The Roaming of a Schizo Mind During a Full Blown Psychotic Attack…
…on the day I jumped out of a 6-meter-high window, dressed in my pajamas.
One day after my 41st birthday, on the 21st October 2021, I jumped out of the bedroom window of my parents’ apartment. It overlooks the concrete patio of their downstairs neighbour, more than six meters below.
I feared for my life and this was my only escape route.
I imagine you’d appreciate a bit of background information to understand how this came to pass.
I suffer from Schizo-affective disorder (Schizophrenia with a mood element) and in the autumn of 2021, the medication that I’d taken for years stopped working. Just like that.
My parents — conscious that I was slipping into psychosis and worried about my state of mind — encouraged me to stay with them to convalesce. I increased my medication to the maximum. According to the doctor, I was taking enough to knock out a horse, but my mind continued to race.
It appeared this horse was putting up a fight!
Without sleep, the functioning of the human brain rapidly deteriorates for EVERYONE. For those with healthy human brains, 3 sleepless nights will bring on hallucinations. For those with mental health issues, it has an even greater and far more catastrophic effect.
I was on day 8.
Doped up to the eyeballs but still battling to slow my racing thoughts, I got an early night and began to drift into a fitful slumber.
But at 10 o’clock, my dozing was rudely interrupted by the sound of voices.
I immediately recognised the jovial timbre of my favourite primary school teacher, fondly known as Mr C. His normal booming was at low volume, I strained to hear his whispers “You can always change the ending of the story, this is your chance to make a difference”. His voice tensed as he urged me to save my dad and get out of the apartment. Other voices chimed in. We were unsafe there. I needed to flee. Right now.
I couldn’t see where the voices were coming from, but in my sleep-deprived state, this was of no concern. It seemed perfectly feasible that I was communicating telepathically.
I didn’t stop to ask questions. I was brought up to respect teachers. I did as Mr C said.
I left Winnie (my dog) on the bed and ran to the entrance of the apartment. I turned the top lock but the door didn’t swing open as it should have. It was double-locked with a key. Why was it double-locked? Who had shut us in?
I panicked, yanking at the door and trying to force it open.
The sound alerted Mum who ran towards me from the kitchen, calling to my dad for help. She knows better than to try to stop me herself. We’ve been through this before. When I’m psychotic, I distrust those around me — and Mum takes the brunt.
She must have locked us in with the key.
Dad emerged from their bedroom in his pajamas, bleary-eyed and confused-looking. No matter what, I usually trust Dad.
He took stock of the situation and tried to calm me down but I wasn’t listening. I explained we needed to escape. He looked exasperated, deflated, exhausted.
Mum had disappeared down the corridor in the direction of the room where I’d been sleeping. Where was she? What was she up to?
But this was my chance. While she was gone, I could convince Dad that we had to get out of there.
I was wired.
As I warned him of the imminent danger we faced, he wearily closed his eyes.
He didn’t believe me, but I could see he didn’t want to argue. He pleaded with me to go back to bed.
I was trapped, but not for long. A plan was already forming.
Retreating to the guest bedroom under the guise of lying down, I knew my only remaining option was to climb out of the window.
Light spilled through the gap in the curtains from the room below, casting an amber line across the patio with its wrought iron furniture and pretty potted plants.
It was a long way down.
I took a deep breath.
The fate of the world rested on me. It didn’t matter if was scared, I had no choice, this was my duty.
I needed to dress properly for the job; Superheroes should look the part. I hastily tied a bright yellow sweater around my neck so it fell across my shoulders like a cape. I didn’t consider the rest of my outfit — checked flannel pajamas and woollen socks. I grabbed the bathrobe from the back of the door.
Winnie watched patiently from the bed. She’d be okay; I’d come back for her.
I opened the window as wide as possible and tied the bathrobe onto the metal arm. Climbing up onto the window ledge, I squeezed out through the gap and into the cold night. I clung to the bathrobe, lowering myself as far down as it reached. Dangling precariously at least 4 meters off the ground, I braced myself for impact — adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I remember the thud as I hit the unforgiving concrete.
