Hearing Voices Revisited: On the Meaning of Madness

Attention falls, therefore, on the few who seem crazy, who wear tin-foil hats and talk to themselves in public. These are the people who shape the public’s perception, the public’s prejudice, and they are the ones who interest me most, not only because their condition merits attention, but because I almost — not quite, but almost — became one of them. That I did not is a matter of luck. I might have ended up on the streets, wandering around in confusion, but for the simple fact of my mother. She saw what was happening and swooped in to save me. She could not do everything, of course. She could not help me see what was happening to me with any kind of clarity, and she could not make the medications help. What she could do, though, was keep a roof over my head, keep food in my stomach, and when I seemed in danger of hurting myself, get me some help. She could not make a range of failed medications work, but she could bring me to doctors and make sure I took my pills until something did work. This was not an overnight process, and even after I had recovered somewhat, I needed help as I sorted out what had happened to me. You do not believe there is a government conspiracy to control the world and all the people in it because it is an amusing idea, one more optional concept in the cafeteria of fun or interesting thoughts. You have these beliefs because something makes you believe it, something that feels very urgent, and it takes time to sort them all out. And in fact it took me a long time to get back to normal — again, whatever that is: normal for me. But it did happen, and the result is that I have had a chance to look around a little, to remember what happened, and to think about what it all means.