: Delusions of a relative

I don't know anymore. It seems strange to me, so it probably is. Irrational—absurd, even! And worst of all, real.

That extraordinary tingling sensation that accompanies me while writing, and the strange smell that practically irritates my nostrils, which doesn't let me forget that everything is real. What a shame.

It might seem like there's no magic in this world, but that's not true. If you ask me what magic is—I'll answer this way—it's a white powder, sometimes a pill, in any case a synthetic substance, that transforms nothingness into being. It colors everyday life, sharpens the senses to such a degree that every touch is like an empirical experience, and music, when you close your eyes, transports you to a world of surreal visions, where you'll be accompanied by a euphoric state. A return ticket is irrelevant. That's what magic is.

And I am a magician.

The tingling sensation and that scent—intensified like never before, allowing me to smell my own body—are odorless under normal circumstances. But these are not normal circumstances.

This is a festival of the senses. I just don't know if I'm participating or merely believing in the illusion I've been creating for so long.

Music plays, or rather resonates, quite loudly in the air, more of a club vibe than pleasant ballads, where the singer's soprano sometimes acts like ecstasy, lifting my thoughts beyond the heights of my dreams. But I need something quick. At least now.

My psyche.

It's what commands the entire process. And that scent, and those senses, and my imagination, and my ability to write; also the ability to understand what's happening. The only question is, what's happening? So, with a smile, from ear to ear, I whisper a simple yet astonishing answer—I'm lost between what's real and what's not. Because where does everyday life end and imagination begin, its often terrifying face? Something like looking death in the eye, or a sadomasochistic asceticism that brings joy.

You're probably asking me how this works, why I even think this way? Or maybe at this point you'll realize that when you look ahead, you don't see what's real and visible, but rather perceive what's not. If so, welcome to the world of psychosis, which I'll now guide you through.

Hold on tight... to what's real, because here everything is both fiction and real at the same time.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. But yesterday was actually five months ago, and that's when it all began.

It wasn't my first time experiencing a hedonistic ride. I'd done it often before. Then there was a break, whether spontaneous or prompted – I don't remember. But I had no trouble recovering from it. I returned, as it were, out of longing. Sweet, isn't it?

And it was back to how it used to be, an endless sense of joy in life, a peak of sensations, and a desire for everything. I was happy about it, especially since I was in control of the situation, in fact, I still am. However, I never thought the joy of returning would be platonic. She let me enjoy myself again, as I once did, but I had no idea she was planning revenge. Her effect was the same as before; the days passed normally, and nothing indicated that a mental state was forming in my head—so incomprehensible as to be absurd.

Some time ago, there was the first sign of it. It revealed itself; her name was psychosis. Of the type of delusional delusions.

On a seemingly straight bus ride through the city, I stared furiously out the window, searching among the passing pedestrians for a pretty girl, with a beautiful smile and a charm that shone like an aura in her eyes. Why did I do this? I'm a guy, after all, and it's a pleasure to find a beautiful person and be able to exchange a look with them, often speaking louder than a stream of words, or to offer a smile, expecting the same in return. For many, every bus journey represents more than just the miles traveled and the struggle with cunning, almost bloodthirsty, old hands who would destroy you for a seat. For me, the time spent in that long, red bus is like another world.

I watched the people; a young, I'd even venture to say much younger, girl caught my eye, with expressive features, brown hair falling delicately to her shoulders, and lips covered in a thin layer of pink lipstick. She was maybe fourteen. What did it matter, she looked pretty. I secretly observed her. She was chewing gum, and her cheeks, flushed from the cold, only enhanced her charm. But she was too young; the supposed fourteen years might have been a little less. At some point, I noticed she wasn't the only one attracting social attention from the passengers.

A guy, about twenty-five, blond, with black eyes and a grimace as if someone were sticking sharp tacks into some part of his body, sat and stared at me. Surreptitiously, too, perhaps he'd only glanced once and I'd exaggerated it. But I caught that look, which held no meaning. And yet I read something: shame and embarrassment. I glanced again at the girl sitting in her seat, still chewing gum, her mind far away. I studied the guy again and seemed to understand his expression. But wait? I'm not a pervert. And I don't fantasize about girls much younger than myself.

