Schizoaffective Sparring

Episode 11: Schizoaffective Sparring

First, a note to my readers: this entry will not include the clinical definition of schizoaffective disorder. That will come in a later post. I chose to wait because this first episode was what I’d call “Schizoaffective Lite,” but it still paints a clear picture of what an episode feels like.

On a hot Monday in the last week of May, I received a term sheet for a transaction that, by most standards, would be a career-maker. I was overjoyed. Getting to this point had been a grueling journey, and it felt like we had accomplished something massive. I couldn’t wait to share the news with my dad and the new president of the company, especially since we needed their buy-in on a few company obligations outlined in the agreement.

I called my dad right away. He sounded proud and suggested I present the term sheet to the company president in person, offering to join us. Hanging up the phone, I was riding a high. I believed this deal was a massive win that would drive great publicity for our stock.

At the start of my employment, I had been granted company stock. After being acquired by an even larger cannabis company, we went public, and our stock initially traded very high. Employees had a required lock-up period before we could sell, so on paper, my shares were worth millions at the opening price. Combined with a term sheet involving a major television star and one of the largest food and beverage companies in the United States, I felt on top of the world. I called my partner in Arizona to celebrate how everything had finally come together.

On Friday night of that same week, something strange happened. I was lying down watching TV with my daughter when I suddenly felt as though I were tripping on mushrooms. I wasn’t having visual hallucinations, but the sensation was identical. Everything felt hyper-interesting, and watching simple cartoons felt like an intense, surreal experience. I hadn't taken anything, but I felt high.

At first, it was a pleasant feeling. I assumed I was experiencing a "mushroom flashback," so I wasn't worried. I felt in control and figured I would just sleep it off. That’s exactly what I did, and the next morning I woke up feeling fine. I went to the park with my daughter, came home, made dinner, and felt completely normal.

That night, while watching cartoons with my daughter again, it returned—this time far more intense. It felt as though my brain was literally heating up before that psychedelic feeling washed over me. I lost control. I felt like something else was driving my actions, and a wave of terror hit me. Everything felt threatening—even the cartoons. I found myself pacing and running around the house in a panic, convinced that everyone was out to get me.

My wife tried to talk me down, but when I threatened to jump off the roof, she called my doctor. The doctor instructed me to take two of my prescribed benzodiazepines, lay down, and try to sleep. I took them and finally passed out.

The next morning, I woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed. I apologized to my wife for putting her through hell, assuring her I felt fine. She suggested we go to the beach to meet up with some friends, and I felt good enough to go.

The friends we met were originally my wife’s, though I had grown to like them over time. Almost as soon as we arrived, I felt a sharp spike in anxiety. The husband repeatedly pulled me aside to press me about my job, insistently telling me I needed to leave the company and look for work in Miami. He was relentless. I felt uncomfortable and defended my work, explaining how much effort I had poured into the company. We left the beach with me feeling uneasy, thinking to myself that I didn't want to see them for a while.

By Monday morning, paranoia began to set in. I called my father to ask if he had scheduled our meeting with the president to present the term sheet. During that call, I noticed a distinct clicking sound on the line.

Having trained in Israeli Krav Maga for years alongside active and former law enforcement and military personnel, I had learned basic surveillance indicators—including the belief that landline or cellular taps often caused line clicking. That sound persisted on every single incoming and outgoing call that day. When I asked others if they could hear it, everyone said no. Panic started to set in.

At the same time, I began noticing black SUVs—specifically Chevy Suburbans—everywhere I drove. My brain immediately connected the dots: the government is investigating you. I started to spiral into panic, but a deep sense of fear kept me from sharing these thoughts with anyone, including my wife.

That Thursday, I met with my father and the company president. I did my best to mask my inner turmoil because I desperately wanted the deal to go through. I presented the term sheet and emphasized that this wasn't just an endorsement deal—it was a gateway to one of the largest food and beverage corporations in the country. They asked me to present it to the broader team at the weekly leadership meeting that afternoon, as well as set up a separate meeting with the new CEO and his attorney.

