I Tried to Get a Psychosis
From a young age, I’ve had a strange obsession with everything related to psychology. The first time I saw someone on TV with a psychosis, I wanted that too.
Unfortunately, my life was very stable. I was a happy child. The chances of a psychosis were slim.
So I changed my life strategy completely. I started to push my body into as many different states as possible. The first things I started to do were suppressing my own:
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Voice
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Emotions
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Sexuality
I estimated that, let’s say, if I wanted to speak out in any given situation and I didn’t, that that would have a huge impact.
25 times of not speaking out per day * 365 days * 10 years is already 91,250 times of not speaking out.
To be clear: the moment you start doing these things in real life is also the moment you forget you’re doing them. It’s like kickboxing and throwing your jab with bad technique. When you’ve done it wrong thousands of times, you kind of forget that you’re doing it wrong. With suppressing your voice and emotions, it’s exactly the same. You forget that you haven’t said anything for literally hundreds of thousands of times.
So, that’s what I did. It took me years to get my first diagnoses: depression, anxiety, ADHD, autism. I was a mess. I started using substances. I finished uni, but I don’t know how. I lost everything: my home, relationships. At one point, my brother had to pick me up from the street because I couldn’t function as a human being. On another occasion, they picked me up with a van.
I ended up in a psychiatric ward with people who got electroshock therapy. There was a man there who forgot who he was every day after his treatment. He started every day by telling the same story, because his memory was gone.
To be clear: I had no clue what I was doing at this point. I could go outside, but I had to “clock back in.”
After around 25 years, I got into a psychosis. Being in a psychosis is horrible. It was hardcore. I thought that everybody in the world was looking at me while I was on a secret mission. You completely lose your grip on reality.
At age 33, I decided I had enough. Enough of the diagnoses, psychiatry, doctors, medication. I decided to do everything by myself. So that’s what I did. I started working out daily, eating clean, socializing, taking moments of silence.
And most importantly, I started rewriting my own brain. I started allowing my voice and emotions back in. I started speaking out again. I started practicing speaking out loud again. I started going out more. Instead of trying to push anxiety away, I started trying to feel as anxious as possible.
That was 4 years ago. Now, at age 37, I can genuinely say that I am happier than most people. I still have to be a little bit careful, but overall it’s a good score. I have a good job and bought a nice apartment.
To be clear: this is not a “look how awesome I am” piece of text. But I know from experience that sometimes it helps when you read about people who have actually been through hell and got out.
I think there are a few very big problems in modern psychiatry
1. A lot of the things people do are not visible. You literally can’t see that somebody doesn’t speak out. You literally can’t see that somebody suppresses their own emotions.
2. A lot of things are only visible over a longer period of time. Besides that, unlearning patterns and learning new patterns takes time too. Therefore, it takes years to get stable after a psychosis again. It feels like you fried your own brain.
3. We live in a time with a lot of focus on the brain/mind, but not on the body as a whole. I literally had to relearn my own body — that you actually have to feel things within that spot in your body. So, for example, feeling a feeling in your knee with your knee (not with your brain).
The Problem with Modern Psychiatry
When you over-identify with any given disorder—which in reality is often more like a temporary state of your body—day-to-day hurdles become harder.
For years, I saw myself as a psychiatric patient (and don’t get me wrong, I was). But besides already being in a bad state, you also create an additional problem. Suddenly, normal obstacles in life seem almost impossible to get through. The everyday things you know you have to push through—the first time going to a new class, or meeting new people—start to feel unmanageable.
In a weird way, it’s like your brain starts working against you.
It wasn’t until I started kickboxing, and began to see myself as a fighter—someone with a fighting mentality—that I could overcome those same obstacles. Obviously, this works in two directions: you identify as a psychiatric patient because you kind of are, but it’s more of a slippery slope than you think.
For example:
Let’s say you identify as somebody with autism. You clearly have it: you get overstimulated, you have trouble with social interactions, etcetera. Now you also see yourself as an autistic person. So every time something comes up that you’re not naturally good at, you don’t want to do it. You don’t go to social events. What’s the benefit of knowing, then?
Why we need a radically different approach in psychiatry
Imagine you’re raised by bad parents who make you feel worthless. That becomes your first label in life: the label “worthless.” You identify with that label.
Then you make mistake after mistake, which is logical, because you believe you’re worth nothing. Eventually you end up in psychiatry, where they try to figure out why you do what you do.
And now you get another unpleasant label. On top of already thinking you’re worthless, you now also believe you have another disorder. Yet another negative label. What are you supposed to do with that?
