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My son was three months old when I started seeing devils in his eyes.
We were away from our home in England, on a cross-country tour of the United States visiting family and friends.
Our families were Korean, and even though they'd spent many decades in the United States and had raised us as Americans, the rules and superstitions around birth were deeply engrained. They thought we were being reckless, traveling abroad when we should have been shielding ourselves at home, hiding away until our baby had reached the “safe” age of 100 days.
Their warnings and comments, although kindly meant, were constant. “Don't hold him too tightly, you might drop him.” “Put more layers on him, he might catch cold and die.” “Wash your hands, he might get the flu and die.” I started to see danger everywhere, and I wondered if I was a danger to my son.
My descent into psychosis was sudden and unexpected. Within hours, I was seeing devils' faces in the strangers at the grocery store. I was hearing the voice of God through the curtains, telling me that my husband was Dante, that I was Beatrice, and that we were destined to walk through the circles of hell. It felt like the world was being shaken, the colors were too vibrant, everything felt exaggerated.
My husband would take me to the emergency room. By then, I was tearing my clothes, clawing and fighting with the nurses who wrestled me onto a gurney.
When I was admitted, I couldn't be sure of what was real and not real.
My mind would build false memories, weaving stories from my past with books I'd read, films I'd seen, or song lyrics I remembered. I have distinct memories of my husband holding my hand, just as I have memories of him trying to serve