My descent into psychosis two years ago started innocently enough. I have Parkinson’s disease, and my doctor had prescribed a new medication for my condition after I developed dyskinesia. I had been taking the drug for a month and noticed a few annoying side effects, such as dry mouth and nausea, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Then I was prescribed a steroid for a back problem, and things went downhill quickly.

My world narrowed to a blur of 1970s pop music, paranoia, brief moments of lucidity, and deep conversations with deceased friends and relatives. The first inkling that things were amiss was when I began hearing music at the office, where no one ever played music.

Later that week, I heard a conversation between a distraught female and a calm male. As I listened more closely I realized I was hearing a verbatim transcript of a bad breakup I had with an old boyfriend from 35 years ago. That was followed by a disturbing past conversation with my father that escalated to blows. I tried desperately to blot out this terrible scene, but nothing worked.

I relayed this to my husband, who drove me to the local hospital. By then, I was shrieking and wailing to make these memories go away. After I was administered an anti-psychotic drug, I calmed down somewhat. Upon returning home, I was visited by a cast of deceased family and friends and became increasingly paranoid.

For the next two weeks, I continued to experience hallucinations of people from my past and even had an upsetting conversation with Steve Jobs. The voices in my head told me not to eat or drink, which caused its own set of complications. I was a mess, and my husband and adult children were desperate to help me.

After a scary week in a psych ward during which my doctors discontinued both the steroid and the Parkinson’s medication, my symptoms finally eased, and I became coherent again. As soon after the event as I could, I grilled everyone around me for their recollections. A few amusing stories emerged from the rubble, but mostly my behavior was frightening.

Two years down the road, I have fully recovered and learned some important lessons. First, I know I can never take those two drugs again. Second, I am relentlessly assertive with my doctors about what exactly they are prescribing and the medications’ potential side effects. 

On a psychological level, I am less confident. The intermingling of traumatic incidents from my past coupled with some unresolved business reminds me that just pronouncing myself cured of my history doesn’t make it so.

I was surrounded by a tough but caring and loving group of people before and after this incident, which helped me get through it. Connecting daily with my spiritual beliefs and continually examining my actions and thoughts has opened up my world more than I could have imagined.

Lori Santora lives in New Hampshire with her husband. She enjoys reading, writing, watching football, and spending time with her family.