It always spun me one of two ways: towards grandiose delusion or bone-deep fear, as I scrabbled desperately for a hold on the ledge of reality. I didn't realize it could happen to anyone; I didn't realize that, though severe and debilitating, it is terribly common; I didn't realize that the pills I thought were literal poison (did my doctor hate me? was there a well-laid conspiracy beneath every step I took, a pattern in every groove?) would save me. Misdiagnosed as schizophrenic, watching people's expressions morph terrifyingly before my eyes, I lost years of my life that I will never get back.
Sometimes it was almost marvelous; I thought I was on the edge of transcendence, literally delirious with excitement, repeating revelations under my breath until they lost their meaning entirely. At the time, I thought it was a symptom of my flair for dramatics, that I was coming close to some truth incomprehensible to those around me. Deluded with the notion that I was somehow special instead of a poorly-functioning psychotic (which is nowhere near as glamorous), I slipped in and out of awareness until I lost it altogether.
It can happen to anyone, and if it happens to you, you will likely resist every ounce of help offered to you. I did.
In a white room with white walls and a white bed, empty and charmless, I curled over myself and listened to the sounds of the woman across the hall. "They're talking about me again," she was telling the nurse. "These men on the news. They're always talking to me, and I try not to listen." Suffused with cold dread, I said nothing of my fears when the RN came to me -- because I'd been thinking the same thing.
I'm not blameless at all; I self-medicated myself until I slipped into the same terror that I was trying to avoid. Instead of taking antipsychotics with any sort of consistency, I relied solely on anti-anxiety agents, took downers to quell the fear. You will never meet anyone so sure of themselves as someone who is floridly delusional; they don't need help -- you just don't see the truth -- are you fucking stupid for not understanding everything that they do? It's all so obvious. The patterns (there are always, always patterns) are evident if you'd let the scales fall from your eyes. Just because it's impossible doesn't mean it isn't true.
But there's a truth beyond the transcendence of everything the paranoid patient ardently believes. Antipsychotics aren't just medications for the hopelessly ill, for the violent or "insane," or for those who will never get better. They're prescribed for depression, for personality disorders, for anxiety. And they cut through the delusional "clarity" of psychosis like a knife: even if residual fear and paranoia remain, you'll likely still be far better off.
We need to destigmatize the administration of antipsychotics, because while in some cases they're over-prescribed, they also frequently save lives. I still can't describe the unbearable feeling of lightness in my chest when the cold dread finally seeped away, and I remembered what happiness was. It felt as if I was inhaling the first clear breath I'd taken for years. I don't think I'll ever forget the strange sensation: like I was coming back to life, and that I was getting a second chance that so many unfortunately don't.