My senior soccer season’s completion created room for a new sense of freedom. Born and raised in Brazil, I had moved to West Virginia nearly four years earlier on a full scholarship, and now graduation was approaching.
“Magic mushrooms arrived from Michigan. Are you in?” a friend asked.
“Sure, why not?” I said, a psychedelic virgin with no idea what lay ahead.
Together in a dorm room, a group of us dropped the mushrooms. Multicolored chewable candy masked the earthy aftertaste. Post-shrooming, we roamed along the trail by the campus creek. A thick blanket of snow obscured the land. The brisk air, coupled with a pressing need to pee, spurred my withdrawal from the group.
In the cafeteria, murmurs swelled into a sonic cloud; light nuzzled the back of my hand. A lifted veil allowed me to sense the concealed. Back at the dorm, my door breathed, sap seeped, and walls shimmered with life—everything pulsed with unseen vitality.
The world I knew dissolved, and I entered an alternate dimension. Universal oneness convinced me that everyone should transcend to this plane of being. I received a mission from beyond.
In a few days, I found myself in Paris, determined to fulfill my purpose: to speak with the president of France about the future of humanity. The Truth would meet Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. I was Joan of Arc reborn—driven by conviction, ready to change the course of history.
My bag became unnecessary like a life jacket on dry land. I abandoned it by the roadside as I wandered from Charles de Gaulle to the Palais de l’Élysée, carrying only what remained—a recently acquired metal Rosie the Riveter lunchbox, with the motto “We Can Do It!” Along the way, in a valley facing the railway, I wrote an impromptu story on the blank pages of my passport—a document now obsolete in the scenario I had newly conceived.
A police car pulling over on the opposite side of the railway shattered the contemplative moment. Two officers jumped out of the vehicle and swaggered toward me. I didn’t move a muscle until the two approached, at which point I got up to greet them with a simper. The pair whizzed questions at me.
“When did you arrive in Paris?”
“This morning,” I replied in poor French.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m Joan of Arc’s sister. I’m here to talk to your president.”
It was an affront to me that they didn’t contain their chuckles. The cops exchanged a knowing glance and agreed on a course of action. One of them rifled through my lunchbox and flipped my passport open. Then, they escorted me to their police car, which I assumed would take me where I intended to go.
They took me to the police station, which culminated in my transfer to a detention center. In confinement, with an inexhaustible energy surging through my frame, my determination felt renewed—my roar would shake the world and solve its problems. But as the words erupted from my throat, a handful of men burst into the cell, restrained me in a straitjacket, and injected me with a sedative that plunged me into darkness. I regained consciousness the next day, arriving at a psychiatric hospital.
They handed me a standard-issue medical uniform and confiscated the few possessions I had, including my Discman and the stack of Ani DiFranco CDs that had traveled with me as the soundtrack of my journey. Music was a privilege I no longer deserved.
But an elderly patient had a radio. A young French woman and I devised a plan, distracting him just long enough to seize the device. For a while, we escaped through music, savoring stolen moments in her room—until a nurse stormed in, cutting off our fragile connection to the outside world.
I planned to escape. I was an athlete, able to outrun them. The entrance door stood open, offering a path to freedom. Through the window, I envisioned myself sprinting free—unstoppable. But while my mind raced, my physique remained limp, shackled by chemicals. Each step felt like wading through quicksand. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t give up.
I dragged myself across the deserted reception area, slipping unnoticed through the doorway. An ambulance sat outside, its open door beckoning. I climbed in, hopeful. The driver—whom I thought would be an ally—could press the gas and whisk me away.
“C’mon, let’s go!” I urged, miming a steering motion. But his stare pierced through me, empty, unmoved.
Then—shouting. Rushing footsteps. Within seconds, nurses descended upon me. I fought to make my limbs obey, but they refused. Overpowered, I was dragged back inside.
The embassy tracked me down, and soon I was escorted to my home country and committed to a local mental institution for continued care.