The leadership meeting was deeply unnerving. I knew most of the people in the room and had even hired a few of them, yet no one would look me in the eye while I presented. They sat in silence, staring down at their laps. When I finished, I awkwardly walked out.

On my drive home, one of the marketing managers called to tell me I should have felt uncomfortable, claiming the rest of the team had been through a lot during the acquisition while I had been off doing my own thing. I reminded him that leadership had specifically assigned me to the CBD project. On the drive back, the black SUVs appeared at every turn, and the clicking sound echoed through my phone call.

The following Tuesday, I drove from Miami to Tampa for my meeting with the CEO. My wife noticed how visibly shaky I was and advised me to ignore my phone during the drive. My Arizona partner called repeatedly—nearly ten times—so I eventually answered.

He immediately launched into an unhinged rant, screaming that I had become arrogant ever since the term sheet arrived. I apologized and tried to explain that I was driving to a critical meeting, but the damage was done. Rattled, exhausted, and surrounded by black SUVs with my phone clicking in my ear, I arrived at a cheap hotel in Tampa and couldn't sleep a wink.

My mind raced out of control. I fixated on the federal illegality of the cannabis industry and convinced myself that the government was building a case against me. I questioned why a major TV star or a massive food and beverage company would ever want to work with our small operations, convincing myself that this deal had put us on the FBI's radar.

By the time I walked into the 9:00 AM meeting on Wednesday, I was shaking uncontrollably. I delivered an incoherent, rambling presentation about the future of cannabis and the food and beverage industry. The CEO and his attorney clearly tuned out, ending the meeting with a dismissive, "Go get the deal if you can," making it obvious I was completely on my own.

A few days later, the CEO's lawyer set up a video call with the TV star's team to review our pitch. When the COO joined the call, I was convinced it wasn't the man I had been communicating with for five months. The man on my screen was heavily built with a deep, rough voice—completely different from the slender, soft-spoken executive I knew from photos and phone calls.

When our lawyer asked me to repeat my pitch, I froze. Believing the man on the screen was an undercover FBI agent, I refused to speak. After an awkward exchange, the call ended. To this day, I don't know who that man was, but I was convinced my life was falling apart.

With the CBD venture dead, I accepted a role returning to my previous position as a physician liaison. But returning to corporate headquarters was degrading. The company culture had shifted, and I found myself reporting to a marketing manager I had personally hired in the past.

During an office introduction, he joked to colleagues that I had been around since the beginning "bribing politicians on our behalf," before asking me to personally pull all our CBD products off store shelves across Florida. I refused to physically pull inventory, but agreed to meet with store owners to explain that we were discontinuing the line due to our acquisition.

That evening, I met my father at a restaurant in Tampa. He gently tried to explain that the company had changed and that my new role likely wouldn't last long under the new leadership. Exhausted, paranoid, and operating on zero sleep, I couldn't process his advice. We went back to his home, where a heated argument broke out between us. Overwhelmed and incoherent, I retreated to my room.

I took a benzodiazepine and a sleeping pill to calm my racing heart, but an hour later, my adrenaline was still surging. As I lay in bed, heavy metal music began blaring directly into my ears. Every time I lifted my head off the pillow, the music stopped; the moment my head touched the pillow again, it blasted back at full volume. It continued all night.

By 6:00 AM, driven by sleep deprivation and severe paranoia, I convinced myself I had been subjected to military-grade acoustic torture orchestrated by the government to force me out of the company.

For the next two months, my condition deteriorated. The paranoia intensified into full-blown psychosis. I believed obscure 90s songs playing in restaurants were tailored messages directed at me, and I spent upwards of six hours a day driving between cities in a constant state of panic, convinced my colleagues were part of a government conspiracy.

In the first week of September, my mind broke completely. I drove to my mother’s house early in the morning and begged her for the firearm she and her husband kept in the house. Desperate for the agony, sleep deprivation, and relentless fear to end, I pleaded with her to help me find peace.

Seeing my state and realizing how severe the crisis was, my mother called a mental health facility. She calmed me down and told me, "This is how we will help you find peace." I trusted her and agreed to go get help.

On the drive to the facility, for the first time in months, there were no black SUVs.