I remember sitting in my living room looking at my hands and moving them around and thinking I know these are my hands, and they are moving in the ways I'm wanting them to, but it just doesn't feel like I'm the one who's moving them. It feels like someone else is controlling them, and it's just luck that they're doing what I want them to. I found myself looking at my son and thinking I know I love him, but I just don't feel the love. I know it in the same way I know that my colleague loves her kids; I have the objective, propositional knowledge, but I don't feel it myself.
Feeling this way worried me: what if I hurt him? What if I decided that I just didn't care about anything, because nothing felt real, and went on a killing rampage, like a video game where it just doesn't matter whether you kill the characters are not, because they aren't real. I decided to drive to the walk-in centre to get help: driving felt as if my car was staying still, and the road was moving around me, like a simulator. Even though it didn't feel real, I sort of knew it was real, and I had to be careful not to crash. With hindsight, there is no way I should have been driving, but I hadn't realised that at the time. At the walk-in centre I struggled to articulate why I was there, and why it was urgent. She said there'd be a wait of around 4 hours. Four hours of unreality in a medical centre waiting room with a young child was not appealing. I decided to return home and call my mum for help. She lives a couple of hours away, but came over and looked after my son, while I stared into space and contemplated unreality.
I didn't take any more of the nausea tablets, and the next day I started to feel a bit better, so dragged myself into the seminar at uni (mum drove). It was Epistemology. What better subject to be discussing when you are having doubts about the reality of, um, reality, right? Well, Cartesian scepticism and thought experiments about reality not being real are fine, but living it is a lot less palatable. It was traumatic, actually, and genuinely scary. Why didn't I just stay at home? I don't know. I should have, but my judgment was compromised such that I didn't realise my judgment was compromised. I felt like I was losing myself, and I had to grab on to anything which I objectively knew to be reality (even though it didn't feel real) for fear that if I didn't, then it would genuinely cease to be real. So I went to the seminar in the hope that the professor - let's call him J - would talk to the other 3 students, and I could stare into space and try to absorb some of it and not have to construct sentences. That was my hope. It did not pan out.
I arrived at the room first, and started to unpack my stuff, and it took so much mental effort to work out what I needed to put on the table and what to leave in the bag. J arrived and asked if I was better (I'd emailed the day before that I wasn't well) and I said no, I wasn't better. He said he was unwell too, and it felt like there was a fog in front of him. I said I hoped he and the others would talk and I could just listen; he said he hoped he didn't have to do too much talking either as he was also struggling!
That much I remember clearly, but the rest of the 2 hours was a blur, like yesterday's dream; a drunken evening; a vague memory; a poorly imagined conversation; a half-watched TV programme. No one else showed up to the seminar, so he said it was up to me if I felt I wanted to proceed. I foolishly said I did. The next thing I recall is J talking about the article, while I had my hands over my face, then me crying and saying I couldn't do it as I just didn't know what he was saying. I remember how painfully difficult it was for me to construct a meaningful sentence, to pick the right word, put it in the right place: I think I sounded something like this: "I think the... um... writing... um... writer... author... is wrong that... um... well maybe... sort of... the thing is that... the examples doesn't... they don't really... um..." and I had my hands over my face or my eyes closed for most of the time. He said we didn't need to carry on but I said I thought I'd be ok, and kept insisting we should continue.
I remember the feelings clearly; how it felt like he wasn't really talking to me, like I was just remembering or imagining the conversation as it unfolded in front of me, like watching a video of myself having a conversation I'd forgotten about. It felt like I wasn't really there and my mind wasn't my own; like there was a blocker between me and my own actions and what I said. I remember having to cover up my eyes just to block out my visual perceptions which was so distracting, just so I could listen to what he said.
Anyway, I said I thought I couldn't continue with the seminar - but then changed my mind, and somehow did, although now, my memories of the content of what we talked about is something like this: something about a sweaty American politician... something about jelly babies... something about my sister's spending habits... something about a child waking up at 6am... something about eating someone else's lunch as they always bring too much. I reckon that's the sum total of memories of the content of what we discussed. Not exactly useful stuff. Hopefully my memory will return, or maybe that it's stored in my subconscious.
