I was 20 years old and had recently dropped out of the University of\u00a0Brighton<\/a>\u00a0due to poor\u00a0mental health<\/a>.<\/p>\n Months of mania \u2013 fuelled\u00a0partly\u00a0by the stress of the perceived loss of my future and\u00a0partly\u00a0by an addiction<\/a>\u00a0to smoking enough cannabis to tranquilise Snoop Dogg\u2019s dealer \u2013 followed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n After the mania came the madness.<\/p>\n A sudden proclivity for tribal face paint, a repeated impulse to send videos of myself crying to my favourite authors and an obsession with\u00a0running half-naked around my town<\/a>\u00a0at midnight\u00a0leaving\u00a0\u00a35 notes under plant pots meant that my \u2018I\u2019m not crazy \u2013\u00a0the rest of the world is!\u2019 mantra had worn\u00a0impossibly thin.<\/p>\n Like many who suffer\u00a0from psychosis<\/a>, I had convinced myself that I was a god. A divine being sent to earth to stop a planet-destroying meteor by \u2013 wait for it \u2013 mapping the stars in the sky against the moles on my forearm.<\/p>\n It was my plan to throw myself from the top of Stonehenge.\u00a0Instead of falling,\u00a0I\u2019d\u00a0sprout wings and fly off into the night sky to stop the imminent meteor, thus proving my recent deification and saving the planet in one fell swoop.<\/p>\n I was resolute in my godliness. If I could be as depressed as I was after leaving university, sick and penniless, and turn\u00a0that depression\u00a0into waking up every day blissful, then I\u00a0must<\/em>\u00a0be a god.<\/p>\n I also blamed, in part, my recently adopted ritual of standing barefoot in the garden and staring directly at the sun for five seconds \u2013\u00a0a practice that I\u2019d thought was a forgotten\u00a0form of photosynthesis<\/a>\u00a0\u2013\u00a0for my perceived anointment (in reality, it was burning my corneas and I now have astigmatism).<\/p>\n In the end, it was the\u00a0restorative power of friendship\u00a0that saved me<\/p><\/blockquote>\n Obviously,\u00a0I hadn\u2019t been anointed. I wasn\u2019t happy, I was high on\u00a0cannabis and\u00a0psychosis-delivered dopamine.<\/p>\n But it\u2019s a lot easier to cope with newfound divinity than with the truth:\u00a0That\u00a0I was unemployed, uneducated and having a very\u00a0public mental breakdown<\/a>.<\/p>\n My mother decided to call our local GP to inform them of my erratic behaviour. They arranged an immediate home visit. After an assessment, the medical team persuaded me to take anti-psychotics with the argument: \u2018If what you\u2019re experiencing is real, taking medicine won\u2019t stop it, will it?\u2019.<\/p>\n But it did\u00a0stop it.<\/p>\n After taking my prescription, the descent back down to earth began with a slight gradient over the first few days, before plummeting harshly.<\/p>\n I became utterly sedate. Then bedbound. Then almost comatose.<\/p>\n I had\u00a0experienced depression<\/a>\u00a0before, but this new version \u2013 the lowest low after the highest high \u2013\u00a0was a different beast entirely.<\/p>\n I lost the ability to perceive, think and feel. My internal monologue was silent, and, to add insult to injury, due to post-psychosis amnesia, a common side-effect of the illness, I had\u00a0lost all of my memories<\/a>, too<\/p>\n The only feeling that remained in the bleakness was a dull, underlying terror. Who was I? Would I ever know again?<\/p>\n I would play films on my laptop without watching them, so as not to feel alone with the silence of my mind.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Over the next three months, from dawn till dusk,\u00a0The Devil Wears Prada\u00a0<\/a>played from a half-broken laptop screen to an audience of none.<\/p>\n In the end, it was the\u00a0restorative power of friendship\u00a0that saved me.<\/p>\n My friends reached\u00a0out repeatedly, only for me to swat them away\u00a0\u2013\u00a0but my best friend Ruby didn\u2019t take no for an answer.<\/p>\n I winced when she came round and entered my den. I hadn\u2019t showered\u00a0or left bed\u00a0in a week. The room was a tip \u2013 dirty plates and underwear mosaics\u00a0littered\u00a0the floor.<\/p>\n She,\u00a0meanwhile, was pristine in her normality. Matching clothes. Clean hair. Makeup.<\/p>\n Without hesitation, she climbed into my pit next to me. She said she wanted to be there, that she missed me, and knew I\u2019d be better soon. She tucked herself in underneath the dirty bedsheets and played old Sex and the City episodes on the laptop.<\/p>\n At first, I couldn\u2019t enjoy her company; but she persisted.<\/p>\n After a couple of weeks, I laughed. She reminded me that, in my madness, I\u2019d stolen a plasma ball from Home Bargains and was convinced I could use it as a communication device to chat\u00a0with Nicki Minaj<\/a>.<\/p>\n We howled. The absurdity of the situation overcame the devastation, and silliness began to eschew sadness.<\/p>\n This became routine; Ruby would come round, tuck herself into bed, and regale me with stories of my exploits, always with tenderness, kindness and humour.<\/p>\n![\"Cal](\"https:\/\/metro.co.uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/SEI_263478719-0b01-e1756290251650.jpg?quality=90&strip=all&w=646\")
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