The Schizoaffective War pt 1

Episode 14: The Schizoaffective War, Part 1

A quick note to my readers: this entry describes my schizoaffective episode, which lasted two years and nine months. Once the voices and tactile hallucinations began, they continued for at least fifteen hours a day, usually until I passed out. I cannot cover every day, so I will focus on the moments that stood out most.

Before the entry begins, I want to include two brief definitions: one for schizoaffective disorder and one for tactile hallucinations. Both are simplified summaries.

Schizoaffective disorder is a chronic mental health condition that combines symptoms of schizophrenia, such as hallucinations, delusions, and disorganized thinking, with mood disorder symptoms, such as depression or mania.

Key aspects

 Subtypes:

 Bipolar Type: Includes manic episodes (and often depression).

 Depressive Type: Involves only major depressive episodes.

 Diagnostic Rule: Psychotic symptoms must occur for at least two weeks without prominent mood symptoms to distinguish it from a mood disorder with psychotic features.

 Causes: A mix of genetics, brain chemistry, and environmental stress.

 Treatment: Typically involves a combination of antipsychotics, mood stabilizers or antidepressants, psychotherapy, and life skills training.

Tactile hallucinations are false, vivid physical sensations—such as touch, temperature, pressure, or movement—experienced without an actual external stimulus.

Common Types

 Formication: The sensation of insects crawling on or under the skin.

 Thermal: Unexplained feelings of intense heat or cold.

 Pressure & Pain: Sensations of being grabbed, stung, shocked, or feeling internal movement.

Common Causes

 Psychiatric: Schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, or severe mood episodes.

 Substance-Related: Use or withdrawal of stimulants (like cocaine or methamphetamine) and alcohol.

 Medical & Neurological: Central nervous system damage, metabolic imbalances, infections, or delusional parasitosis.

Impact

Because these sensations feel completely real, they can cause severe distress, anxiety, and sleep disruption. Some people may even injure their skin while trying to remove the perceived source. Diagnosis requires thorough medical and psychiatric evaluation.

On February 18, 2022, at approximately 1:30 a.m., I lay curled in the fetal position on the floor of my daughter’s room. I had just heard a voice say, “We are testing your faith.” The intense nervous energy consumed my body. It felt as though the energy I had been working with in meditation had taken on a mind of its own and was now creating fear and panic. Every time I closed my eyes and tried to sleep through it, violent, dark images flashed through my mind. I was nauseous, but my body would not let me vomit, so I lay there freezing, as if I had the flu, and shaking from panic. It felt like someone had poisoned me. I had no idea what was happening. I did not want to talk to myself again because I was afraid of hearing another voice in my head, so I resolved to suffer until morning and then I would ask my wife to drive me to my doctor.

As the sun peeked through my daughters’ window, I felt slight relief. I knew I had to wait until my daughters were awake and eating breakfast before speaking to my wife. I took a hot shower, hoping it would help, but I shook uncontrollably the entire time. Afterward, I returned to my daughters’ room and waited until I heard them downstairs in the kitchen. Once they were there, I went down and pulled my wife aside. I told her I was having the worst panic attack of my life and needed her to call the doctor and get me in as soon as possible. She was concerned and said she would call after breakfast. I went back upstairs and paced for a while, feeling the same kind of nervous energy I had felt after a major car accident. About an hour later, my wife came upstairs and told me the doctor would see me immediately.

An hour and a half after my wife called, I arrived at the doctor’s office. I thanked him for seeing me so quickly and explained that I was having a severe panic attack. I told him I was nauseous and unable to sleep, eat, or relax. He asked if I wanted to go back on benzodiazepines, which infuriated me. He knew I had just come out of rehab, and he knew how much I had suffered there. I declined and asked if there was another option. Instead, he doubled the dose of one of the nonaddictive medications I had been prescribed while in rehab. I left upset and still could not believe he had offered benzodiazepines, but I also knew he had seen me quickly and was trying to help. The prescription was ready within minutes, and we picked it up on the way home.

I remained shaky for the rest of the day and did not eat at all. I stayed in my kids’ room so they would not see me in such a terrible condition.

That evening, before I went to sleep, something occurred to me. For the past several months, I have been able to change how I felt through meditation. I thought that if I focused on my breathing and heart rate, the panic might begin to fade. As strange as it sounds, I had also felt during meditation that I could move energy through my body. Maybe, I thought, I could move this negative energy out of me. So, I meditated.

