Truths Revealed Through Psychosis

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Psychosis is often seen as madness. But what if, instead, it’s a last-resort signal from the psyche—a cry from the soul when truth becomes too much to bear?

When I experienced psychosis, I was 23, financially independent for the first time, and finally outside the immediate influence of my family system. What emerged in that space wasn’t peace—it was chaos. It was the undeniable truth that my mother never loved me. A truth too painful to accept directly. So my mind found a workaround.

In my psychosis, I believed my father—an intelligent, computer-loving man—had written raps for Eminem to help me understand my mother through his music. Eminem’s lyrics resonated with me on a cellular level, as if they were speaking from my own childhood. The rage, the abandonment, the confusion—they were all there, perfectly expressed. At the time, it made perfect sense that my dad had orchestrated it all to help me survive emotionally. Looking back, I can see that wasn’t literally true. But symbolically? It captured everything.

I had been listening to bands like Slipknot, Linkin Park, Eminem—music born from deep pain and misunderstood childhoods. The lyrics weren’t just entertainment; they were translations of feelings I couldn’t yet name. My inner child was screaming through the stereo, and the only way I could make sense of the chaos was to create a story where someone—anyone—had my back.

And that someone became my dad.

He had always been a complex figure. He shouted to “make me think,” he offered endless Mars bars for comfort, he showed me the basics of cooking, he taught me the value of independence. He loved art, solitude, and dogs. He loved me, but in ways I couldn’t understand then.

In psychosis, I was arrested for what they called attempted burglary. But in my mind, I was starring in a rap video—I was Conscious, the next voice of truth. In court, the charges didn’t hold. I was mentally unwell, not criminal. I ended up in a psychiatric hospital. But still, a part of me knew something deeper had surfaced.

Now, I see psychosis as my ego’s attempt to protect me. If I had been handed the unfiltered truth all at once—that neither parent truly saw me, that my existence felt like a cosmic afterthought—I might not have survived it. So my mind gave me myth instead of memory. Fantasy instead of fact. Something I could hold onto until I was strong enough to hold the truth.

It wasn’t real. But it was true.

And that, I’m learning, is the difference between madness and meaning.