Psychosis: Psychosis is a mental health problem that causes people to perceive or interpret things differently. This might involve hallucinations or delusions.
That's how the NHS defines the condition. It goes hand in glove with Complex PTSD if left untreated. Looking back over the past couple of years, from a more enlightened and medicated state, nothing I experienced seemed then or now hallucinatory or delusional. Everything happened to me or around me, and I understood it and responded to it in what I believed was an appropriate manner.
Elsewhere I've mentioned visits from a dead girl; I've also felt someones' lips brush my ear; I've listened to snippets of conversation taking place in the air, and I felt a garrotte tighten around my neck. All of these things happened with just myself present.
Sleep deprivation, exhaustion and confusion create a fertile ground for these experiences. I remember sitting in our lounge one summer evening watching TV as my (much) better half busied herself going in and out of the house watering her outdoor plants. As she moved through the lounge and left through the front door, watering-can in hand, my need for Haagen Dazs ice cream became too great to bear, and I rose to my feet to head to the kitchen. I ought to say that this newfound love of Haagen Dazs has replaced the no-longer-present unquenchable thirst for strong red wine. I suppose it's the craving for the simple sugars the wine once provided. Haagen Dazs tends not to result in being the best-dressed man in bed or a frantic run down to the off-licence at 22:55, however.
As I turned to face the kitchen, I felt a hard, circular implement press into my back, probably around 9mm in diameter. Before you tut and think 'wanker,' put yourself in my position: I'm a former soldier who was once very familiar with firearms. But, unfortunately, I had been living in a delirious haze for much of the year, experiencing events and situations denied to anyone else. Anyway, my thought process was thus:
I've just seen my (much) better half leave the lounge; I know she's outside. There's no one else knowingly in the house. Someone has just pressed a gun barrel into my back.
Fight or flight? I can run quickly but not nearly enough to beat a 9mm bullet. If I spin around rapidly, I might encourage pulling the trigger. So instead, I turn slowly to face the armed intruder and cock my right hand to smash my fist, straight, true and hard into the centre of the face I was about to see. I'm aiming to break and splinter bone, I want to spill blood and mucus on the floor, and disable the intruder. Hopefully, permanently. Because if I don't, a 9mm copper-jacketed round may well enter my chest, pass through my heart, killing me instantly before the sound of gunfire ever reaches my ears.
Or is this another psychotic episode where there will be no one at all in front of me? Like the garrotte I felt tighten around my neck as I lay in bed, maybe this is just death ideation.
As my eyes focus on the physical presence that is indeed in front of me, I see a watering can in hand, no longer pressed into my back. A beautiful, innocent face looking shocked at her husband, primed and ready for extreme violence. This was, and remains, the one and only time my hands have ever been raised to my (much) better half.
I breathed a massive sigh of relief.
'Please, please don't ever sneak up on me like that again,' I begged.
My ability to accurately assess time, distance and probability were all as clearly impaired as my thinking and general mental well-being. Nevertheless, that event, and several others involving unknown persons, led to Quetiapine, an anti-psychotic medication, being prescribed.
My doctor explained: 'This will buy you thinking time. At the moment, you've got a tendency toward an immediate aggressive response when you feel under threat. That served you well as a pupil at an uber-violent south London school, a soldier in the combat arm, or an operational firefighter at a busy inner London fire station. But it's not as helpful now you dwell full-time in polite society. Plus you're as mad as a box of frogs,' (Fuck it, if I'm gonna paraphrase, I may as well push the boat out...but that is essentially what he said).
So, the psychosis is now managed pharmaceutically. The reality is that Quetiapine simply sedates me heavily. There is no chance of me getting into trouble when I'm asleep most of the day. In that regard, it's a wonder drug, but not entirely different to the effect that strong red wine had on me.
Right, I'm off for (another) snooze.
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