What you actually want is for people to start identifying with their positive traits. Imagine you clearly show signs of autism. You get the label autism. But, for example, you also have a photographic memory. No one is going to give you that label. You have a photographic memory, even though that’s just as relevant as the label autism (and to be clear, I’m not saying there is anything wrong with the label autism).
My grandfather was autistic as can be. But he was also brilliant. In the past, people would simply say: that man is a genius. Everyone probably noticed that he was socially awkward, but the focus wasn’t on that. The result? My grandfather had a very happy life.
Waarom we een radicaal andere benadering nodig hebben binnen de psychiatrie
Stel, je wordt opgevoed door slechte ouders die je het gevoel geven dat je waardeloos bent. Dit is gelijk je eerste label in het leven: het label ‘waardeloos’. Jij identificeert je met dit label.
Nu maak je fout na fout na fout, wat logisch is, want je denkt dat je niets waard bent. Nu kom je in de psychiatrie terecht waar ze uitzoeken waarom je doet wat je doet.
En nu krijg je er weer een vervelend label bij. Naast dat je al dacht dat je waardeloos was, denk je nu ook dat je een andere stoornis hebt. Weer een negatief label. Wat moet je daar nou mee?
Je wil juist dat mensen zich gaan identificeren met positieve eigenschappen van zichzelf. Stel, jij hebt duidelijk kenmerken van autisme. Nu krijg je het label autisme. Maar je hebt bijvoorbeeld ook een fotografisch geheugen. Niemand gaat dat label aan je hangen. Jij hebt een fotografisch geheugen, terwijl dat net zo relevant is als het label autisme (ik zeg hiermee overigens niet dat er iets mis is met het label autisme).
Mijn opa was zo autistisch als wat. Maar hij was ook geniaal. Vroeger zeiden mensen dan gewoon: die man is geniaal. Iedereen zag vast wel dat hij sociaal onhandig was, maar daar lag de focus niet op. Het gevolg? Mijn opa had een heel gelukkig leven.
Message in a Bottle
Everything you do comes back in an arc. And the fun part is that you don’t know how it will return. It’s a bit like sending out a message in a bottle.
There are many theories about how to live your life. I always use the message-in-a-bottle strategy.
This is how it works: you do something—something you enjoy, something important, or just because you can.
And then you trust that it will come back to you somehow, somewhere in the universe.
And the beautiful thing? That’s exactly how it works.
A few examples:
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You pretend to accidentally butt-dial someone you haven’t spoken to in a long time.
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You eat something different than you normally would and then check a few hours later how you feel.
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You start a blog without having any idea if anyone will read it.
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You take up four new sports.
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You wake up and decide to use completely different words than usual that day.
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You do everything with your left hand instead of your right, or the other way around.
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You do everything without a computer or phone for a while.
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You imagine what it would be like to exist one hundred percent out of love and try to feel that with your whole body right now.
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You become brutally honest with the people around you.
The fun thing about sending out messages in a bottle is that everything comes back in a curve. Imagine you do the last one—you become brutally honest with the people around you. What happens then? You push away people who can’t deal with it, and you attract new people who appreciate it. You don’t have to do anything else: it all happens naturally. You behave differently, you look around after a few years, and you think: “Damn, literally all the people around me are different.”
Over the years, you get to know yourself better and better. I want this, I don’t want that.
I still often do the opposite of what I think is right. So if I think, “Don’t do it, this is not a good idea,” I usually do it anyway.
Flessenposten
Alles wat je doet komt in een boog terug. En het leuke is dat je niet weet hoe het terugkomt. Het is een beetje zoals flessenpost.
Er zijn veel theorieën over hoe je het beste je leven kunt leven. Ik gebruik altijd de flessenpost-strategie.
Flessenpost werkt zo: jij doet iets, iets wat je leuk vindt, belangrijk, of gewoon omdat het kan.
En dan vertrouw je erop dat het in het universum op de een of andere manier terugkomt.
En het mooie? Het werkt echt zo.
Een paar voorbeelden:
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Je doet net alsof je iemand broekzakbelt die je al lang niet hebt gesproken.
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Je eet iets anders dan je normaal doet en dan kijk je een paar uur later hoe je je voelt.
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Je begint een blog zonder dat je een idee hebt of iemand het gaat lezen.
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Je begint vier nieuwe sporten.
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Je wordt wakker en besluit om die dag hele andere woorden te gebruiken dan normaal.
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Je doet alles met links in plaats van met rechts, of andersom.
