Imposters: a story about a Capgras delusion

 

It's cold. I'm always so cold. My hands quiver blue and wrists bloom purple, after days of bang, bang, banging my wrist on the arm of my chair. I don't think I'm okay, but I don't think I'm not okay either. I think, I think, I think I'm breaking. I am on the children's ward. I have not seen my real parents for months. Some strange people visit sometimes. I hide from them. They are not my parents. They are often nice and I begin to trust them, then they'll do something off-kilter and I shy away again, like a beaten dog. 

I had climbed out of a window, bawled through the lane outside the house and taken solace at a friend's home up the road. Gently I was led back to my childhood home and bundled into the car, driven to the hospital and admitted in hopes of finding a way to avoid another inpatient admission. We couldn't find one. 

I arrive at the unit, brittle. Last time I was in this position, I had a home, but now I'm adrift. My parents are gone, or at least they are to me. 

I have a Capgras delusion, but I won't find that out until I'm being discharged from the unit nearly six months later. 

A Capgras delusion is where you think that a close friend or a family member has been replaced by an identical-looking imposter. For me, it was my parents that were being imitated and they were up to no good. I believed they meant me harm. I had no idea that they were actually just my parents, who must have been hurting so inconceivably to see their child so ill. 

I want to thank my parents for coming to see me every weekend, even though I had no idea who they were. I want to thank my parents for their unshakable faith in me and for seeing that I could get better. 

This post is short because first-person is painful - I can't believe it was me. 

I wish it hadn't been. I take solace in the fact that this type of delusion is rare, so not many others are rendered so helpless, running from those that love them most. 

Thank you for reading.