The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness

by Elyn R. Saks

and I beg your pardon? Please, Mrs. Jones. Please, please. Occasionally, I received a letter back from her, measured and kind and cautionary in tone—recognizing most probably that we needed to keep a certain boundary, because we were no longer in an analytic relationship. I was profoundly relieved each time she wrote; it meant that she wasn’t dead, and that I wasn’t, either, at least in her mind. Her words attempted to soothe me, acknowledging that I was having a hard time in this transition, and that she wished it would all be better soon. She knew I missed her. Steady on, and all would be well. And then, suddenly, there was a cluster of news stories about a workplace shooting, a disgruntled postal worker, and dead coworkers left in the wake of his rage. The postman left a tape recording of his thoughts; disjointed, psychotic ramblings that didn’t sound so very different from my own. The man sounded crazy. Could I do that? Have I done that? Am I a mass murderer? Am I him? Did I shoot those people? Was the wrong person killed? It haunted me for weeks, worrying that somehow I’d had a hand in the carnage. Was the wrong person accused? Should I go to the police and confess? I’m evil. There are voices and commands. One must do what they say. Tell them to get away!

Psychosis