I began by focusing on the negative sensations: the nausea, the shakiness, and the dark, morbid thoughts consuming my mind and body. I isolated each feeling and imagined positive chakra energy pushing it out. Visualization is a major part of this kind of meditative work. I had grown so used to sensing energy move through my body that when this new energy replaced the negative energy, I could feel the dark fog lifting. The heaviness began to fade, and I remember thinking, “This meditation stuff actually works!” Then something strange happened. The negative energy began to fight back. I felt the same terrible nervousness creep into one side of my torso and then spread. I repeated the exercise, and it worked again. Then, once more, it fought back. That was the moment I began to believe someone was doing this to me. It did not feel natural. It felt as if something were inside me, some kind of technology, and someone was using it to create these sensations. The best way I can describe the onset of that negative energy is that it felt like intravenous hydration, except instead of water, it was poison. The back-and-forth began to feel like a fight.

During this meditation, a memory surfaced. I remembered Andrea saying, “There are two of you. One fights with love, and the other fights with everything.” I was desperate to get this horrible negative energy off me. I just wanted to sleep, so I thought, “Let’s try some crazy shit.” I fought back with love by focusing on my three children. I pictured their faces, their movements, and their little voices. I remembered a loving moment with each of them. Miraculously, it worked. The nervous energy lifted again, and this time it did not fight back. I felt peaceful and normal, but completely exhausted. I went to my room, climbed into bed, and slept peacefully that night.

The next morning, I woke up feeling like a completely different person. I was angry. I felt as though I had already endured so much, and now I was facing yet another strange and horrible experience. My mind began connecting things. I thought about everything Andrea and Scott had said, along with all the strange comments people had made about my life over the years. They had all suggested I would go through something difficult, and I wondered if this was what they had meant. Maybe the black SUVs had not been in my imagination. Maybe my phone really had been clicking. Maybe the man who was supposed to be the CEO of the television star’s company was with the FBI. All of it led me to believe that someone wanted me out of the marijuana business and thought intimidation was the best way to do it. I felt something controlling my body that did not feel like me, which made me believe something was inside me and hurting me. I remember thinking, “These assholes got me out of the company that supported my family, and apparently that still isn’t enough. Now they want to hurt me.” I believed the government had planted something in me and that it had been there for a long time. That afternoon, I remember sitting on my bed and saying out loud, “Enough is enough. I have suffered enough for one lifetime, and if someone is doing this to me, I am going to fight back this time.”

Throughout the morning and afternoon, I felt only anger. The nervous sensations were gone, but I was certain that if I meditated again, I would feel something foreign enter my body. I waited until my kids were asleep and went to my usual meditation spot. I emptied my thoughts by focusing on my breathing until all I was aware of was my own energy. Then I began my chakra work, simply bringing awareness to different parts of my body. As soon as I started, the negative energy returned. This time, however, it did not affect me the same way. I was furious and had been waiting for that nervous foreign energy to seep back into my body. My anger felt stronger than the intrusive sensation. I spoke aloud as if someone could hear me: “What the fuck do you want?” No answer came. I decided I was not going to do what I had done the night before. I was not going to try to change my feelings through meditation. My anger had already reduced my nervousness, so I decided to go to bed. I felt as though I had my answer: strange sensations were happening in my body, and I was not creating them. I just did not know what to do about it yet.

While lying in bed that night, I had a comforting thought: if someone was doing this to me, then eventually it could—and would—stop. To me, that meant the pain I had carried for the past twenty-seven years might finally end. I had been experiencing that nervous energy since I was nineteen, and it had made eating and sleeping difficult for years. Now I believed it was coming to an end. I thought I had caught people in the act of hurting me. I was certain they were using technology to create that awful nervous sensation, so I lay there feeling both relieved and furious.

I did not have long to feel satisfied before something else happened. The nervous feeling returned and spread through my entire body. Then I felt something I could not explain: a pair of hands grabbing my ankles and holding them in place. As the sensation began, an image flashed in my mind’s eye. These kinds of visuals appear suddenly in your thoughts, whether your eyes are open or closed. I could feel and picture someone strapping down my ankles. I tried to push the image away because I believed that if I stopped the visual, the feeling of being restrained would stop too. It did not work. The sensations around my ankles intensified, and so did the images. Then I felt the same thing around my wrists. My mind tried to make sense of what was happening, so I went with it. I laid my arms at my sides and felt a pair of hands strapping down my wrists. Then, while lying flat in bed, I felt as though my body was standing upright while being secured in place. An image of an electric chair flashed into my mind. Soon after, I felt hands place something on my scalp. I was still lying on my back beside my wife and child when I felt a shock run through my body. It felt like the convulsions I had experienced in rehab. About a minute later, I felt another one. I pictured myself in an old electric chair, the kind I had seen in movies, where people stood upright before being electrocuted. After the second shock, I heard a voice say, “It’s only a game, Patrick. You aren’t really hurt. None of this will hurt you. It’s just a game we play.”