If this story had been written by an objective narrator, he might have said the blond man's gaze was ordinary, like any other, unremarkable. Meanwhile, my thoughts were racing with moral anxiety. Was he the only one looking at me when I glanced at her? If this continued, they would truly think I was some kind of pervert. And again, shivers came, down my spine, cold and chilling my body, which had heated up under the influence of this anger and fear. I didn't do anything, I told myself, but time and again, someone looked at me with the same eyes as the blond man. At some point, I realized I was starting to believe my own imagination. I searched for clues as to why I was looking at her, wanting to defend myself. And so I stood on the bus, looking repeatedly at the girl and the blond man. A trial was underway, and I was the accused. The trial was happening only in my head.

The rest of the people were preoccupied with their own thoughts and problems, and no one even paid me any attention. The bus continued on, day after day. Only an unannounced visit from my psychosis drove away my good mood for the rest of the day, leaving behind a feeling of strange emptiness.

The rest of the day passed normally. I managed to turn this event into an anecdote—it's easier that way. It's much better to laugh at something than to be terrified and unable to comprehend what happened. A little humor and the whole situation looks different. But why did they judge me so, without even knowing me?

Absurd, right?

A few days passed, and I practically didn't care anymore. I explained to myself that it was the result of fatigue, the weather, and other such things. Everything was fine, which justified me. Even the lie, which I eventually had to consider a weapon in the fight against my psyche.

March. A dozen or so days after that already ridiculous(!) experience, I was walking down the middle of the sidewalk and saw a figure walking towards me in the distance. The closer it got, the larger it became. And with it, my sense of dread.

The walking figure was finally close enough for me to realize it was a guy whose testosterone often dictates aggression; a target – any one that comes along. Not a second later, I already had an escape plan, a duel plan, and a negotiation plan in mind. I quickly searched for solutions that would help me achieve the PLAN! Any one!

A rock, four meters to my right. I had formed so many patterns in my mind that drawing them on the boards as a few arrows would take a long time. Out of the corner of my eye, I also noticed a car passing by – a blue Honda Civic. It was going too fast for me to jump in front of it and ask for help, so I let it go.

In the distance, a man emerged from around the corner, an old, ailing, hunched-over retiree. He would make a poor ally. Or maybe that woman in the window, staring absently ahead and yawning every now and then as if that were her job. No, too apathetic. There was so little time! I continued searching, another second ticking by. I pictured the police statements, the obituary flashed through my mind, and adrenaline, or rather, too much of it, momentarily slacked my legs, preventing me from escaping.

The figure was getting closer, about seven meters away, but I already knew his blood alcohol level was above the legal limit, and somewhere a light must be blinking with the words "Danger, count to this number and act!"

Just two meters away, I knew it was a bad idea to keep going. Maybe I'll stop, I thought. And so I did. His head was covered in cuts, gashes, and a twisted nose, probably from the fight. His eyes radiated anger, rage, and hatred. I could already see the aggression in his demeanor when he started the conversation. "Hey, man! You... Wait..."

His voice was thick, rather sharp, and he seemed to be speaking with difficulty. Ironically, I was speechless, because I was ready to pull out my things and hand them over, but I couldn't do anything. Not say anything, not move. What am I, a dummy or something?

"Do you have a cigarette?" He said it in such a way that I felt like he'd spent weeks learning each word and still wasn't sure what it meant.

"I don't smoke.

" "You're a jerk. At least one." He took me in, his eyes taking in my entire being, mentally analyzing me.

It was quite difficult to say the next words. Panic, fear, and a feeling of helplessness were constantly building, to the point where I wanted to get it over with. At all costs. Chills, uncontrolled muscle movements, and a racing heartbeat appeared as quickly as I realized the guy was making a move.

My whole life, in situations like this, I've maintained a clear head, a rational mind, and a quick overview of the situation, which made me feel relatively confident. Now both rationality and clarity have vanished. Because as I recall, as we stood there for that split second, my mind was swarming with these patterns that were of no use anyway.

He just muttered something under his breath, I didn't catch what exactly, but I think he said what he thought about me not having cigarettes, and made this enigmatic move that, to me, looked like a karate chop, but in reality, the guy tripped over his own leg. But he managed to regain control, somehow, and didn't fall. He just smiled and walked away, saying, "Fucking sidewalks."

And Percentages, I said. But I didn't hear myself. What was happening to me?

The following days were normal again, no such rides, just pleasant evenings spent in the company of a charming lady, in whose embrace I felt special, so much so that my vanity automatically increased.

