When the session ended, I went across the road, as I often did, for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. As I was stirring the coffee, it suddenly turned green, then purple. I looked up, startled, and saw that a customer paying his bill at the cash register had a huge proboscidean head, like an elephant seal. Panic seized me; I slammed a five-dollar note on the table and ran across the road to a bus on the other side. But all the passengers on the bus seemed to have smooth white heads like giant eggs, with huge glittering eyes like the faceted compound eyes of insects—their eyes seemed to move in sudden jerks, which increased the feeling of their fearfulness and alienness. I realized that I was hallucinating or experiencing some bizarre perceptual disorder, that I could not stop what was happening in my brain, and that I had to maintain at least an external control and not panic or scream or become catatonic, faced by the bug-eyed monsters around me. The best way of doing this, I found, was to write, to describe the hallucination in clear, almost clinical detail, and, in so doing, become an observer, even an explorer, not a helpless victim of the craziness inside me. I am never without pen and notebook, and now I wrote for dear life, as wave after wave of hallucination rolled over me.
Description, writing, had always been my best way of dealing with complex or frightening situations—though it had never been tested in so terrifying a situation. But it worked; by describing what was going on in my lab notebook, I managed to maintain a semblance of control, though the hallucinations continued, mutating all the while.
I managed somehow to get off at the right bus stop and onto the train, even though everything was now in motion, whirling vertiginously, tilting and even turning upside down. And I managed to get off at the right station, in my neighborhood in Greenwich Village. As I emerged from the subway, the buildings around me were tossing and flapping from side to side, like flags blowing in a high wind. I was enormously relieved to make it back to my apartment without being attacked, or arrested, or killed by the rushing traffic on the way. As soon as I got inside, I felt I had to contact somebody—someone who knew me well, who was both a doctor and a friend. Carol Burnett was the person: we had interned together in San Francisco five years earlier and had resumed a close friendship now that we were both in New York City. Carol would understand; she would know what to do. I dialed her number with a grossly tremulous hand. “Carol,” I said, as soon as she picked up, “I want to say good-bye. I’ve gone mad, psychotic, insane. It started this morning, and it’s getting worse all the while.”
“Oliver!” Carol said. “What have you just taken?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “That’s why I’m so frightened.” Carol thought for a moment, then asked, “What have you just
“That’s it!” I said. “I was taking a huge amount of chloral hydrate and ran out of it last night.”
“Oliver, you chump! You always overdo things,” Carol said. “You’ve got a classic case of the DT’s, delirium tremens.”
This was an immense relief—much better DT’s than a schizophrenic psychosis. But I was quite aware of the dangers of the DT’s: confusion, disorientation, hallucination, delusion, dehydration, fever, rapid heartbeat, exhaustion, seizures, death. I would have advised anyone else in my state to get to an emergency room immediately, but for myself, I wanted to tough it out, and experience it to the full. Carol agreed to sit with me for the first day; then, if she thought I was safe by myself, she would look by or phone me at intervals, calling in outside help if she judged it necessary. Given this safety net, I lost much of my anxiety, and could even enjoy the phantasms of delirium tremens in a way (though the myriads of small animals and insects were anything but pleasant). The hallucinations continued for almost ninety-six hours, and when they finally stopped, I fell into an exhausted stupor.37
As a boy, I had known extreme delight in the study of chemistry and the setting up of my own chemistry lab. This delight seemed to desert me at the age of fifteen or so; in my years at school, university, medical school, and then internship and residency, I kept my head above water, but the subjects I studied never excited me in the same intense way as chemistry had when I was a boy. It was not until I arrived in New York and began seeing patients in a migraine clinic in the summer of 1966 that I began to feel a little stirring of the intellectual excitement and emotional engagement I had known in my earlier years. It was in the hope of stirring up these intellectual and emotional excitements even further that I turned to amphetamines.