Most people would have been frightened at that moment. I was not. I was furious. I did not speak out loud because my wife and child were next to me, but I remember thinking, “You can hear me, and I can hear you. You are doing this stupid shit to scare me. We are going to fight, and you are going to spend a lot of time listening to me tear you to shreds. I have thirty years of anger in me. This is going to be a long game for you.” As I thought that, the hands, visuals, and nervous feelings disappeared. I fell asleep with a smile on my face. No one was going to scare me again.

The next morning, I woke up and grabbed a cup of coffee. I wanted to see if I could communicate with the person who had spoken to me the night before, so I went into the room where I meditated. I knew I should have been looking for a new job, but before I could focus on anything else, I needed to understand what was happening to me.

I went to the chair where I usually meditated. This time, I listened to music and waited. It did not take long for the same dark nervous energy to enter my body. Since no one else was around, I spoke. I asked, “What do you want?” I did not get an answer. I tried a different question: “Is this all just to scare me?” Then something bizarre happened. I felt the energy pushing my head from side to side, as if gesturing “no.” That made me think I could not ask open-ended questions. So, I asked, “Someone said last night that this is all a game. Is that true?” The energy moved my head again, this time nodding “yes.” I asked, “Does this fucking game last long?” No answer. “Is this a game I have to win?” My head moved in another nod, gesturing “yes.” “Is this a game I can win?” Again, my head was pulled into a nodding motion. Then I said, “I’m putting on my headphones and listening to music now. I’m done talking to you, pieces of shit. When this is over, you will give me my life back. I don’t know who you are yet, but I have an idea. Fuck you.” I turned the music up loud. I could still feel strange sensations around my head and body, but I ignored them.

That night, I spent all my time with my family. I wanted to play with my kids and hold my new baby. The time I spent with them helped me forget everything that was happening. For that afternoon and evening, I just felt like Dad. It would be the last day I could focus on them.

I crawled into bed that night feeling pretty good. I was aware of everything I had been going through, and I had not forgotten any of it. Still, my thoughts were with my kids. I figured I could deal with whatever was happening the next day. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

I woke up around 1:00 a.m. to the sound of screaming in my ears. Someone was yelling, “You motherfucker! This is war! You know what you did!” The screaming continued for about forty-five minutes. It seemed like two people were yelling, but I do not remember much beyond the voices declaring war. I remember laughing and thinking, “This is the dumbest shit I have ever heard. I cannot believe the government spent money on this bullshit.” Once the yelling stopped, I quickly fell back asleep.

The next morning, I woke up, had my coffee, and went straight to my meditation room. By then, I knew I was becoming obsessed. But the things happening to me were so intense that I felt I had to get to the bottom of them. I never meditated during the day, but I wanted to communicate again with whoever was doing this to me.

I started with my usual routine. I focused on my breathing, my heart rate, and then the parts of my body connected to my chakras. Sure enough, I began to feel the dark nervous energy again. I decided to speak. “Enough with the yes-and-no bullshit,” I said. “I know you can hear me, so let’s have a talk.” After a minute or so, a voice answered, “Who are we, Patrick?” I answered, “You’re the government. That’s what I believe.” The same voice replied, “You know more than that. Who are we? Who are the only people capable of doing this?” “The CIA,” I answered. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?” the voice said. “Sure, why not,” I said. “But why would we do all of this?” he said. Then he asked, “Who are you, Patrick?” “Well, to quote Bill Burr, I am a bill-paying son of a bitch. Which is what you will be when all of this is over. These feelings coming over me, the ones you seem to control, have taken away my life. Now I know people have been doing things to me that cause these terrible fucking feelings—feelings I have had since I was nineteen. So, from where I’m sitting, you have one big fucking bill to pay.” I heard laughter, and then the voice said, “Well, Patrick, let’s just see how this all goes.” I answered, “It goes one of two ways. You either pay the bill, the entire bill, or this ends with one of us dead and the other left with nothing.”  “It’s a game,” the voice said. “Just play the game, Patrick.” I stopped talking and put my headphones on. I felt good. I had said what I needed to say.

