Разум в огне. Месяц моего безумия

“Her brain is on fire,” he repeated. They nodded, eyes wide. “Her brain is under attack by her own body.”

Because the brain works contralaterally, meaning that the right hemisphere is responsible for the left field of vision and the left hemisphere is responsible for the right field of vision, my clock drawing, which had numbers drawn on only the right side, showed that the right hemisphere—responsible for seeing the left side of that clock—was compromised, to say the least. Visual neglect, however, is not blindness. The retinas are still active and still sending information to the visual cortex; it’s just that the information is not being processed accurately in a way that enables us to “see” an image. A more accurate term for this, some doctors say, is visual indifference:35 the brain simply does not care about what’s going on in the left side of its universe.

Not only did I believe that my family members were turning into other people, which is an aspect of paranoid hallucinations, but I also insisted that my father was an imposter. That delusion has a more specific name, Capgras syndrome, which a French psychiatrist, Joseph Capgras, first described in 1923 when he encountered a woman who believed that her husband had become a “double.”12 For years, psychiatrists believed this syndrome was an outgrowth of schizophrenia or other types of mental illnesses, but more recently, doctors have also ascribed it to neurobiological causes, including brain lesions.13 One study revealed that Capgras delusions might emerge from structural and circuitry complications in the brain, such as when the parts of the brain responsible for our interpretations of what we see (“hey, that man with dark hair about 5’10”, 190 pounds looks like my dad”) don’t match up with our emotional understanding (“that’s my dad, he raised me”). It’s a little like déjà vu, when we feel a strong sense of intimacy and familiarity but it’s not connected to anything we actually have experienced before. When these mismatches occur, the brain tries to make sense of the emotional incongruity by creating an elaborate, paranoid fantasy (“that looks like my dad, but I don’t feel like he’s my dad, so he must be an imposter”) that seems to come straight out of The Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

“Forget you heard that, Susannah,” my dad said. “They have no idea what the hell they’re talking about.”

Reading these entries now is like peering into a stranger’s stream of consciousness. I don’t recognize the person on the other end of the screen as me. Though she urgently attempts to communicate some deep, dark part of herself in her writing, she remains incomprehensible even to myself.