I don’t know how to start this post, so I’ll just dive straight in. My name is Clark. A diagnosis of schizophrenia has become a part of my life. Initially, it wasn’t easy to accept, but over time, I came to terms with it as a reality. Hospitals and specialists recommended various medications to control the symptoms of this condition. Although I attempted discussions with psychologists and caregivers regarding available therapeutic options, I always received the same response: “It’s for your own good.” I didn’t question their decisions, realizing that I lacked specialized knowledge in this field. From a logical standpoint, medication seemed like the most sensible solution for treating or alleviating the symptoms of a mental illness. Therefore, I avoided delving too deeply into the subject. I lived with this condition for a year, learning about its possible manifestations. Psychologists provided me with tips on how to cope with it on a daily basis.
I also decided to join a support group for individuals diagnosed with schizophrenia, hoping to gain valuable experiences. There, I met several people, most of whom didn’t stand out much, except for my friend Toby. Our bond stemmed from the fact that we both navigated life with the same condition and had similar senses of humor. With time, I realized that many group members, including Toby, experienced schizophrenia symptoms more intensely than I did, not only emotionally but also in their daily lives, where the symptoms were more noticeable.
One Monday, after a group meeting, Toby invited me to his apartment for a chat. If only I had known the consequences, I would have thought twice before agreeing.
“Do you want?” - Toby pulled out rolling papers and a small package of marijuana.
Knowing its calming properties for people in our situation, Toby had plenty of it at home.
“No, thanks. I still have a few paperwork matters to attend to, and I’m not sure I could handle it if I smoked too” - I replied.
“Your loss” - he replied.
After half an hour of chatting about nothing, silence fell. A suffocating silence, heralding a storm.
“Listen… Ah, I forgot to bring it” - Toby said.
“What’s going on?” - I asked, sensing a strange atmosphere in the room.
Toby got up, closed the window, muffling the sounds from outside.
“I’ll be right back” - he said.
“Don’t rush” - I replied, this time feeling worried.
As Toby left the room, I heard keys, door closing and his footsteps on the stairs.
“Why did you lock the door? Are you planning to murder me?” - I laughed.
There was no smile on Toby’s face. He sat opposite me and looked me straight in the eyes.
“Due to our condition, do you think differentiating reality from our imaginations is difficult?” - he asked.
“What do you mean?” - I replied, surprised.
“We’re being deceived” - Toby stated.
He reached out with a photograph in his hand. His trembling hand held the tension of an alcoholic seeing a bottle of whisky in front of him.
The photograph showed a woman dressed in a snowy white dress, with a golden necklace around her neck. She had almost perfect makeup, and her smile radiated such warmth that I could feel it from the photo.
“Who is this?” - I asked.
“It’s Emilly Gaunder. Do you know her?” - Toby asked.
“No, why would I know her? What’s going on?” - I replied.
“She’s dead” - he said.
“So what? Is there so much tension just to say that a stranger woman is dead?” - I replied selfishly.
After a moment of silence, Toby continued.
“I stopped taking my medication” - he confessed.
“Why?” - I asked, with a slightly raised tone. Interrupting therapy after a year and a half of systematic medication intake was dangerous for his mental health.
“I saw her” - Toby grabbed his head.
“Before her death?” - I asked, still disoriented.
“No. My medication ran out a week ago. For five days, it was hard for me to function. I saw people in my apartment, heard voices, and nightmares kept me awake, but…” - his voice trembled.
Toby looked me straight in the eyes again.
“I saw her, the same person as in the photo. I had never seen her before, but I noticed… I noticed in the news about her death in the nearby park, after I saw her in my apartment. A thief, probably trying to steal her bag, unexpectedly shot her in the chest. That’s what the reports said. I swear I’m telling the truth” - Toby covered his face with his hands again.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. I tried to digest what he had told me. Initially, I thought it was a joke or a figment of his imagination, but his reaction made it hard for me not to believe him. After all, I had experienced various hallucinations myself, but I always managed to verify them. So why was Toby panicking so much?
“Clark…” - he broke the silence.
“What’s up?” - I replied, still trying to understand the whole situation.
“I saw her with a gunshot wound…”