That evening, I ate with my family for the first time in weeks. After dinner, I helped bathe my four-year-old daughter, who was my oldest daughter in the house. I was feeling pretty good. My oldest loved sleeping with my wife and me. I knew she needed to be in her own bed, but we allowed it, which meant we climbed into bed as a family around 8:30 p.m., ready to sleep. I told my daughter that Daddy would not be meditating that night because I needed a break. She was thrilled. I fell asleep quickly. Considering everything that was happening, my mind felt calm. But at 1:00 a.m., I heard screaming in my ears. By then, the voices were growing louder. I could even feel their pulses, as if a microphone were tucked inside my ears. I could not make out what they were screaming about, but then I began to feel something painful and deeply violating. I will not describe it in detail because it is too graphic. I can say only that it hurt and lasted from 1:00 a.m. until 5:00 a.m. I was too exhausted to get up, so I lay there and endured it. By the time my kids woke up at 7:30 a.m., my emotions were high. I was furious. I waited until they went downstairs to eat, then began speaking out loud to the people I believed had done this to me. All I said was, “The bill just got a lot more expensive. That bullshit wasn’t free.”

That morning was Sunday. Our family had been going to church ever since I came back from rehab, and God was a major part of my life at the time. I had even covered my back with biblical tattoos, something I was very proud of at the time. We attended church that morning, and I told myself I would not speak out loud to any of the voices while I was there. I would not even whisper under my breath, which I had started doing whenever my wife was around and I heard the voices.

The church service was lovely. I always felt better after attending. On the ride home, however, while my wife was driving, I felt another intrusive sensation. It was different from what I had felt the night before, but it was just as disturbing. I had to hide my anger. My wife wanted to go out to lunch after the service. I wanted to go home, but I agreed. I was so angry that I did not eat. I sat there and watched my family eat, wanting only to be back home in my meditation room, screaming at the people in my head, whom I believed had assaulted me twice.

When we arrived home, I helped my daughter upstairs to the living room while my wife held our youngest. I told my wife I needed to be alone for a while. She did not understand, so I told her I was stressed about finding a job. Then I marched upstairs, closed the door, and started ranting. “A couple of years ago, you assholes, sound-tortured me while I was trying to sleep at my father’s house. I believed these things happened because people in high places wanted to make sure I did not work in cannabis. I kept my mouth shut because I knew no one would believe me. I also was not the best person back then, and some crazy part of me believed I deserved the torture. But what happened to me after church today is something you pieces of shit, will answer to God for. It has been made clear through this bullshit, and through the bullshit I put up with at the company, that you people hide. To me, that makes you a group of pussies. That is a real problem because, apparently, we pay a lot of tax money to a group of pussies. That is not what I thought our government was about. So, you can do all this disgusting shit to me, but I will not break. You have scared me away from things I loved more than once, but this time you are going to pay the bill. I am owed for every second you have used this tech to touch me. Right now, my youngest does not have a bed, and my oldest has outgrown hers. I cannot fix that because I spend my time dealing with you. I need to work, but I am willing to stay in this room doing exactly what I am doing now until you pay this bill. I am willing to die here.” Then a voice answered, “Patrick, this is just a game. You are fine. Nothing is wrong with you. You know who this is. We are not in the business of destroying innocent people’s lives. Relax.”

For the next two weeks, the voices and I went back and forth about trivial things. They did not want me to look for work. Every time I started searching, they were in my ear, insisting I already had a job. I ignored them as best I could and tried to focus on sending my resume to as many companies as possible. They used humor to break my concentration, and some of it was funny enough that I quietly chuckled. During that time, the nervous energy came and went. Whenever I felt it, I would say something like, “I know this is just you bunch of bitches. You should stop because, at this point, it feels like you’re tickling me to death.” It would stop every time I said anything like that.

