Why I’m Paranoid About Being Poisoned
How Mental Illness Affects What I Can Eat
I class myself as a bit of a foodie.
I love nothing more than a tasty meal with good conversation. Going out for dinner is an experience to be savoured; time dedicated solely to the appreciation of flavoursome food and great company.
But over the last eight years, my mental illness has beaten this simple pleasure to the point of near extinction. I have schizoaffective disorder — suffering the same active symptoms as schizophrenia, with the added ‘bonus’ of being manic or depressive.
When sick, my condition varies, but there are certain constants — the most notable being my paranoia of poisoning.
Approximately one percent of people have schizophrenia and studies show that more than half of sufferers believe they’re being poisoned.
When you add in schizoaffective sufferers (one in two hundred), it’s safe to assume that one in every one hundred and fifty people have similar delusions to mine.
Let me give you a peek inside my head…
When suffering a psychotic break from reality, I become delusional.
Terrorists are everywhere — they’re trying to kill me. Their favoured modus operandi is poison.
Food is my Achilles heel. It’s where I’m most vulnerable, but I can control what I put in my mouth — so that’s what I do.
Obsessively.
I develop a cocoon of rituals and habits to increase my chance of survival.
Dining out gets cut from my life.
Every café and restaurant I enter has been seized by terrorists; the personnel replaced by imposters intent on killing me. As they have ample opportunity to tamper with whatever I order, it would be fatal for me to consume anything. So I won’t.
Eating at friends’ or my parents’ house is also off the cards. My mum is poisoning me — putting deadly ingredients in the cauliflower cheese or whatever appetising fare she’s prepared to tempt me.
The home-grown plums she sent me went straight into the bin.
Preparing meals myself is the safest option, but this also incurs copious problems.
Supermarkets are part of the conspiracy — their terrorist staff will seize any opportunity to contaminate my shopping.
Instead of hand-picking fresh produce as I usually do, I choose nothing but sealed packages. I stretch to reach the hidden items at the back of the shelves — these are less likely to have been tainted. I make my choice, grab the packet, and then realise the terrorists are watching me and may have guessed I’d opt for that one. So I return it and decide on another. And another. And another. Until I’m satisfied that I’ve outwitted them.
Drinks are equally dangerous. I’ll only buy sealed bottles or cans. Takeaway coffee is a definite no-no — it’d be ridiculously easy for someone to spike.
And most importantly, I will only shop in my favourite supermarket where I recognise the ladies at the tills. They’ve worked there for years, so I trust they’re not terrorists. As such, I’m happy to let them touch and scan my carefully selected purchases.
All in all, shopping becomes a traumatic and tiring process. I have no idea how my dad remains so calm while accompanying me on our long, drawn-out supermarket trips. I do know that, without his extraordinary composure, the whole experience would be ten times worse.
Even if all goes well whilst shopping, I check again when preparing the food. A slight mark or dint on the packaging is evidence it’s been compromised. During my last psychotic spell, my friends witnessed me opening and disposing of several cans of tuna and beans. Feeding myself can get expensive.
When my condition worsens and I’m hospitalised, the torment continues.
Once (when I’d just been interned in a secure psychiatric unit), the catering team presented a large tray of freshly made sandwiches to the eagerly awaiting patients. I knew the sandwiches were toxic and we’d all die if we ate them. I promptly did my duty and saved everyone’s lives by disposing of the entire tray in the nearest bin.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so unpopular.
What an ungrateful bunch. I’d just saved their bacon and this is how they thanked me? Why were they shouting and swearing at me like that?
Anticipating a violent patient outbreak, the nurses ushered me to the safety of my room.
During another of my ‘forced vacations’, there was a water chiller machine in the secure unit. I obviously couldn’t drink from it, for fear it was contaminated — but I made a lasting impression on the red-faced engineer responsible for its servicing.
I noticed him with his spray bottle and confrontationally asked him what he thought he was playing at. ‘I know your game’, I told him. ‘I can see you’re adding chemicals into the water’. I turned around to shout to my fellow patients. ‘Hey everyone, this man here is poisoning the water — don’t drink it. I saw him putting stuff into it.’
The poor guy. His mouth dropped open, and his face drained of colour. I’m sure his job training hadn’t included how to respond to psychosis-fuelled accusations.
The hospital canteen is a veritable minefield.
I always select a solid item like chips or pizza. Sloppy, slurpy recipes like porridge, pasta or casseroles run a greater risk of containing ‘the powder’. If a server recommends a specific dish, I’ll take the alternative. I know they’re trying to coerce me to eat the tainted food, but I’m smarter than that.
My dilly-dallying over what I’ll eat means I make more enemies. Other patients get frustrated and stroppy waiting behind me in the queue.
A psychiatric hospital is not a fun place to be.
This intense fear of being poisoned has been present throughout all my psychotic episodes. I suppose it’ll be back for the next one too.
My aim in writing this, is to provide insight for those blessed with better mental health than me. If I’ve increased awareness of how taxing it can be just to choose one measly item at the shop, I’ve achieved my purpose.
And hopefully, armed with this knowledge — when you’re tired after a long day at work and someone is dithering and delaying you in the supermarket — you’ll muster up a little extra patience to get you through the moment without reacting.
You have no idea what warped reality they’re living inside their head.
Be kind. Leave them be.