My companion was two years older than me, which didn't seem to bother anyone, as I got along perfectly well with people who had lived longer than my humble self. However, we didn't talk that evening, although our tongues were engaged in some kind of furious pursuit. Without rest, long, passionate, and subtle.

Her sapphire eyes were constantly closed that evening, and her lips, sensual and red, tasted like strawberries. It didn't bother me.

She wore two piercings in one ear, another in her navel. I wanted to check if she was hiding another somewhere else, but something held me back. No, not morality. Perhaps her prudery, a false and exaggerated hint of shyness in her behavior? I had a good time last weekend, from Friday to Sunday. I already knew what the result of my irrational behavior was. The fear that had taken up residence in my psyche along with that weekend dose of white magic.

She must have sensed it, because she suddenly became different, the kind I'd dreamed of my whole life, understanding and understanding. I was afraid of intimacy with her, because of her; I was by no means afraid of physical pleasure. I felt fear before her. Strange, inexplicable, incomprehensible. Why had I imagined her tears, her sadness, when everything was so beautiful?

I lost my train of thought that day. What had been a promising evening turned into disappointment, a hopeless mood, and a depression that haunted me for several days.

I got rid of it when my bloodstream once again transported the white powder, obviously previously digested in my stomach, and after a short while, dopamine production reached its peak. Truth be told, I ignored those situations. I was sure I wasn't the only one experiencing such things, and I convinced myself they definitely weren't caused by the drugs. Yes, I think that was the first time I lied to myself. I knew in my heart where it came from, but I didn't want to let it go.

The days passed. Each one was no different from the last. It felt like they were the same, except for the date on the calendar.

March was ending, and we were planning a party that day. I didn't mess around with that girl anymore, but another one showed up.

Crystal blue eyes, blond hair falling over bare shoulders. That's how I remember her from our first meeting, when I met her online. We often chatted; I felt like I knew her like the alphabet; I could recite the words she was about to say just by looking into her eyes. Our first meeting took place six months ago. Then we lost touch, and it's obvious why – we met new people. But somehow, we connected recently; it was just like before. I still remember the sweet kiss she gave me at the end of our meeting.

My date was supposed to come over around 2 p.m.; we wanted to spend some time together before the party. Just to talk, just like that. Impatiently, I watched her from the window. I couldn't resist any longer and took a dose, which started working after forty minutes. As I watched my girlfriend from the window, I was so captivated by the vastness of the blue ocean, across which white clouds drifted timidly, as if terrified, that I felt as if time had stood still. Rock music played in the airwaves. I was bursting with pride, yet simultaneously afraid that fear would resurface that night. After a moment of reflection and convincing myself that psychosis wasn't caused by amphetamines, ugh – there was no psychosis.

As I opened the door, I wanted to say a sweet little compliment I'd composed especially for the occasion, but I'd forgotten. I opened my mouth, but it vanished. My entire memory. My brain couldn't process such a surge of information in such a short time. Such sudden memory lapses occurred to me several times that evening, but as I later observed, observing my friends, I wasn't the only one with such problems. Everyone was losing words, entire sentences, and events.

The party was fantastic; we danced the night away, and just before dawn, when the sun was just coming to life, I locked arms with my companion in a loving embrace. We were one, the heat of passion was scorching, and every touch was unique.

Out of the blue, I opened my eyes some time later, and she was lying on the bed, and I was on the floor. Everyone was asleep. Was it a dream? But… I remember the taste of her lips, the warmth of her touch, and the passion in her eyes.

I thought for a long time, but I couldn't come up with anything sensible. They started waking up; it was noon. Wait a minute, I thought. If everyone was here, then…? Did we make love like that in front of everyone? That answer automatically led to dismissal, but a hint of doubt lingered.

And worse, their glances and the whispered conversations indicated something was afoot. I glanced around every now and then, and each time, I noticed some information circulating around the room, but it was intended to avoid me.

I was devastated, because I was among friends, where there were no secrets.

I was afraid to approach my companion. I felt embarrassed. What if something had happened and I wasn't aware of it? Or what if it hadn't, and I'd tempted her into another evening? My reflection was interrupted by a soft giggle coming from the next room.

It couldn't have been otherwise. She was sitting with other girls, laughing. The longer this desperate fit of laughter dragged on, the more I wanted to scream out the aggression building inside me.

If only I knew they weren't talking about me, something I'd made up myself, but simply because. The delusions of connection were becoming more and more persistent.