By the second week of March, I gave in and asked them about the “job” they claimed to have for me. I said, “Okay, I’ll bite. What is the job?” The voice answered, “Well, Pat, I’m glad you asked. It’s the job you want.” I replied, “Okay, let’s not play hide-and-seek. What’s the job?” The voice asked, “Who are we, Pat?” “The CIA,” I answered. “Okay, then what’s the job, Pat?” “Working for the CIA,” I said. “Sounds right to me, Pat.” I answered, “Well, that’s a problem. After everything the government has put me through, I shouldn’t have to work at all. That’s the point of paying the bill, dickhead.” The voice asked, “And why would we do all this to you?” I said, “I don’t have the slightest clue. Maybe I think differently than other people. I’m not going to guess. All I know is that I was minding my own business when people got involved in my life, and they didn’t do it to make my life better. They made it infinitely harder. Now the bill is due. Pay the fucking bill, and then we can talk about jobs.” The voice answered, “All we have to offer is the job. That’s all you get, Patrick. It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?” I said, “We are never going to see eye to eye on this. I am a man of faith, and I believe that if this bill is not paid, someone else will collect it later. By then, the price will be infinitely higher. You should also know that the one who collects it will not just hate what you have done here. He will hate everything about you.” “You’re talking about God,” the voice said. “No,” I answered. “I’m talking about the other one. The one whose point you are proving. The man who works downstairs.” The voice said, “Amazing how you believe in that all of a sudden, Patrick.” I replied, “Well, dickhead, I’m glad you noticed. Here’s what I’ve learned: no matter how strongly someone claims not to believe in God or Jesus, when the chips are down, that is who they turn to. If you filmed the inside of a crashing plane, you would see dozens of people with their heads down, pleading with God. My chips were down, and He pulled me out. And yes, I believe in the other one too, because when something like this happens, someone must collect the bill. To me, it is simple: you do something like this, you learn not to do it again, and that is how we progress. We learn from our fuckups.” “Well said, Patrick,” the voice replied.

I did not hear much chatter in my head for the rest of that day. There was still some, but nothing memorable. I spent the day looking for jobs and lost track of time until my wife came upstairs and told me the girls had eaten and were ready for their baths. I asked if I could bathe our four-year-old daughter. My wife told me I should go downstairs and eat, and she said her mother, who stayed with us often, would run the bath for our daughter.

I barely ate that night. I felt wired and full of energy, but all I wanted to do was use that energy to get rid of the voices.

After dinner, I went to the meditation room, put on music, and waited to see what would happen. I had been listening for hours when a woman’s voice spoke to me. She said, “Hello, Patrick. I would like to introduce myself, but you won’t be able to hear my name. The ‘tech’, as you call it, makes names very difficult to hear. Patrick, I need you to go downstairs where your wife and kids can’t hear you. I will ask a series of questions, and I need you to answer them to the best of your ability.” Her voice sounded very official. I decided to go along with it and went downstairs.

No one was downstairs that night. Most nights, my wife’s mother stayed with us and slept on the couch, but that night she was at her own place. I stood at the island in our kitchen and said, “Okay, I’m here. This better go somewhere.” The woman replied, “Okay, Patrick. I will ask some questions. Answer them as best you can.” “Okay,” I said. “Patrick, at this time, are you safe?” “Yes,” I answered. “Are you secure?” “Yes,” I said. “Are you healthy?” “Yes,” I replied again. “How do you know?” she asked. The exchange felt official, so I gave what I thought were official answers. I said, “I am safe because I see no immediate threat. I am secure because I know the safeguards I have in place to keep me safe, and they cannot be overcome or altered. I know I am healthy because I can continue with this exercise.” The woman said, “Well done.” Then she asked the same questions in a different order and ended with the same question: “How do you know?” I gave the same answers in a different order. This went on for quite a while. My answers never changed. I circled the kitchen island, answering the same questions, until I finally looked at the microwave clock and realized I had been doing it for three hours. I told her I was done. Then I decided to ask a question. “Tell me, who authorized all of this?” A man answered, “Chuck Schumer authorized this, Patrick.” I knew the name and knew he was in the Democratic Party, but I had forgotten he was the Senate Minority Leader. “So, this is political?” I asked. The same man answered, “You have known this was political for a long time. Do you remember what the man in the behavioral health center said? He said it started with the separation of the colors. What do you think he meant, Patrick?” “He meant the political parties,” I said. “The colors are red and blue. I caught that. Who was that man?” “You will find out later,” the voice said. “And David Cohen is fine with all of this?” I asked. David Cohen was the deputy director of the CIA at that time; I had looked him up when this started. “If he wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here,” the voice said. “And who was the woman questioning me just now?” I asked. “You will meet her at some point, Patrick. You will like her.” “Well, I’m going to bed,” I said. Then I added, “It seems we are no closer to getting this bill paid. Tomorrow, we will spend our time moving toward that goal.” “Sure thing, Pat,” the voice said.