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Je doet een tijdje alles zonder computer en telefoon.
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Je bedenkt hoe het is om voor honderd procent uit liefde te bestaan en je probeert je met je hele lichaam nu zo te voelen.
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Je wordt goudeerlijk tegen mensen om je heen.
Het leuke van flessenposten is dat alles met een boogje terugkomt. Stel: je doet het laatste punt, je wordt goudeerlijk tegen de mensen om je heen. Wat er dan gebeurt? Je stoot mensen af die hier niet tegen kunnen. En je trekt nieuwe mensen aan die dit ook fijn vinden. Je hoeft hier verder niets voor te doen: dit gaat helemaal vanzelf. Je gedraagt je anders, je kijkt na een paar jaar om je heen, en je denkt: “Verrek, letterlijk alle mensen om me heen zijn anders.”
Over de jaren heen leer je jezelf steeds beter kennen. Dit wil ik wel, dat wil ik niet.
Ik doe nog steeds vaak het tegenovergestelde van wat ik denk dat goed is. Dus als ik denk: “Doe het nou niet, dit is geen goed idee,” dan doe ik het eigenlijk wel.
Be Real
Psychiatry is like martial arts. When you’ve taught yourself to throw a jab the wrong way, you've done it wrong thousands of times. That also means you’ll have to practice and change your strategy thousands of times in order to fix it.
A lot of people with psychiatric issues taught themselves the wrong technique at a young age. This isn’t a problem at first, but it becomes one after ten or twenty years. Pushing your emotions away once isn’t a problem. Suppressing what you want to say once isn’t a problem. But after a thousand times of not speaking up, it is. You start to feel worse. The tension in your body builds up.
Doctors can’t see what someone does on the inside of their own body. It’s very hard to notice when someone suppresses themselves internally—especially when they’ve done it so many times that even they have forgotten it.
Therefore, diagnoses are difficult. We can give everyone a label, but if we don’t fix the underlying cause, it’s pointless. Personally, I think the number of people with an actual brain disorder is very small compared to those with learned behaviour. That doesn’t mean that depression or anxiety aren’t real. They exist. But if someone grows up in an environment where they have to suppress their sexuality, then after twenty years they could have every psychiatric symptom possible. That doesn’t mean the psychiatric disorder itself is the problem.
Besides that, we only pay attention to bodily locations that physically hurt. We focus a lot on psychiatry. But feeling in your body happens within a body part. You feel with your knee—within your knee—not with your head.
A Healthy Relationship with Thoughts and Feelings
How do you do that? Be real. Be real with yourself. If it’s bad, acknowledge that it’s bad. Nothing is worse than pretending that everything is fine when it’s not. We live in a society where everything needs to be positive and supportive and happy. Well, it’s not. Real life is more like: “Everything in my body hurts today.” And from that point on, you try to fix it.
Wanneer over-identificeren verkeerd gaat
Stel, iemand zegt tegen je dat je een zenuwlijder bent wanneer je klein bent. Jij identificeert je met dat label. Jij denkt: ik ben een zenuwlijder.
Maar eigenlijk klopt dat ook weer niet helemaal als je er beter over nadenkt.
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Je bent niet de hele tijd een zenuwlijder. Je bent soms een zenuwlijder.
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Zenuwlijder zijn is eigenlijk maar een klein stukje van jou. Een ander stukje is dat je van chocolade-ijsjes met nootjes houdt. Wat je bent, is dus heel veel dingen tegelijk.
Een ander probleem is onder-identificeren. Ik heb me heel lang niet willen identificeren met liefdevolle gevoelens in mezelf. Zo was ik niet opgevoed. Ik heb me heel lang niet willen identificeren met twijfel, of zwakte, of angst. Ik dacht dat dat niet hoorde bij man zijn.
When Over-Identifying Goes Wrong
Suppose someone tells you that you are a worrier when you are a child. You identify with that label. You think: I am a worrier.
But if you think about it more carefully, that isn’t entirely true.
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You are not a worrier all the time. You are sometimes a worrier.
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Being a worrier is actually just a small part of you. Another part is that you love chocolate ice cream with nuts. What you are is therefore many things at once.
Another problem is under-identifying. For a long time, I didn’t want to identify with the loving feelings inside me. That’s not how I was raised. For a long time, I didn’t want to identify with doubt, weakness, or fear. I thought that wasn’t part of being a man.
Things that help:
Admit that you’re scared, and allow yourself to feel scared. Especially when you’re a guy, like me—this is hard, because a lot of us are raised in a culture that doesn’t “accept” anxiety.