeting, I would control my movements to end on an even number, and always on the right side. Because looking forward and in order (clockwise), my right side is the correct and second side.
From this springs forth another fairly innocent delusion, although it was more so damaging to my inner self and thought process and very barely expressed to others. This is one that has stayed with me throughout my recovery, and I have developed myself to look out for when it happens with excess frequency.
If I was having a conversation with another person, I would analyze their every motion. If something was said to me such as: “You look very nice today,” and they raised their left hand as they were speaking, it would be a sure-fire lie of theirs in my mind, and I would designate myself to be a horribly repulsive creature. If they raised their right hand, however, or motioned to the right in any way, it would be a confirmation that they were ultimately being genuine.
This habit of delusion affected me to the point that any random motion would either confirm or deny what another person themselves was saying, and often to the point that I believed that they could hear inside of my mind and were confirming or denying my own thoughts. Even random words from the mouth of a stranger that I heard could take on a whole new meaning, such as a laugh, a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’
I cared too much about what people thought of me, certainly, but I view it to be vastly more complex.
And so grew my delusions of telepathy.
Telepathic Ponderings
Every person ponders at some point what they would choose to have as a superpower. Mine, as a teenager, tended toward telepathy. This was entirely innocent in the way that it was discussed between my dear friends and me.
Also, as I have expressed, it was fairly difficult to communicate vocally during this period for me. I often found myself thinking that my thoughts were straightforwardly very obvious to others and that a simple noise or word would suffice to express my thoughts.
I wrote my thoughts and feelings down in journals constantly, starting from the age of 15.
Again, my telepathic ponderings were mostly harmless, until the time leading up to my diagnosis. They could be viewed as simple ‘unspoken’ connections within friendships beforehand.
When I was mentally unstable, I believed myself with certainty to have the power to read another’s mind, and for them to be able to read my own thoughts clearly; this was the harshest and most disturbing delusion out of most.
Perhaps the best way to describe how I felt during the time leading up to my diagnosis can be best showcased by a note that I wrote to my friends. I refused to communicate with anyone, barely even the family members who took care of me during this time. But I thought my actions to be of sound reason.
I love waking up and remembering dreams that have only just crossed my mind, but then being reminded of another I’d had in between. I dream when I am on the brink of sleep, too, even when deep sleep or that point in the cycle of sleep during which they supposedly must occur is not even close. I consider my daydreams to be dreams because I feel I cannot control them.
I think that at a point in a person’s life, but I cannot be certain, powers of the supernatural kind become apparent. Perhaps they are taught, but somehow implied; telepathy, telekinesis. I think that when I feel any violent emotion I can move things without the slightest touch. I think that if my thoughts are clear as day, so clear even for me that it seems as if I am speaking aloud, people can hear them, see them, know.
Every move I make is full of pretense. There is no time for utter meaninglessness. The time it takes to throw open a door, to take a step, a wave of a hand, a blink of an eye, all apparently mean one thing or the other. Every action is being looked upon with disdain and each person who walks by knows your secret, knows how all you wish for is to be left alone in peace.
I think that I am being watched. I think that every word I write or say is heard and seen. I think sometimes that I am an important person in the world. I think that things are being hidden from me. I think that I may be incapable of the powers that people do have and incapable of understanding, concentration and having a legitimate relationship.
Scatter brain,
slightly insane,
tripping over cliffs and plains,
immersed in water barely crossing your knees,
adrift in wind barely crossing the seas.
I am in over my head. I am quite a gullible person. I feel that I am constantly hurting people. I know that I am being consistently tested and lied to, made fun of, all because people think that I am pretentious and think that I view myself as more “special” than or “above” others. I thought at one point that I may be special, and that I could save the world in some fashion, or bring it happiness. I don’t know if I think so anymore.
seething from the inside
tumbling out of my senses
is a desire to live, to breath
simply to love; to go on
in spite of the realization
that what i want
is unattainable
The note would be perhaps more meaningful to someone who has experienced these feelings and delusions to fully comprehend the extremity of them. Though I do find it to be rather general, I prefer not to delve into extremely specific occurrences.
I would sit in therapy without saying a word; thinking that my thoughts were of the most obvious nature. I believed of every session that my life would suddenly become clear to me and I would live ‘happily ever after,’ if only I could figure out the right thing to voice.
I worked in a small retail store at the time. I believed that my coworkers and supervisors could read my mind as well, and it was very difficult for me to continue to work there. And so I took a leave of absence.
I am so very grateful that I have such incredibly loving parents and family members who took the time to care for me (while I could have been hospitalized), and I will be forever indebted to them. I feel so very small and ashamed when I think of all that I have put them through; while in the same breath I do understand and hold fast to the notion that I had very little control.