What It Feels Like to Be Paranoid

I caused the eruption of Mount Saint Helens. When Pan Am flight 103 blew up over Lockerbie, it was an attempt on my life. I went to Jamaica because the Beatles told me to find Strawberry Fields. I was poisoned by dioxin; it was being used by the CIA as a secret weapon in Vietnam, and now it's after me. Jim Jones told me to commit suicide telepathically. I was a pawn in a battle between Tibetan lamas and tantrics. Aliens contacted me: They had created the planet, and they were going to transform me into an alien. A box was built in outer space for me and a woman. She had dark-blue skin like the Hindu god Krishna. We were going to have turquoise children. All of this is real. None of this real. I am a recovering paranoid schizophrenic.

Before my recovery, every day seemed a life-and-death game. There was usually an enemy—a brutal, powerful enemy. And the stakes were high: Either I had a vital role to play in saving the future of humanity, or I was being persecuted.

I was finally diagnosed with schizophrenia at age ... // 50% Remaining