Hallucinations & paranoia.
Most people assume hallucinations are always terrifying. That’s not my reality. For me, hallucinations are complicated — and honestly, most of the time they’re comforting.
Sometimes it’s a voice that is just saying hi or some other random words or sounds. Sometimes it’s a presence in the room that feels like company rather than threat. There are nights when a flicker at the edge of my vision feels like a soft hello instead of something to fear. Those moments don’t undo the illness, but they can feel gentle — like an unexpected hand on my shoulder when I need it.
That doesn’t mean they’re always pleasant. Occasionally the hallucinations are intrusive, confusing, or scary. Sometimes they pull me into an unfamiliar place and I have to remind myself that it’s not real. I like to acknowledge my hallucinations, as long as they are not threatening. Acknowledging them has made them a lot less distressing.
But the other parts of schizoaffective and bipolar? Those tend to be harder. The paranoia is the real thief. It’s not loud or dramatic at first — it’s a slow tightening in my chest. A small noise becomes a possibility of danger. My body reacts even when I know, logically, there’s nothing there. The muscles tense, my heart races, and suddenly sleep is a thing I used to do.
When paranoia hits, it keeps me awake. I find myself walking the house at 2 a.m., checking doors and windows, turning on lights to feel a little safer. I sleep with the lights on more nights than I’d like to admit. I get jumpy in public — every glance from a stranger feels too pointed, every whisper a code I haven’t learned. That exhaustion piles up and makes everything else worse.
So yes: the hallucinations are very present. I see, hear, and feel things that aren’t there every single day. Paranoia, though — that’s the part that breaks rhythm, steals sleep, and makes day-to-day living heavy and clipped. It’s what makes me cautious about traveling, about sleeping in strange places, about being alone when my routine is disrupted.
I have nightlights all over the house. I pay attention to if my dog is reacting to a sound in the house. I check in with my extremely supportive wife. I take a mental inventory of my different symptoms throughout the day. These things don’t erase symptoms, but they give me space to keep living my life.
Most people meet me and see a person who goes to work, goes to class, shows up for family. What they don’t see is how much of my energy goes to sorting my inner world from the real one, or how tired I am from being jumpy all the time. I’m not ashamed of it — and I’m not defined by it. I carry these symptoms with me, and I carry on.
