I still have a hard time saying that I was “hearing things” during my mania and psychosis. Because technically, I wasn’t. It wasn’t the shit you see on TV; there wasn’t a nagging voice–or a symphony of voices–in my head, plaguing my existence. There was no constant wringing of hands, no wishing “they” would just shut up. If I’m being honest, the experience was kinda cool. At first.
Like I mentioned before, what it initially felt like was there was a message being gradually downloaded in my mind, and it was my job to decipher it. Deciphering came in the form of essentially letting the message bounce back and forth in my head. I would have alternating pressure in each ear, as the words came. So for instance, let’s say I was trying to connect with my mother, who I consider to be my guardian angel. If her message for me was “I’m so proud of you,” those words would essentially bounce back and forth in my head/between my ears, usually starting on the left side. Some messages were supposedly coming directly from God, and others were from ancestors that I had called upon during the spiritual work I was doing. Over time, the “downloading” evolved, and I began to believe that I was in constant, direct communication with God, effectively carrying him in my head all the time. If I wanted to “talk” to someone else, I would call upon them internally. Most of my “conversations,” though, were with God. And I’m not gonna hold you: the messages were relevant, timely even. At a certain point, I began documenting them in a note on my phone, entitled “Spirit Says.” I still haven’t had the heart to delete it, in part because there are some gems in there, and in part because it serves as a reminder that I never want to be that detached from reality ever again.
Things took a major turn, though, when the “downloads” started making statements that weren’t rooted in reality. Things that I believed, because manic/psychotic. I won’t bore you with the details of every single one of my many, many delusions. And frankly, I don’t even remember all of them. But the main things were that:
1) I was a deity. The female counterpart to Christ, to be exact.
2) Nothing happening around me was real. It was all part of an orchestrated test for me to prove myself worthy of being a goddess. I was essentially in my own version of The Truman Show.
3) I was getting married on 10/10/20.
4) Pressure in one of my ears (left for “no”, right for “yes”) was an answer from God for any question I posed. Constant pressure in both ears meant God was trying to give me a message.
5) My therapist, my father, the spiritual practitioner I was working with, and my next door neighbor were all dying.
It sounds callous, but to be real, I didn’t understand the relevance of my next door neighbor in the grand scheme of things. We talked often, and at length, especially when we were both outside taking care of our plants. But it was primarily surface-level stuff. When I asked God why it mattered to my purpose that my neighbor was dying, the message I received was that my neighbor had been so moved by my consistent kindness toward him, that he was leaving me his 2-bedroom townhome when he died. After I got married, I’d move in there with my partner-to-be and their children. That made perfect sense to me, because out of my mind.
So when I was directed to go take a look at what would be my new place, I didn’t think anything of it.
It was a beautiful summer day, and as he often did, my neighbor–a white man in his mid-60s–had the front door to his second-floor townhome open, to let in the breeze. And what did my completely disconnected from reality head ass do? Walk right through that door, unannounced, and up the stairs to look around. Because remember, everyone was in on all of this. It was all a test He knew I’d be coming. When I reached the top of the stairs and started looking around, he came out of the room he was in, with what I know now to be a look of total shock on his face. At the time, because I literally thought I was a goddess, I assumed that he was just overwhelmed by the power of my presence. He mustered a “Hi!” and a smile, and I returned them, before going back down the stairs and over to my place.
The second I got to my front door, though, another download came: You didn’t tell him thank you. Go back and tell him thank you.
And so what did I do? Go back through his front door and up the stairs, with a grin on my face. Before I could share my gratitude, though, he sternly stated “I think I’m going to call the police.” I laughed and said “Okay!,” before skipping back down the stairs and out of the door. Because this was The Truman Show, remember? Everyone was in on it. So if and when the cops came, it would all be part of the orchestrated plan. I was not the least bit fearful.
The police did come, I just never saw them. Because in what was an actual God thing, my dad had decided to swing by my complex to check on me. I’d been calling and texting him constantly and he could tell from how I sounded and the things I was saying, that something was wrong. He pulled up with one of my younger sisters, just as the police and EMTs arrived. He talked my neighbor–who was absolutely irate–out of pressing charges. He convinced the cops to let him and my sister go into my house, and persuade me to go with the EMTs to the hospital. The next thing I knew, I was on a gurney, being carted off to the back of an ambulance as my neighbors looked on.
To be continued…