A seasoned psychiatrist interviewed me, a woman with short, dark, puffy hair and a stern demeanor. I shared my mission, the driving force that still flickered at the heart of me, though its potency had waned.
“You’re arrogant,” she declared, her tone dismissive. She embodied the hierarchical structure of mainstream psychiatry, where doctors held absolute power, and patients were expected to obey.
My previous asylum, a picturesque château in France, stood in stark contrast to this South American psych ward. Located on the second floor of a neglected building, the locked door and barred windows created a prison-like atmosphere. The food was nearly inedible, a far cry from the brie and baguettes of Paris.
Strict enforcement reigned. My rebellion was short-lived; a discarded pill in my room’s trash led to routine checks, ensuring I swallowed each dose. My ability to resist had been compromised.
Overcrowded with patients, the ward buzzed with tension. Restricted confines, poor food, and authoritarian staff made the reality of my situation undeniable.
A man’s booming voice echoed down the corridor, triggering an immediate response from the nurses. They rushed to subdue him. I followed, curious. When the noise subsided, I questioned him. He mentioned hallucinations, being chased by the police, a residue of past traumas with law enforcement.
Another patient walked only in straight lines. He recounted an incident where a parked vehicle had blocked his path. Unable to deviate, he sat on the sidewalk, waiting for the car to move—which didn’t happen until the following day. He spent the night there. This event led to his commitment.
In spite of the pills, my thoughts were turbulent. I asked my mother for books, finding solace and new theories inside their pages. But the impression of being stifled persisted. The vibrant world I’d experienced in my expedition had faded into monochrome.
The sight of sunrise through iron-grilled windows made my American life seem distant. My Parisian mission, though still a focus, was losing its grip.
At one point, I was the subject of a case study, bombarded with questions in a crowded auditorium. I spoke of an integrated mind, a heightened consciousness. A resident dismissed my words as circular and ludicrous.
As my fantastical discourse diminished, they granted me a partial reprieve: home visits during the night. The outpatient program, although still restrictive, was an upgrade.
My first day in the scheme, I was obsessed with the radio, searching for hidden messages in song lyrics. But the medication’s impacts were overwhelming. I collapsed onto a stretcher, sleeping from morning till evening, a chemical haze clinging to me.
My existence had deteriorated into a zombie state, a daze of half-consciousness. Connecting dots was a struggle; I was a specter, a walking corpse.
My mother accompanied me to a cybercafé for faster internet. I emailed old acquaintances, inviting them to a meeting at a local hotel to discuss humanity’s fate. On the way home, exhaustion threatened to pull me down onto the sidewalk.
My story, though challenged, persisted. But the lure of resuming normal college routines in the U.S. was stronger. I was caught between two worlds—yet I couldn’t return to my mission, nor could I resume my studies. Missing too many classes had led to my withdrawal from the semester, which meant losing my scholarship. Without it, I couldn’t afford the full tuition to retake my final term.
My mom, witnessing my struggles, sought help from a private psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, Dr. Y and Mr. W. I switched to their focused treatment.
Dr. Y’s gentle voice and the Zen garden on her desk provided a sense of calm. She interviewed my mother, striving to understand my history. She mentioned a childhood diagnosis of autism, though it remained unconfirmed.
I questioned my condition, seeking answers that weren’t forthcoming. Was my experience a fabrication, or was there truth embedded in it?
Dr. Y disapproved of the treatment prescribed to me, advocating instead for risperidone, a modern antipsychotic. She suggested this second-generation drug would be more effective than the first-generation chlorpromazine used by the hospital. With samples from a pharmaceutical company eager to gain a new client, Dr. Y also prescribed a benzodiazepine to improve sleep and ease symptoms. To counter potential side effects, she recommended biperiden, in case it became necessary.
The cocktail of pills, the “superstar” of psychotropics, proved treacherous. Contrary to the expected advantages, an uneasy and diligent buzz ran from head to toe, as if each cell inside me was vibrating and striving for liberation.
