Psychosis Diaries is a work of autofiction. It follows Toby Crow, 16, witnessing his brother Jude’s descent into psychosis. To read previous extracts, visit Raur Hawk’s author page.

 

May 30th

Right Here, Right Now. Omnipresent. Everywhere.

Before this madness Jude and I handled our own problems. We had enough weight to be decent. We didn’t need to flex our power or play at being bad like those clowns from Burlington Road. Together we were strong. An unspoken bond built from swapped fivers, shared bags of chips, footy and fist bumps. It ran deep, like rivers underground, untroubled by the surface drama. When I was young, bullies couldn’t touch me, and when I grew taller than Jude, he felt my protection too. We faced the haters and looked out for the underdogs.

But the bags of chips got switched with bags of weed and, like a crash in slow motion, everything flipped.

It was subtle at first. Jude’s vision narrowed. He became fixated on the smallest things. Old cracks in the hallway wall that had been there for time became the focus of his paranoia. He tried to convince me they had just appeared, and someone was obviously planting surveillance wires to record his every move.

The graffiti artist was the real him, his pieces were inspired. He’d burn the competition north, south, east and west.  He and his crew were also highly respected for their dubs style collaborations, unique to the UK scene. But with his graff rooks gone, he forgot who he was. Curb and Blud, were not there to remind him how important this expression was to his sense of self.

One night he came home, broke down and cried, saying that Curb and Blud were angels now and in a better place. That they’re safe and everything’s connected. He told me that they are so close, right here, right now, omnipresent, everywhere. He spoke with conviction, from some deep religious place, and I believed him. I hoped this marked a new start. Was this him coming to terms with his loss? I want him back so bad.

I woke up today relieved that Jude was knocked out. He’d been banging around in his room last night, noisy and wasted. I could hear him, laughing, talking to himself.

Kept saying, “you flipping legend. You did it.”

Mum made me eggs. It felt normal. Not all about Jude for once. He’s dominated things for time. I’d been feeling like someone had chucked Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak on me. But today she made me eggs, the way I like them, and asked how I was. We cracked up at a TikTok post of some chickens dancing to drum and bass. As I left for school, she hugged me, saying “It will be alright in the end”.

It’s a family motto, and in our tradition, I finished it.

“And if it’s not alright it’s not the end”.

I stepped out onto the street and began to walk the familiar route to school. But something was different. It took a few stilted milliseconds for me to realise what it was. Then bam, it hit me. Everywhere, and I mean everywhere, the words ‘RIP Blud’ and ‘RIP Curb’ were sprayed. On vans, on cars, on garden fences, on walls, on the pavement, even on street signs. Jude was right. Curb and Blud were literally everywhere, with halos and wings.

Graffiti artists don’t hit private property, especially on their own turf. This was not going to land well. I closed my eyes and wished it away.

At school, the vibe towards me was salty. Where’s that invisibility cloak when I need it? My mate Mahmud showed me a post on the MET’s socials. A CCTV shot of Jude’s gaunt face with the words, ‘Have you seen this youth?’ And then photos of the damage.

Later, when I got home, the hallway floor was covered in plaster. Jude had picked away at those cracks, looking for microphones. The exposed electric cables confirmed he was right. They were on to him. They were watching him. I clear up the mess to soften the blow for the ‘rents. He’s already in enough shit.

I go to the computer to squeeze in some revision, got to get the grades I need for A levels. The screen opens on an NHS website, my mum has been searching the net about psychosis. I read the definition.

‘A severe mental condition involving hallucinations, delusions and confused thinking, where contact with external reality is lost.’

I search online for the origin of the word. ‘Psychosis’ from the Greek Psukhé: Soul. Psukhoo: I give life to. Psukhosis: Animation. I give life to my soul. It sounded spiritual. It sounded visionary. It didn’t say anything about the chaos and the drama.

I’m all over the internet, searching for answers. I don’t find much, but I do find a new word – ‘anosognosia’, a mouthful of letters whose root is from ancient Greek: ‘a’ without, ‘nosos’ disease, and ‘gnosis‘ knowledge. Without-disease-knowledge. Or in plain English, no insight. Jude lacks insight into his condition.

It is a common symptom associated with psychosis. The part of your brain that gives you understanding of your own state can get shut down when in critical mental distress.

Mum tried to get him to talk to the Early Intervention in Psychosis team, but he’s not having it. He doesn’t believe he’s sick, gets furious if any of us dare mention it. It’s a total no-go zone.