I wandered around all day, unable to find my place, unwilling to talk to anyone. When she approached to ask what was going on, I grumbled, "Nothing."

I was angry with her. I felt disgusted; how could she? The days that followed, after we'd lost touch, dragged on slowly, and the longer they passed, the more alert my mind became. It took me a long time to consider another possibility. But it was too late.

And to this day, I don't know if anything happened that night or not. Maybe I'll find out someday, anyway, April had begun.

I had the day off. I had a choice: either watch movies by myself or go to the pub for a beer. But what about a beer? I had to reach into the locker, prepare the necessary equipment for the journey, and wait for the evening.

My evening began shortly after 1 p.m. And all my problems, all my complexes, and those insignificant situations vanished. What mattered was this moment. A moment of rapture.

I was online, chatting with friends. Several at once, because otherwise the conversation would have flowed too slowly for me. I turned on the TV, more to do that than to see what was interesting. I came across a science program about drugs. "Idiots!" I thought. They talk the most, and they've never even seen a single marijuana leaf. They seemed terribly strange, simple, and hypocritical. They spoke of preventing the widespread use of hard drugs on the market, because it not only threatens the nation, but society more so, but above all, harms people as individuals.

I was happy; I dismissed these words as nonsense. I knew better. What could he possibly be saying? Let him try it, I wonder if he'll be so quick to ban and punish?

My thoughts drifted, surfing the internet. I visited the few forums where people discussed selected topics. I found the one that suited me best at the moment and immersed myself in the virtual community.

Even though it was my first time talking to them, I didn't know them, and they didn't know me, I still had the strangest feeling that they knew I'd taken something today.

Meanwhile, the posts piled up, the topic grew longer, and I reread everything from the beginning. I hadn't written anything about myself, or who I was, or that I was using. Meanwhile, every post on their site contained some hidden conclusion. I could feel it. How had they guessed? And why did I feel like everyone was talking about me? I wasn't the only newcomer, so that even ruled out the idea that everyone knew each other. However, as I noticed in the posts of the other newcomers, there was also a hint of something unsettling. I closed the forum. Just

to be on the safe side, I turned off my computer.

I'd wasted several hours; I don't even know what I was doing. I only remember being on some forum, and they were talking about something. Something about me. But I don't remember exactly what. The bell rang. I stopped dead in my tracks. It was the strangest feeling of terror I'd ever felt. Because I knew one of the forum members was standing outside the door.

Two more chimes broke me out of my trance. I glanced again at the vault, and when I decided everything was okay, I went to open the door. When I peeked through the peephole, my heart leaped into my throat. I'd lost all desire to party; the people who'd been standing outside my door for several minutes turned out to be friends. My friends.

I had to take another hit, because this one was fading. The stress and terror instantly purged the magical synthetic from my body. The very sight of it now filled me with revulsion. And to make matters worse, I could smell myself, incredibly intense yet undetectable. But this time, everyone was under the influence. So…

I forgot what I was thinking as I stood there. I don't even remember leaving my apartment. Why did I only remember locking up on the way to the pub? They reassured me that I'd done it, supposedly even laughing at them that I'd forget about it. It had happened to them too. It was a strange feeling. Despite their assurances, I still couldn't accept the news that everything was okay.

The pub was full, it was crowded, so it was a good thing we'd booked a seat in advance. "We? You called," they retorted, sounding surprised. I didn't say anything more.

After half an hour of sitting listlessly among a group of people discussing social psychology, I chimed in. And another Zonk!

The answer to someone else's question, never mind, had already been given two minutes ago. So why don't I remember those two minutes? I looked around the entire pub. Everyone was watching, everyone had seen and heard it. And every giggle was about me, every whisper about me, every glance was an invitation to a duel. I couldn't look people in the eye, so I sat staring at the floor.

And now I could be sure I was causing a stir.

I woke up after a seven-minute sleep. They were acting nicely, I thought. When they noticed my driving, they took me home. Why the hell did I keep snorting, I don't know!

The day, overcast and rainy, promised to be apathetic, and lethargy was already creeping into my mood. Everything was gray. I went to my hiding place; my beloved magical power was still waiting for me there.

Without it, the world looked tragic, can't you see? Hmmmm...

I visited more forums and chats, and once and for all, I said goodbye to them. At first, the conversation was normal, about cars, women, and future plans. But the speculation began again; everyone knew I was "on the white list."