I went upstairs and slipped into bed. I closed my eyes and started to drift off. I had not even fallen asleep when I felt something poking my stomach. “That’s his stomach,” a voice said. Then the official-sounding woman asked, “Does that hurt him?” “Oh yes, we can hurt him badly,” a man’s voice answered. Then I felt jabs in my stomach. It felt as though my stomach was being compressed into my spine. While this was happening, the same man said, “We can touch him anywhere we want. His head, his back, his legs—even his genitalia.” The poking continued. “That’s not what I was told,” the woman said. “I was told he can’t feel anything we do to him.” “Nope, he feels it all,” the man answered. Then the voices lowered. I could not hear what they were saying, but I began to feel poking sensations in almost every part of my body. I did not sleep for even a minute that night. I felt truly helpless.

The next several weeks were wild. After being poked and prodded, I felt strung out, but the voices continued and grew louder and more intense. Sometimes they sounded like my friends. They seemed to know things my friends had said in the past and could imitate their voices. It felt as though they were using those voices to keep me uplifted, but all it did was drain more of my energy. They also used celebrity voices to pull me into conversations. It was clear they were using whatever they could to keep me engaged, wear me down, and break me. I ignored them as best I could, but it went on for sixteen hours a day. Some of what they said was inspirational. They cheered me on while I suffered. To avoid indulging them, I let them speak while I looked for work or took walks, and I engaged as little as possible. Usually, the only thing I said was, “Pay the fucking bill.” A man with a New York accent seemed to be leading it all. He would say things like, “I am passing the microphone to one of your best friends. He just has something quick to say.” Then a voice I recognized would begin talking. Because I was determined not to answer, whether it sounded like a friend or a celebrity I liked, the voice would eventually become angry and tell me I deserved the punishment.

During this time, I developed what felt like a superpower: I could change the voices I heard into any voice I chose. If one started sounding like a friend, I would think of Mickey Mouse, and the voice would begin sounding exactly like him. I could make them sound like almost anyone. My repertoire felt endless. I would change a voice, and after it spoke like Donald Duck for fifteen minutes, it would say, “If you’re going to do that, I’m just going to stop speaking.” That made me smile. I cannot say exactly how long the back-and-forth over voice impressions lasted, but I believe it went on for more than six weeks.

One night during the last week of May, I woke to a voice I had never heard before. It belonged to a man with a deep Southern accent. He opened with, “Howdy, Patrick. We are all very happy to meet you.” I was in bed next to my wife, so I whispered, “Who in the fuck are you?” He said, “Patrick, I’d be happy as hell to tell you my name, but I’ve been told that whatever is inside you allowing us to speak won’t let you hear it. You wouldn’t know my name anyway. You will have heard of the organization I’m with. Patrick, what do you know about the Illuminati?” “I know they don’t exist,” I whispered. “Well, Patrick, we will talk about that this morning.” Technically, it was morning; it was 4:00 a.m. Then another man began speaking. He sounded like an actor I had heard before. He said, “Patrick, we will be inducting you into the Illuminati this morning. I will read a few passages to you. Please try to remember what I read.” When he said “passages,” he also named the book they were from, but I cannot remember it. Then he opened by saying, “Patrick, the Illuminati is not real. However, the people in the Illuminati are real.” After that, he seemed to read from a book meant to induct someone into the Illuminati. I tuned it out. I had never believed in the Illuminati, and I was certain this was the CIA.

As soon as the man stopped reading, another voice spoke in my ears: “Look at this bad motherfucker! He doesn’t give one fuck about any of this. Good for him. Good for you, Pat!” I recognized the voice as Sally Field’s and started laughing in bed. I whispered, “Frog, what the fuck are you doing with these creeps?” I was referencing her role in Smokey and the Bandit. Then I heard her voice say, “Did he just call me Frog? Did you just call me Frog? Out of all the movies you could remember me for, you picked Smokey and the Bandit?” I answered, “No one could forget those legs, Frog!” Then a man’s voice cleared his throat and said, “That is not really Sally Field, Patrick.” I heard Sally Field’s voice in the background say, “I really did have nice legs then.” Things went silent for a few minutes, and I thought it was over. Just as I closed my eyes, the Southern man spoke again: “Tomorrow night, you will meet another of ours. He will test you, and you will lose. I mean this, Patrick. You will lose to this man. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” I whispered back, “The only thing that’s clear, aside from Sally having nice yams, is that a life is owed. I promise you this won’t stop until all the wrongs have been made right. Am I fucking clear?” He answered, “You just remember what I told you. You are going to lose. Or, you’re right, Patrick, this won’t stop.” Then I heard a sound in my ear like a television turning off. Everything went silent. I drifted back to sleep with a smile on my face and thought, “If that really was the Illuminati, I am certain no one has ever spoken to them like that. Fuckers.”