I also found out that Jude’s delusions about my dad, about the government, are very real to him. He’s like a kid who fully believes there is a monster under the bed. I realise he must be terrified.

I read about how loads of people are going through the same thing, doctors calling it a ‘silent mental health pandemic’, with people like us unable to find the support we need.  Mum’s tried everything to get help. She’s called every number, no magic ones. Unless he’s gonna kill or hurt himself, or somebody else, then you’re on your own.

He’s spiraling inward, and I’m on the outside. Our unspoken bond is not helping him now. I can’t reach him. It’s like he’s in a dense fog and doesn’t see me anymore. We’ve always fixed our own problems, but this is one riddle I’m struggling to solve. Need to skill up, to find a way.

All the stuff I read online tells me that Jude will have a better chance of long-term recovery if he has solid friends and family around. I make a silent pledge not to bail on him. My strategy: Defuse, de-escalate, stay calm. I will not take his insults personally, but I will not let him hurt me or the family. I will not deny his delusions but won’t agree with him either. I’ll tell him what I think, that the wires he’s uncovered in the wall are just powering the plug socket and the light switch. Real talk.

 

June 1st

Paint Job.

The fallout from Jude’s tagging spree was proper hard on the family, but luckily not violent. The next night, while we were sleeping, someone vandalised our house. They painted the outside black. The windows, the doors, even the bin. I remember hearing some banging around in the night, but assumed, as mum did, that it was Jude, up to his antics as usual. In the morning, I came down to the kitchen, it was dark! Couldn’t work it out at first. Thought I might have rolled out of bed in the middle of the night.

By now, Jude had spotted his mug on the MET’s socials. But he wouldn’t connect the dots with our new blacked-out house. According to him, it was the police tailing him that did the paint job.

Dad went to the hardware shop and bought solvent, cloths, scrubbers and paint. His weekend was planned, he was going to fix all the damage Jude had caused.

He knocked on every door in the area and apologised. Then he cleaned off the RIP tags and paid for any damage. He tried to get Jude to join him and take responsibility for the carnage. But Jude, spooked by our black house, fled into the sweltering heat of the city.

Dad wouldn’t let me get involved with the clean-up, said I needed to revise. Fred, his mate from work, turned up with a power washer. From my bedroom window, I saw those men scrub the street clean. If only we could fix Jude’s head as easily. Just wash away the madness. Mum repaired and repainted the hallway. She’s actually a DIY legend. She also kept the scran and cold drinks flowing. At sundown, she lit the BBQ. Dad and Fred worked like dogs but ate like kings.

By Sunday night, it was done. Only our house remained, standing like a detached shadow, a black hole in the estate, a symbolic reminder of the void in Mental Health Services. The only worry was that Jude had not returned. He was missing in action. All his socials had been dead for time.

Not having him around felt like a breather. Got loads of revision done, and the house felt calm. Fred and dad had a few beers in the garden. I heard them laughing. And then, I wondered if maybe my dad was crying. I looked out of the window. My strong, steady, big-hearted dad, had his head in his hands, weeping, Fred’s arm around his shoulder.

Somehow, the act of going door to door, saying sorry and explaining that Jude was unwell brought the street together. Sharma from the shop wouldn’t let me pay for my drink, got a supportive pat on the back from a lady at the bus stop and even a nod from a G who usually blanks me.

Monday night now, and my exams went well today. Biology and Maths. Jude’s still not back, though. Mum called the police to say he is missing, but, no joke, seconds after she put the phone down I see his Insta post. He’s in Margate, watching the sunset. I message him but get no response.

 

June 8th

Brake Cables.

After a few days AWOL, Jude finally came back from Margate looking like an explorer who’s been sun blasted in sand dunes.  His lips dry and cracked, his hair wild and tangled by the salty air.

Exams are almost over, just Physics left. Summer holidays approaching, normally a laugh, now looking like a heavy jail sentence. I miss the old Jude so bad. Summer won’t be the same without our regular jaunts.

A bunch of my year are going camping in Cornwall. I’m itching to go, but everyone knows about the drama at home. Who’d want to be around me? Feeling kinda tainted. Plus, I don’t have the money Kia’s going, she said I should too. Maybe there’s still a chance for us after all.

What’s stressing me out most of all right now, is Jude, he’s deteriorating fast. If I went away, I’d worry about leaving him with the folks. What if he kicks off and they need my help?

He’s so ill, though. His disease leaking out of him like blood from open wounds. He reeks, not showered for time. His nails are long and filthy, his hair a mess and matted, beard full of food. It’s butters. Mum’s begged him to sort it out, but he’s in his own world. He won’t chat to Dad at all. Just calls him a “lizard nonce.”