So it must have been pretty hellish for J, trying to do a seminar with only one student, who is a blithering idiot in a state of temporary psychosis, sitting with her face in her hands for most of the time, all while he was unwell himself. Poor guy! But he performed admirably.
A day later I realised that the tablets I'd got from the chemist were not supposed to be taken alongside another medication which I also take - and now I know why they say don't take them together! My mind is gradually returning to normal now (2 days later), and I'm trying to see the funny side of it all.
So that was the weirdest seminar ever. And I was the source of the weirdness. I'm glad that only J saw me in that state and not the other three in the class. It was a pretty horrible experience to feel that reality isn't really real. Cartesian scepticism will never be the same again.
I didn't take any more of the nausea tablets, and the next day I started to feel a bit better, so dragged myself into the seminar at uni (mum drove). It was Epistemology. What better subject to be discussing when you are having doubts about the reality of, um, reality, right? Well, Cartesian scepticism and thought experiments about reality not being real are fine, but living it is a lot less palatable. It was traumatic, actually, and genuinely scary. Why didn't I just stay at home? I don't know. I should have, but my judgment was compromised such that I didn't realise my judgment was compromised. I felt like I was losing myself, and I had to grab on to anything which I objectively knew to be reality (even though it didn't feel real) for fear that if I didn't, then it would genuinely cease to be real. So I went to the seminar in the hope that the professor - let's call him J - would talk to the other 3 students, and I could stare into space and try to absorb some of it and not have to construct sentences. That was my hope. It did not pan out.
I arrived at the room first, and started to unpack my stuff, and it took so much mental effort to work out what I needed to put on the table and what to leave in the bag. J arrived and asked if I was better (I'd emailed the day before that I wasn't well) and I said no, I wasn't better. He said he was unwell too, and it felt like there was a fog in front of him. I said I hoped he and the others would talk and I could just listen; he said he hoped he didn't have to do too much talking either as he was also struggling!
That much I remember clearly, but the rest of the 2 hours was a blur, like yesterday's dream; a drunken evening; a vague memory; a poorly imagined conversation; a half-watched TV programme. No one else showed up to the seminar, so he said it was up to me if I felt I wanted to proceed. I foolishly said I did. The next thing I recall is J talking about the article, while I had my hands over my face, then me crying and saying I couldn't do it as I just didn't know what he was saying. I remember how painfully difficult it was for me to construct a meaningful sentence, to pick the right word, put it in the right place: I think I sounded something like this: "I think the... um... writing... um... writer... author... is wrong that... um... well maybe... sort of... the thing is that... the examples doesn't... they don't really... um..." and I had my hands over my face or my eyes closed for most of the time. He said we didn't need to carry on but I said I thought I'd be ok, and kept insisting we should continue.
I remember the feelings clearly; how it felt like he wasn't really talking to me, like I was just remembering or imagining the conversation as it unfolded in front of me, like watching a video of myself having a conversation I'd forgotten about. It felt like I wasn't really there and my mind wasn't my own; like there was a blocker between me and my own actions and what I said. I remember having to cover up my eyes just to block out my visual perceptions which was so distracting, just so I could listen to what he said.
Anyway, I said I thought I couldn't continue with the seminar - but then changed my mind, and somehow did, although now, my memories of the content of what we talked about is something like this: something about a sweaty American politician... something about jelly babies... something about my sister's spending habits... something about a child waking up at 6am... something about eating someone else's lunch as they always bring too much. I reckon that's the sum total of memories of the content of what we discussed. Not exactly useful stuff. Hopefully my memory will return, or maybe that it's stored in my subconscious.
So it must have been pretty hellish for J, trying to do a seminar with only one student, who is a blithering idiot in a state of temporary psychosis, sitting with her face in her hands for most of the time, all while he was unwell himself. Poor guy! But he performed admirably.
A day later I realised that the tablets I'd got from the chemist were not supposed to be taken alongside another medication which I also take - and now I know why they say don't take them together! My mind is gradually returning to normal now (2 days later), and I'm trying to see the funny side of it all.
So that was the weirdest seminar ever. And I was the source of the weirdness. I'm glad that only J saw me in that state and not the other three in the class. It was a pretty horrible experience to feel that reality isn't really real. Cartesian scepticism will never be the same again.
No comments:
Post a Comment