Enough with strangers. After all, I have my own. I launched the program, and to my horror, reading the captions under their statuses, I realized they all knew. And they were conspiring!

I started reading those descriptions again. Nothing was actually stated clearly, but I could feel it! What if they were laughing at me, about that party or yesterday? I watched (on forums and at conferences) as they talked, but I didn't appear to them.

I didn't want to spoil their good moods. Why did I feel like the whole world had forgotten me? They all didn't give a damn about me.

My postpartum depression was like a form of mental asceticism.

Worse still, I enjoyed it. I terrorized myself, mentally pointing out my biggest flaws, insecurities, failures. Everything! I was a nobody. I stood in front of the mirror and the words that still sting my heart because they were spoken honestly (or were they?) and by me – "You're just a caricature of a human being..." I couldn't retort. I didn't want to. I couldn't.

I was lost.

The next day – another depression. I didn't speak to anyone, didn't answer calls, didn't reply to texts, didn't even turn on my computer. And that day, I would have sworn I had no friends, no one to live for, and no one remembered me. Despite those calls, texts.

I don't know. I guess it was easier to deal with what was troubling me that way. Time passed and I was gone. Depression intensified, and my anxiety developed into a permanent psychosis.

I was afraid that one day the police would knock and politely search my apartment. I couldn't stop them. I began to live in a panic, fearing that day was approaching. When I went out to buy groceries, everyone looked at me as if trying to warn me. I felt like I stood out from the crowd, as if marked.

I found a new hiding place. I deliberately covered it with some things so it wouldn't be obvious I was keeping anything there. I sprinkled some pepper on it so the sniffer dogs wouldn't smell it. The pepper would block their noses.

I covered the windows because I knew spies, who had been on a secret mission for some time, were watching me from the windows opposite. To make matters worse, my neighbors had special listening devices in their homes. I had to keep quiet...

I didn't watch TV, because why would I? I started talking to others after a few days of loneliness and a need for alienation. It was nearing the end of April. I had a week's break from using, and I was feeling better and better.

I once learned in a chat room that if you want to avoid these kinds of trips, you have to fight them. There are many methods.

I chose the simplest:

a proper diet. Which is strange, because after that, you don't feel like eating at all. But then I read that it's about eating on days when you're not under the influence.

So, I took hundreds of vitamins every day, drank milk (believing that all those lockjaws hadn't ruined my teeth). I devoured enormous amounts of fruit and vegetables, and indeed – it worked like a charm.

Over time, I realized that the placebo effect only worked for an initial period. Always, without exception.

May came, and I went to a party with friends. I didn't take anything, just drank. But it didn't matter. Everyone was still looking at me. They were observing me. They analyzed my every move, discussed me, whispered while looking at me, and laughed, probably also at my behavior.

To this day, I laugh at the words I uttered to myself then, as if to myself, when the wave of terror was at its peak – Jesus… They have eyes!

It bothered me, I'm serious. I was afraid of their gazes, I avoided them. Even in the mirror, I wouldn't look at my face, only at my dry skin, which, to make matters worse, seemed to have darkened even more.

If I'd fallen for the idea that I was turning into a Negro, it would have been the best screw-up anyone could ever fall for. And not much was missing, because I was truly becoming that dark.

I don't know where these flashes of sarcasm came from, but they delighted me. They gave me strength, banished my depression.

And throughout this period, even though I knew they were delusions, I allowed them to control me. Will writing this story change anything? People will still know, they will "have eyes," they will whisper. They might also laugh.

And I'd love to laugh with them, but I have to participate. I can't run away from it; only by taking up the fight will I win.

Contact with the white powder allowed me to rise above mediocrity, but it also took away so much: faith in myself, in people.

And without that, no one wins.

And today is another party, so maybe there will be a second part soon. In any case, I've learned to live alongside whims, partially avoiding them or modifying them accordingly.

Imagine hundreds of beautiful girls fiercely watching me every day.

Yes, I like it...

From the Author:

Since it's a taboo subject, I had some reservations about writing about it. This story is entirely fictional; I don't encourage any action; it's merely intended to demonstrate how life can change under the influence of certain substances, how one's own brain can become an enemy.

Delusions of connection are a common psychosis. They're truly terrifying, as long as one isn't aware of them.

Because they're manageable, one can live with them. But one must learn to overcome them.