It’s proper pissed me off. My dad is the most straight up good bloke you’re ever gonna meet. He’s the guy who will sort out things for the pensioners on the weekends, hedges, painting, plumbing, you name it. I don’t know how dad stays calm amid the insults that Jude slings at him.

I’ve noticed a cycle to Jude’s psychosis. When he’s high on weed, he’s calm, when it wears off, he gets paranoid, angry, scared. Then he tucks into the Xans. They make him into a zombie. Those bootlegged blues… The Xannies. The psychotic rebounds from those are like a tsunami.

I’m doing separate sciences at school, and to me, Jude’s psychosis looks like physics playing out, pure and simple! Like one of those Newton’s Cradles… the ones with the silver balls. The further you pull back one end in one direction the further the opposite end flies out. You numb down that much with benzos, then watch the anxiety return in equal measure. He’s messing with his inner chemistry. His body’s busy producing dopamine, over-compensating for the Xannie blanket.

Jude is convinced he is being spiked. He won’t sleep on his mattress. Naps in a different place every night. In the hallway, on the sofa, even under the kitchen table. Made a little den like we used to when we were kids.

Then something messed up went down. Dad got in his van to head to work, and the brakes failed. He crashed into a lamp post, luckily no one was hurt, but it mashed up the front of the van.

Dad’s guy from XT Motors came out. Went underneath the van, reemerged looking like he’d seen a ghost. Someone had cut the brake cables. Someone skilled, who knew what they were doing. The mechanic was well freaked, said he’d never seen anything like it. It can’t have been Jude, he’s not got the vision for that right now. It was never mentioned again. But it left us all on edge. We’re on high alert now. Dad’s taken to parking up the street. It’s all so jarring.

Weirdly I found a Newton’s cradle in the charity shop. It’s in my room now, clicking away. Jude’s next door, smoking a bong and filming himself. Putting an embarrassing live stream out. If the government wanted an anti-drug advert, look no further than my brother’s socials.

Click. Click. Click. The silver balls collide.

Their momentum slowing ever so slightly.

I find this reassuring.

Nothing lasts forever.

 

June 16th

Explosions.

It’s Sunday. Mum’s at church, doing her weekly ritual of straw clutching, hoping and praying for a miracle. Dad drove her; he’s on his way back. I’ve learned not to go with her; I’ve got my own entities to deal with right now. Jude! He hasn’t slept again. I swear, it sounds like he’s building a rocket in his room. Banging around in the middle of the night puts me on edge, like I’m waiting for an explosion to blow the roof off the house, sending me and everything in my life into outer space.

It’s another boiling day. I’m in the kitchen. Poured myself a bowl of cereal, but the milk got left out and has gone off.  Sour like my mood.  It’s the weekend, and I need a break. Instead, I’m here, just waiting for the next round of chaos.

Then the door flies open. Jude with his trainers in his hands. Eyes wide, bloodshot and locked onto me like a missile targeting its mark.

“You’ve been messing with my shit again!” He’s angry. “My trainers! You put Tabs on ‘em, didn’t you! I know you did!”

I frown, trying to wrap my brain around his words.

“Tabs?”  What’s he talking about? “Why would I go near your stinky kicks, man?” I reply, barely holding it together. I’m angry, and I want a fight.

“And what are ‘Tabs’? I don’t even know what that means.”

I forget my own rules. I forget to de-esculate. Instead, I say, “You need help, Jude. This isn’t right, you’re not right… in the head!”

I knew it wouldn’t land well, but it’s the truth. And today I’m not in the mood for make-believe, tiptoeing around the mad elephant in the room. It’s been weighing me down. All the unspoken bullshit. I wish I could have kept calm and remembered he is sick. It’s not his fault that his brain’s malfunctioning. I wouldn’t be angry with him if he had cancer or a head injury.  But I fail to keep my trap shut. I might have shouted.

“You’re psychotic, making up bullshit all the time, talking nonsense. You need help bro.”

It is true, he needs help so badly. But my words are the wrong kind of medicine.  They spark an immediate explosion.

Jude’s face goes white-hot.

“Liar, you’re the one that needs help, cos you’re blind. You don’t know what is really going on!”

I reply, “I know exactly what’s going on, my brother’s lost his fucking mind.”

He flings his trainers at me with unpredictable force. I dodge just in time, and they slam into the wall behind me.

