By the Author / Source: abuaram.site
In the past, during my episodes of schizophrenia, my mental perceptions lacked logic, structure, and coherence, and I was overwhelmed by delusions. I lacked the self-awareness to realize that my thinking was distorted. My brain chemistry was in complete disarray, without me understanding that life didn’t have to be this way. I believed that everything—the emotions, the symptoms, the psychosis, and the hallucinations—was an inescapable reality I simply had to live with.
I never imagined I would escape that state, nor did I believe that adhering consistently to treatment could transform things so profoundly. Spiritual fixations and the conviction that everything happening to me was real—rather than the product of a psychiatric disorder—dominated my mind. I lived amid relentless mental noise; I couldn’t lie down peacefully on my pillow without being accompanied daily by internal chatter, voices, and hallucinations.
I would work while listening to voices speaking to me, forcing my focus onto my work despite their constant presence—a chorus of voices everywhere, both around me and inside my head. Over time, I stopped feeling sorrow over it; living with it for so long led me to believe it was simply my fate. I lied to everyone who asked how I was doing, especially my mother and my wife, both of whom knew my history with this illness. I would tell them: “I’m in good health, and my current treatment is fine.”
In reality, I had begun experiencing the worst, harshest, and most unfamiliar symptoms of schizophrenia since entering my twenties. For nearly 13 years, I never received adequate or effective treatment to restore my true self and clarity of mind; I spent most of those years with a deeply ill part of me taking hold. I fought a constant battle with the illness, mostly relying on a single medication—a minimal dose of an older antipsychotic like quetiapine, taken merely to aid sleep. I had resisted consistent treatment almost my entire life, adhering to it only for brief stretches lasting no longer than a few months.
In the past, my thoughts were irrational, defined primarily by delusions and unreality, accompanied by feelings of grandeur, paranoia, and varying degrees of schizophrenic symptoms. I felt that what I possessed was something sacred—like a divine spirit—and I addressed it as master, revered, and grand. I also believed I had been a holy child since birth, akin to a chosen one, destined for reverence and honor like a messenger.
These wild ideas attacked me relentlessly, infiltrating parts of my mind. I used to write down those foreign, irrational thoughts, and my behavior led others to view me as ill or mock my words and ideas. At that time, I lacked the writer’s craft and ability to express my thoughts with the clarity and depth I developed in later years.
In truth, whenever my mind clears, peace settles in, and the relentless psychological and nervous tension recedes, my core, authentic self emerges—a self aligned with my values, ethics, and reason, instilling me with confidence, peace, security, and healthy self-worth. It is a stark contrast to the persona shaped by illness.
That illness can distort the essence of who you are, turning you into a different person. It can push you toward impulses that seem plausible in the moment but are utterly alien to who you are—actions that bring shame and consequences, or that pose genuine harm to yourself and others. For instance, the harassing thoughts I previously referred to in my writings—such as acting inappropriately toward my married neighbor during a severe schizophrenic episode coupled with heavy drinking—never reflected my actual self, nor would I ever entertain them outside that agonizing period of illness, for they stand completely opposed to my true character, principles, and moral code.
This is what this illness is capable of: it can drag you to the lowest depths without anyone around you realizing you are suffering from a disease at all. In those moments, you can easily be ruined through no fault of your own, acting without true awareness and in complete opposition to your authentic nature, spirit, and sound mind—because in those moments, your mind is sick.
Anyway, I was part of the problem too, as I failed to recognize the necessity of treatment and resisted opening up or seeking help. Others, meanwhile, overlooked my condition as long as I remained quiet and peaceful, intervening to secure treatment for me only when crises erupted and disruptions began. I received care only when my condition boiled over into turmoil. I endured numerous psychological relapses, and under the relentless weight of stress and nervous tension, the madness reached its peak, driving me to break down completely at various stages.
Recovery from this illness is a profound blessing; life feels fundamentally different without it. Schizophrenia is a deeply dangerous condition, and forcing oneself to merely endure it is a grave injustice. I am deeply grateful for the progress I feel now, having finally found the right treatment. I must never abandon it, lest I slip back into the harsh reality of illness and the devastating toll it takes on me and those around me.
