My mother rang. I told her that the place where I was staying wasn’t safe for me. She sadly reminded me that she was 200 miles away, living in a place that didn’t allow guests. She suggested I should go the housing association and explain that I was a vulnerable person.
My mother rang. I told her that people were trying to either kill me or make me go mad. She suggested I should have a word with my psychiatrist.
My mother rang. I told her that I could see worms crawling underneath the skin on my belly. She suggested I should go and see my GP.
My mother rang. I told her that people were drugging me, and having sex with me while I was unconscious, that I was waking up covered with the smell of sex, with blood on my body. She suggested I should go to the police.
My mother rang. I told her that people were leaving secret numerical messages on the receipts dropped onto the pavements where I walked, for me to find. I told her that the people I visited had toxic gas machines hidden behind walls, and they were switching them on when I was there. That I kept losing consciousness. That none of my friends could be trusted, that one of them had secretly fixed up a gadget in the bathroom which made the light fitting swivel ever so slightly, so that the shadows in the room moved subtly, to make me think I was going mad.
I told her they were trying to poison me, and even in supermarkets I didn’t know which food contained the poison that was aimed at me. I told her that I had received a letter, supposedly from my brother, but that it was from someone else, who had intercepted his letter, copied it out word for word, and sent it in place of the original one and I didn’t know why I told her that I have to keep changing my phone, because they put tracking systems in them, so that they always know where I am.
I told her about the many strange things to people were doing me. I told her about the magnets which I know are hidden everywhere, about the people hiding in bushes and watching me from rooftops. I told her that there was more that I couldn’t share with her, but that she needed to know that my life was in danger. I told her that she was in danger, too, and that soon, the same things were going to happen to her. She begged me to go to see my drugs councillor.
My mother came for a visit. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at my skeletal body, at my face, with the flesh so eaten away by starvation that my lips stretched tightly over my teeth. She saw the cuts and bruises on my arms and legs, my sparse, chewed up hair that was once so thick and luxurious.
I told her again, about all of the dark things that are happening to me.
She told me that she wanted to help me. she told me that until I stopped injecting Crystal* into my veins the psychosis would not go away.
I told her that I am no longer doing Crystal,* because it’s not relevant. It’s not the Crystal that is doing this to me. All of these things are really happening. I’m ill and alone. I’m frightened. There is nobody I can trust, except my mother, and she doesn’t believe me. Both of our lives are in danger, and I’m fairly sure they’re going to get my brother, too.
Why will nobody believe me?
© Jane Paterson Basil
*Crystal is an extremely dangerous ‘legal high’ amphetamine, currently being used extensively by heroin addicts.
This story comes from close observation of a victim, and is in no way exaggerated.