“Fuck,” I mumbled when my shoulder cramped, which was interesting, because I’d kind of assumed I was nonverbal at the moment, the way my thoughts flowed or didn’t and a familiar feeling somewhere in my throat, though I hadn’t tested it.
I couldn’t blame my shoulder for cramping; my disorientation at speaking came with the realization I’d been lying on my office floor staring at the very bottom of my bookshelves again.
Against my back, I felt Farrah slump and heard her whimper for attention, wet nose near my neck. The theme of the morning’s tactile hallucinations seemed to be—weight. Farrah’s dense little body in my hands, slumping against my back in the same manner the cats did, cold paws pressing at spots on my lap.
Just to spite my saying to my therapist yesterday that the tactile and visual hallucinations didn’t line up and Farrah teleported away if I tried to get close, the hallucinations started to line up, and she started wanting to cuddle.
She’d been clingy all morning, and while she didn’t talk, I felt or knew her thoughts in a way that was hard to explain—the way you knew the facts in dreams that were never presented in a sensory manner. She was disheartened by my therapy video chat yesterday that came to the conclusion—I might need to go back on meds. Probably, in fact.
I’m not trying to get rid of you, was what I thought at Farrah, because this was stupid. She wasn’t real, and so wasn’t sad that I was trying to stop seeing her—and honestly, she was the least of my issues I was trying to stop seeing. Her behavior was just the manifestation of my own mixed feelings about likely going back on meds.
My old psychiatrist’s office wasn’t open on weekends, though, and there were no calls to be made just yet. So Farrah—claws pattering on the hardwood and somersaulting clumsily down the stairs and getting stuck in the legs of my desk and trying to eat the real cats’ food—kept me company all morning and into the afternoon.
I found myself editing a picture I’d found online that kind of looked like her, to get the image closer to right, as if trying to appease her—see, you’re not going away, you can live in a picture, I can still know what you look like, even if it’s in a healthier format.
I also have developed a bit of an obsession with where Farrah came from. I only have two recurring hallucinations currently; one is straight out of a PTSD flashback; I’m very aware of where it came from. The other is Farrah. Any others are not coherent enough to be called recurring. Those little imaginary flashes of light, flips of still objects, white noise I can’t pin down.
The only real dog I see regularly looks, sounds, feels, and acts nothing like Farrah. I can’t figure out if Farrah is my mental manifestation of dog or puppy or golden retriever or cute or… what word my brain might have decided to attach to, that conjured this particular image. I’m not much of a dog person; that’s why my two real pets are cats. Google told me what Farrah meant—I know no real Farrahs and have no personal associations with the name, its origin in a language I don’t speak. I keep staring her down, thinking: Why are you here?
I get at most a wag of the tail or a yip back.
It’s a big question for a little puppy that’s not even real.
Talking about it in therapy was strangely disheartening to me, too, because those closest to me are very used to the quirks of my physical and mental health, or at least know reacting strongly isn’t going to change it. I forget how concerning certain things sound to the average person, and I’d been out of touch with my therapist for a bit there, when I’d been doing well.
Also disheartening was the fact that, as my psychosis spikes up again, my therapist, an MFT, is not qualified to treat it. Therapy is not the front line treatment for schizophrenia as it is—medication is. It’s an issue we’ve discussed before. I used to have a second therapist, the psychologist who initially diagnosed me, who my therapist referred me to shortly after I started seeing her in 2015, but the psychologist sadly passed on most of a year later, and I haven’t had that second person to treat that side of my illness since.
I can write up new medical files and go back to meditation and read more psychology books and call my psychiatrist and go to my current therapist and do some therapy workbook activities and all, and I have—but having a qualified professional to talk to is a good resource.
But, hard to find. The only name my therapist came up with off the top of her head to bring in didn’t take my insurance. I’ve had many nightmare therapists and I’ve had many who were good people who admitted they were in over their heads. The internet told me that my old psychologist, the one who passed four years ago, is currently accepting new patients.
The only real thing to do is maintain routines and wait, and wonder if it would work if I carried clumsy Farrah down the stairs.