BIRTH OF SANITY

Flashes of the past haunted her mind again. This time, she felt every moment of it, when they went wrong, when they touched her. She thought back , one of those incidents prominent in her mind.

She was playing with her dolls. She loved them. They loved her back, she thought. She lived in her own little world with her dolls. The world where she was happy with them and chocolates and ice creams.

Her mom started working when she was 3 months old. She barely got to see her. Today, she felt extra lonely, a feeling no 6 year old ought to feel. She ran to her dad, "Daddy, play with me." He looked at her and said what she always heard him say , " They are watching me. They will get me." She never understood what he meant. Disappointed, she ran back to her room, where her dolls were waiting for her. She heard a knock on her door. Petrified, she hid behind the curtains. She knew he would open the door and come in, anyway. She could hear footsteps nearing her. She held on to the curtains as though it was a cloak of invisibility. She closed her eyes real tight that it actually hurt. She heard him pulling the curtains, he was getting closer. She froze like always. She knew what was about the happen. She knew what she was about to feel. Again, she wished the ground split open and she fell hundred feet below like she had seen in some sci-fi flick. Again, that did not happen.

He touched her shoulder. Suddently, she felt like she wasn't herself. She left her body, now she could see herself feeling ugly, helpless. She wished she could help what she was witnessing, what her body was undergoing. She stayed away from her body, in a dark corner of the room and watched. After a while, she saw him say something to her body. She did not want to hear it, but she moved closer. He said "Thank you, dear. Don't tell anyone what happened here. I love you and this is how people express their love. I will be back soon." She stood there, naked and used. Her body still shaking, she managed to get her clothes back on.

For the first time, she felt inner pain, growing inside her and what was worse? She knew this was not the end. She realized this was the beginning to her end. She stared at her sweaty palms, the ones he had used to touch him. "Am I a bad person?" she thought to herself.

She looked outside the window, saw children of her age playing, they seemed happy and carefree. Her innocence had been stolen forever today. It had been snatched away from her and thrown into the wrecks of humanity. Tears filed her eyes and for the first time, she cried all alone. Cried for her soft body that had been bruised by rough hands. Cried for her childhood that had been tainted with filth for the rest of her life.

When I was 5, did I know Schizophrenia is a psychiatric diagnosis that describes a mental disorder characterized by impairments in the perception or expression of reality and/or by significant social or occupational dysfunction? Or that a person experiencing untreated schizophrenia is typically characterized as demonstrating disorganized thinking, and as experiencing delusions or hallucinations of all senses? I am afraid not. All I knew was that my dad saw, heard and felt things I did not. I was constantly under the impression that something was fundementally wrong in my head. So I stopped talking to people much, I stayed away from people I cared about thinking they might get my "disease".

One day, I ran to my dad to tell him about what I did in school. He sat still against the wall and did not respond to my hug like always. I always thought "Dad thinks I am a terrible person. That's why he doesnt hug me back or even smile at me." I continued telling him about my day, suddenly he jumped off his feet. I was startled.

"He is standing right next to you with a huge rock in his hands. Don't move, he'll throw it on us", he said. I looked around, there was no one but us in the room. But I saw deep fear in my dad's eye. "Why would he lie to me?" I thought to myself. I did not want him to know about my "disease" so I told him "he" would disappear if we looked away.

Thirteen years later, I took up psychology and learnt about my dad's condition called "Chronic paranoid schizophrenia". What shattered me more is that the illness could be genetic. I wondered how my dad has lived in his own world for the past 25 years, how no one belived him when he spoke about "them."

Did my childhood beliefs have an impact on me as an adult? Subconsciously, yes, to a great extent.

Is his world better than the "real" world? But then, who are we to say what is "real?" Years later, researchers may prove that the schizophrenic world is what is "real".

Schizophrenia may be a necessary consequence of literacy.