I woke around 8:30 the next morning, grabbed my coffee, and checked on my youngest. No matter what was happening in my head or how I felt, my baby always pulled me out of it. I could not help being completely immersed in her. Her energy was infectious. Still, whenever I played with her, I remembered that I did not have a job and was not doing my best to take care of her. We were paying rent by selling my stock, but the price was low, so I was burning through it quickly. That worried me. I knew I could not work with all of this going on in my head, but I also thought, “There must be something to all of this. Someone really does owe me a lot for everything I have been through.” After finishing my coffee, I went upstairs.

I was on my laptop looking for jobs and ignoring the voices when the official-sounding woman spoke into my ears. Her volume was always a bit louder. She said, “Patrick, tonight will be the most difficult challenge you have faced yet. You will need to be away from your family. This challenge will begin around 9:30 p.m. Your meditation chair will be the best place for you.” “That’s 9:30 my time, right? What time is it where you are?” I asked jokingly. “Patrick, I have no problem telling you we are in the same time zone. My guess is that you know where we are.” “I can guess. Virginia, right?” I asked. “Maybe. Just be in the chair at 9:30. We are leaving you alone for the rest of the day.”

I focused on LinkedIn for the rest of the day and applied for dozens of jobs. Hours passed, and I still had not eaten. During this entire period, I took my medications on time every day. Eventually, I went downstairs to grab dinner. The kids had already eaten, and I remember forcing myself to eat a lot that night. I thought there might be something to what the voices had said, and maybe the evening really would be difficult. After I ate, I helped dress my four-year-old daughter after her bath.

Once my daughters were in bed, I kissed them both and said good night. My youngest was still sleeping in a bassinet. I told my four-year-old that Daddy would come back to cuddle her after I finished meditating. Then I headed to the room with my meditation chair.

I had a ritual before meditation—or before fighting with the voices. I cleaned the room completely, turned on a red light, turned off every other light, and took my place in the chair. That night, I had just finished cleaning when a sensation came over my body and forced me down into the chair. It felt like I was having a seizure, though I was not convulsing. It felt as though electricity were running through me. It was painful, and I could not think beyond one thought: “This hurts.” Within minutes, a voice spoke. It was the man with the New York accent, the one who had seemed to organize the voice impressions during those awful six weeks. He said, “Hey, Pat! Tonight, you will hear a story. This is the most important story you will ever hear. You may have noticed that you can’t change my voice. You may have noticed you cannot ignore me. That is because we need you listening, pal.” I was paralyzed in both body and mind. He was right. All I could do was listen.

The man told a story about the soul of a man who had lived several lives. He walked me through each one, and every life had its own horror. In each life, the man was bad and had done something terrible. Each life also had a timeline. Then the man said, “You may have noticed there is a gap between two of the lives.” I had not noticed; I was in pain and had not done the math. “Well, Pat,” he continued, “that is because we saved his most important life for last.” Then he told the story of a young German boy. He spoke about the boy’s childhood, his education, and finally who he became. The man he was describing was Adolf Hitler. Then he asked, “Where do you think this is going, Patrick?” I could not even mouth any words. I was paralyzed, and while the electric current kept running through my body, my mind could not process a single thought. “Well, Patrick,” he said, “that man is you. For a long time now, we have been able to track DNA, and we are certain this is who you are. And that, Patrick, is why you are going through this. You see, we don’t want you here. We want you to go. We gave you the truth tonight so you would make the right decision. So, I’ll ask you, Pat, what do you think?” I was still paralyzed, but then a wave of energy came through me, and I muttered, “I have faith. I think you are full of shit.” Suddenly, the paralysis broke. I said, “I’ll tell you what I really think. I think this was the most expensive two hours in human history. Pay the fucking bill, you piece of shit. I was told I had to lose to you, but that is impossible. I am sure you want me on the ground, broken, crying, and begging you to stop. I am sure that is the endgame here. But you guys are such pussies that no one on earth could give you that. So instead, I am going to bed. Again, pay the bill.” I got up slowly. My body still did not feel right. I walked into my room, crawled into bed, and muttered, “Pussies,” before falling asleep.

The next day, I woke up feeling pretty good. I even ate breakfast that morning, which had not happened in a while. There were no voices. I ate and drank my coffee in peace. The rest of the day was the same. My head was clear. I found some interesting jobs online and connected with a few cannabis recruiters. I remember thinking, “I am doing the best I can, given the circumstances.” I had the whole morning and afternoon to myself.