“You lot are messing with my head and my stuff, putting Tabs on me, poisoning me.” He picks up a chair, smashes it onto the table and roars like a beast from the wild.

Fight. Flight. Freeze.

I freeze. He storms out of the house barefoot, yelling back from the street: “Stop messing with my stuff!”

I’m left in the kitchen, shell-shocked, like a bomb just went off.  I stand there, frozen, listening to his repeated shouts as he heads up the street. It’s like every time he goes out of that door, a part of him disappears and never comes back. Bits of him left behind in all our favourite spots. His cheeky smile and his sense of humour left at the Undercroft on the South Bank where I’d watch him graff and skate.  His legs and love of footy have been abandoned on the pitches at Queen’s Road.  His natural style has been forgotten, left at the market where we’d go to spend our Christmas cash on clothes. The list goes. All the places we use to go just remind me now of who he used to be, of what I’ve lost.  The old Jude is dead. I’m grieving a living man.

The kitchen is silent. The explosion’s over, but the damage lingers. I try to breathe, to slow my pulse. But my heart’s racing hard, my mouth is dry and my ears are ringing.

The doorbell goes, jolting me out of my suspended animation. It’s Fred, come to help Dad un-black the painted house.  I let him in. He steps over the shattered chair.

“Everything alright?”

I don’t know where to start with answering that. I want to say: “Hi Fred. No. Things have not been alright for time.”

I’d catalogue every single fucked up thing that’s gone on, how I’ve been so worried about my folks, scared for my brother’s life, worried he might throw himself off a bridge. How I’ve been so ashamed and embarrassed of him, and guilty for feeling that way about my own flesh and blood. How I’ve probably fucked up, not just my grades but my whole life. How no girl wants to go near me because I’m tarnished. How I have lost trust in life totally and completely, living in fear that any moment something so messed up could explode and shatter everything I love.  How I live every day on high alert, primed and prepped for trouble.

Instead, I tell Fred “it’s all good.” and offer him a cuppa.

We chat about the footy and the weather. Then Dad arrives with paint brushes, and I go back to my room to revise for my physics exam.

After a few hours with my head in the books, my arse hurts from sitting.  I can hear dad and Fred chatting as they work. I go to help them.  It feels good to do something physical in between all the study. The simplicity of using a paint brush. Covering up the damage, it’s meditative, gives my mind a break. I think of the Karate Kid, ‘wax on, wax off’ and realise, clear as day, that simple manual work is good for my own mental health.

My friend Danny walks by and offers to help. Danny’s proper high vibes, you know, one of those people who’s always upbeat and happy. Big smile. It was cool, ‘cos he’s doing physics too and Danny’s got brains to match his sense of humour. While we paint, we fire physics questions at each other. It’s jokes.

I asked him, “A force is a vector quantity. What does this mean?”

He replied in this voice like Yoda from Star Wars. “As every Jedi knows, young one, a force, vector quantity it is. Direction and magnitude, it has. Not just a push or pull. Both needed they are. Understand this you must, or the balance of the force, lost it will be.”

We crack up so hard my belly aches. Not laughed like that for time. Feels good.

Then he asks me, “How does a chain reaction start during a nuclear fission?”

I have an image in my mind of Jude this morning, standing in our kitchen, about to detonate. “A chain reaction during nuclear fission begins when a single neutron strikes the nucleus of a fissile atom.”  I reply.

In my head, I see Jude’s face begin to boil with anger.

“This makes the nucleus split, which will release even more energy and increase the neutrons too.”

I visualise the energy building in Judes eyes, veins bulging with pressure.

“These freshly created neutrons then go on to collide with nuclei nearby, making them fission as well. The process continues in a self-perpetuating cycle, growing exponentially, unless controlled.”

In my mind’s eye I see Jude’s head explode into a nuclear mushroom cloud.

Later I sit in my room picking the paint off my hands thinking about how the physics of a nuclear reaction is caused by an initial isolated impact.  A single stressful event, like Curb and Blud dying in that brutal way, that’s the ‘neutron’ which triggered a tsunami of confused thinking, emotional and even physical reactions. Which in turn create more and more stress and anxiety, the cycle repeats, intensifying, the emotional reactions split over and over. Without intervention or support, just like a nuclear chain reaction, it will escalate out of control. Someone needs to step in and break the cycle before it breaks us. Just as fission reactors require careful handling, serious boundaries, and teams of qualified people, I am beginning to understand that we need professional help. We are not qualified to be dealing with something as nuclear as my brother Jude.

To be continued…