The sound reached my brain before the pain did.
My feet hadn’t landed at the same time and I lunged forwards onto my hands, grazing them. The top of my right foot was cut, but most of the pain was coming from the underside of my left foot. I cursed my lack of planning. Why hadn’t footwear occurred to me as something of importance earlier? I untied the superhero cape from my neck and gently wrapped it around my foot to give some support.
I paused to consider my next move. I awaited further instructions. None came.
Where were the voices when I needed them?
It was pitch black and the air felt thick with moisture. The moon remained hidden from view. October in the north of England is not known for its mild evenings. I should have put a coat on. I cursed my lack of shoes again — my woollen socks were already sodden from the damp ground.
I was limping, my heart racing. What now? Where do I go?
In the still night, I heard heavy footsteps approaching. The path surrounding the apartment building is lined with thick foliage and I tucked myself in between the bushes, shrouded from view. The out-of-tune whistling pierced my sensitive eardrums long before I saw him. Tall, medium build, in his 40s, no facial hair. Who was he? What was he doing here?
He stopped directly in front of me, turned to look me in the eyes and said “Are you alright?”
I froze, literally scared stiff. How on earth had he seen me? How had he known I was there?
I’m sure he was real and not a figment of my overactive imagination, but who knows? Either way, I quickly gathered my senses and bolted around the side of the building to evade him.
Unfortunately, upon rounding the corner, my situation deteriorated dramatically.
I found myself in some sort of Concentration Camp. The prison building loomed overhead and I was certain guards were patrolling the grounds. I could hear a form of clicker, directing me to avoid the snipers. Every time there was a click, I changed direction.
Was the whistling man helping me? Was he in charge of the clicker? Could I trust him?
After a couple of minutes, I found myself hiding up against a wall, behind a parked car. I rested my weary head on the cold bonnet, grateful to still be alive.
What now? What was I going to do next? I knew I was safe from Mum and Dad — they have no windows overlooking this side. They must be part of the concentration camp set-up. I could trust no one.
At times it feels like I’m the main character in a gritty drama.
I’m the protagonist and I am fighting to save the World.
I am Mother Mary. I am superhuman.
I hear voices, I see things.
I accept this as a normal part of being superhuman.
What seemed like hours later, my parents and Winnie came out of the front doors and crossed the enclosure, looking for me. I stopped breathing. They were less than five meters from where I was hidden. I silently begged Winnie not to alert them to my wherabouts. She shot a look in my direction and dragged them off towards their car.
They all got in and drove away. Where were they going?
I allowed myself to breathe again, but stayed stock still, thoughts racing, heart pumping, foot throbbing.
It was so dark I knew the guards couldn’t see me, but my teeth were chattering, and I feared the sound would give me away. I clenched my jaw tightly whilst my body shivered uncontrollably.
As I shifted position, I noticed the weight of my phone in my pocket.
Oh Wow! I have my phone! I can call someone. But who? Who can I trust?
And even if there was someone to call, the guards would hear me and march me to the gas chambers.
So I stayed there, unmoving, as the extremities of my body slowly went numb.
Eventually, as the adrenaline wore off and the pain in my foot became excruciating, I realised I had to do something. I reluctantly pulled out the phone and rang Dad. I don’t recall much of the conversation.
I left the security of my hiding place and went to wait on the doorstep.
What had happened to the guards?
Had the cold and the pain chased my delusions away?
With the phone call, something that had seemed so real moments before, had instantly lost all power. I knew I wasn’t in a Concentration Camp.
It was as if my brain had become too exhausted and was no longer able to keep the hallucination fuelled.
Within minutes Mum and Dad were home, angry but relieved to see me. They had been driving the streets, looking for me and banging on friends’ doors — frantic with worry.
How they might be feeling had not entered my head, and even when they returned, it seemed inconsequential.
I had been far far too busy dealing with my own terrifying reality.