That evening, my wife was out with the kids and said she would not be home until 8:30. She said they would probably be asleep in the car and asked me to help carry our four-year-old to bed if they were. I said, “No problem.”

Around 6:00 p.m., I heard a new voice, one I would later name “Fast Eddy.” He started with, “Hey, Pat! Nice job last night. By the end of tonight, you will understand what we’re doing here. So, Pat, what do you think of all this? Don’t bother answering. We are good at our job. We know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you’re going to get something out of all this. Well, Pat, you might, but it won’t be what you’re hoping for. No money here, and that sucks, but it is what it is. This is about a job, Pat. Just a job. But before we get to all that wonderful shit, I need to ask you something.” “Oh, I can speak now? It’s okay to get a word in?” I asked. “By all means, Pat, ask anything you want. But first I have a question for you.” “Well, I am all ears,” I said. “Pat, what’s ‘the thing’?” he asked. “What thing?” I asked. “The thing, Pat. See, we have a thing. It’s a thing you must know. Oh, which brings me to my other question: who are we, Pat?” “You’re the CIA,” I replied. “Yeah, but what does that mean, Pat?” “I don’t know what you want me to say,” I said. “And there you have it, Pat. You don’t know. We know. That’s what we do. We know. So, who are we, Pat?” “You are the people who know,” I said. “You got it, Pat. That’s who we are. So, what’s ‘the thing’?” “Knowing is the thing,” I replied. “Well, that’s a thing. Not really ‘the thing.’ The thing is more common sense, Pat. You’re a common-sense man, right?” “Yeah, I think so. Is that ‘the thing’? Is common sense the thing?” I asked. “No, Pat. That’s a tool, not ‘the thing,’” he replied. “I heard an old deputy director talk about the importance of empathy in the CIA. Is empathy the thing?” I asked. “That guy is a hell of a guy, Pat. Almost every director here would tell you empathy is an important talent. However, it is not ‘the thing.’ I need the thing, Pat. Tell me the thing, and we can move on.” “Happiness,” I replied. “Happiness can be the thing, right?” “Happiness is an individual’s thing, Pat. It’s not our thing,” he said. “I don’t fucking know. What about family?” I asked. “No, although that needs to be your thing a little more, Pat.” “I am lost,” I said. I was desperate for it to end. This was the most annoying man in the world. “Use some of that famous common sense, Pat,” he said. “I am out of ideas here. Love. Love is the thing,” I said desperately. “That would be nice, Pat, but it is not ‘the thing,’” he replied. “I don’t know. I don’t know the thing,” I said. “Say that again,” he said. “I don’t know the thing,” I replied. “So, what do you really know about ‘the thing,’ Pat?” he asked. “I know of no thing,” I replied. “Say that again, Pat!” “I know nothing. I got it, asshole,” I said in a sarcastic and exhausted tone. “There you go, Pat. That’s ‘the thing.’ Now you know who we are, and now you know who you are. Who are we?” he asked. “The people who know,” I said. “And who are you, Pat?” he asked. “I am someone who knows nothing,” I replied. “Glad we got that straightened out, Pat.” Just then, my doorbell rang. My wife was home. I realized I had been going back and forth with this voice for two and a half hours. I went downstairs to help my wife with the kids.

My mind was quiet as I tucked my kids into bed. I decided I had had enough for one day, so I changed into sweatpants and crawled into bed. I closed my eyes, expecting I would hear something at some point during the night.

Sure enough, the annoying man’s voice spoke in my ear. He began with, “Hi, Pat!” and then gave me a list of expectations for working at the CIA. When he finished, he clapped his hands and said, “And that’s all, folks.” Then another voice began. This one explained what I should expect during my induction into the CIA. When she finished, she said the same thing: “And that’s all, folks.” Then another voice followed, and another after that. Each one gave me information about CIA processes and procedures. They all sounded as if they were reading from a list, and everything seemed intended for someone being inducted into the CIA. Every time a voice ended its speech, it said, “And that’s all, folks.” The information ranged from receiving an agent ID to expectations for the first day at the Farm for new DOO recruits. It all sounded very official. I do not remember much of it, but I will never forget that repeated line: “And that’s all, folks.”

When it was over, my ears and mind went silent. I believed I had finished whatever this was. I believed it was over—that the voices would stop and that I would wait to hear the next steps for my CIA induction. “It’s over,” I said to myself. Tears filled my eyes before I closed them. I slept like a baby that night.