Discomfort marked every second of living within my skin. Whether standing or sitting, there was no respite from the relentless torment that consumed me. The vibrations didn’t take holidays. My whole being was on the verge of exploding out of my edges.
My mother reached out to Dr. Y to apprise her of my plight, and she recommended biperiden. This medication was originally used to treat Parkinson’s disease and calm tremors, helping to alleviate restlessness. The pill provided only short-term relief. Once the effects of the counter-agent wore off, the swarm of insects resumed their tumultuous party throughout my body.
In the evenings, the benzodiazepine substance dulled my mental faculties and shut me down. With the first rays of sunlight, my cruel reality greeted me.
Tears trickled down my cheeks, as if a dam had burst within me, not reflecting my emotions, but an automatic response controlled by the compounds in my brain.
This concoction of drugs became my worst nightmare, the physical manifestation of agony. The weeping groundhog-day looped in the same pattern every morning, as though programmed.
Even with Mr. W, with his distinguished gray curls and scholarly glasses, my unease squatted. His sympathetic ear failed to dispel my distrust in a system where he and Dr. Y. held confidential discussions. The chance for my family to gain access to my private information haunted me as they covered my medical expenses. Attending each bi-weekly appointment became a trek through a landscape of secrecy and suspicion. My lunchbox, resilient from its journey, joined me in the sessions, taking its place beside my chair.
Mr. W occupied a spot a good dozen feet away, in another not-so-comfortable seat. As soon as I arrived and insisted everything was okay, tears welled up. He suggested I was attempting to appease him, rather than expressing my feelings. He was correct; I feared disclosing anything that could potentially lead to readmission. I couldn’t reveal my plans to end my life.
If I’d once personified a divine presence, interwoven with all creation, I had become a solitary grain of sand, cut off and adrift.
During my appointments with Dr. Y, we delved into the shadows of my existence. She belatedly detected that the fantastic thoughts, over time, gave way to grimed purports. Despite this, Dr. Y remained firm in recommending risperidone, arguing there were further ideas to be refined.
The medication triggered unsettling physical and emotional sensations. I recognized the psychotropics’ impact on my condition but had no proof of their harm.
Until this moment, the idea of ending my life had never entered my storyline; it was a far-fetched territory. The dopaminergic blocker had sapped me of every ounce of motivation and will to partake in life’s activities. The pills depleted me of all desire to live. I often gazed out the window, contemplating the thought of throwing myself out. The unending restlessness spurred the impulse to jump, to eliminate the antsy effects.
The counteracting pill could not assuage it. Watching my destiny from the ninth floor, I spotted a tree that could soften my fall. Inhaling gas could result in passing out, not causing my death. The worst-case scenario would be a failed attempt to extinguish my being. Consequently, I vowed to myself to always wait until the next sunrise.
I survived one day at a time. Hoping for relief in 24 hours, I persevered through many agonizing moments. I mentally enrolled in a silent SA-like program.
Just for today, I’ll try to live through this day…
I hesitated out of fear of being misunderstood. Even if I ceased to be, people would still perceive me as mentally unsound and justify my decision based on their own perspectives: “The crazy one departed.”
The possible misjudgment empowered me to survive and show the opposite.
Dr. Y reverted to a regimen of antidepressants to interrupt the recurring cycle of despair, as I was trapped in a dark hole, now apparent to her eyes. While fluoxetine lifted the fog, it also numbed my emotions. I felt like a mechanical entity, completely devoid of sentiment. The urge to weep was overpowering, but the drug prevented any outlet for emotional release. It held me hostage. To break free, I discontinued the medication, regardless of Dr. Y’s recommendation.
* * *
During a lab rotation in my neuroscience master’s program in Germany, seven years later, I found myself gripping a tiny creature upside down, preparing to administer MPEP to enhance fear memory in Fragile X mice. But the rodent had other plans. It twisted, bit my finger, and escaped, leaping into a dim corner. I recaptured it by the tail to complete the injection and shock procedures—no escape. Science would claim its life without consent.
My fern-green lab attire offered little protection from the pungent scent of mice. The odor clung to me, as stubborn as smoke after a night in a stuffy bar. Despite a hot shower, the smell lingered, woven into my clothes and the air around me.
The next morning, I found a genetically modified mouse dead in its cage. The Cuban postdoc casually noted the common heart issues in these knockout mice—each would meet the same fate, sacrificed for the greater good. Bred for service, they never felt earth or wind, nor heard leaves shift under open skies.
I aimed to study dopaminergic depletion, replicating my experience with receptor-blocking agents.
Conversely, institutional priorities steered me toward the Fragile X project. The outcome wouldn’t have differed—studying apathy in mice involved a crude test: suspending them by their tails. Struggling indicated resistance; stillness, surrender. But while humans may succumb to despair, animals don’t possess the capacity to end their own lives, making such experiments an oversimplified glimpse into true emotional depth.
Earlier in my life, the dopaminergic blockers meant to quell my delusion only deepened my suffering. I eventually learned there was a term for what I felt—akathisia—but no name could capture its agony. Suppressing my neurotransmitters left me in a suffocating void, devoid of motivation or hope. The suicidal thoughts that followed weren’t a part of me; they were chemically induced, a cruel side effect of cutting dopamine from my brain.
Doctors overlooked my brain’s adaptability, keeping me on a drug that was no longer needed, nearly costing me my life. After that, I pursued neuroscience, propelled by a need to grasp my losses. But this study shattered the version of myself I had worked to build.
Despite leaving that chapter in the past, smelling rodents remained with me. My nostrils had become tuned to detect buildings that housed them, their essence lingering in my sensory recollection. It wasn’t just the scent—it was the weight of it, forever imprinted in my reality. Now, instead of injections, I pin words—using them to probe deeper into myself, to find meaning where once there was only silence.
Psychiatry’s tools, legitimized by diagnostic manuals and scientific publications framed in abstract taxonomic language, subjected me to a dehumanizing and disempowering ordeal.
Today, it fuels my impulse to write against the grain.
While I lived in Germany, I came across ADHD camps where extreme sports offered an outlet for kids’ energy, combined with diary writing. It struck me as a more natural approach to working with the flow of the river, rather than forcing kids to sit still while medicated with methylphenidate. Instead of repressing the mind, why not work collaboratively with it?
What if, during my delusions, I had a space where I could scream, run, jump, play music, write, dance, paint, journal, or even try spontaneous theater? A location where I could practice yoga, martial arts, build something with my hands, go for long hikes, or get lost in a creative project. What if I could experiment with photography, engage in problem-solving exercises, or immerse myself in cooking, gardening, or crafting? A place where I could use deep breathing, mindfulness, or rock climbing to alleviate frustration. What if there was such an environment, where I could process and release, letting my mind return to its position of equilibrium?
Delusions are more than fleeting mental turmoil; they reveal the unconscious mind’s storytelling power. Shaped by personal history, culture, and the psyche’s hidden depths, they offer raw, tangled narratives that psychiatry often seeks to suppress, missing the opportunity to uncover the psyche’s richness and complexity. Rather than aiming to exterminate them, we should explore their depth and value them as fictionalized creations of our imagination—worthy of observation, not elimination like weeds.
These symptoms may not signify a disorder, but instead a self-repair mechanism within the brain—a resourceful process in its own right. What if instead of trying to eradicate these false beliefs, we sought to guide them into new channels of insight?
My state of in-betweenness became a mode of existence, a fusion of opposing forces. Embracing contradictions and finding joy in being both introspective and bold, I learned to accept the dualities without seeking to destroy either side. It’s a balance between self-reflection and outward confidence, between understanding one’s inner world and engaging with the external one.
In this liminal space, endless possibilities unfold, suspended between rationality and intuition, body and mind, science and art, nature and civilization, past and future, certainty and uncertainty, the known and the unknown.
