Article 1: Introduction

Hello, my name is Marcus Koch, I am an aspiring journalist. I guess "aspiring" isn't quite right, I am a journalist, but I haven't actually written anything that I would call "newsworthy," which is why I say "aspiring."

Anyway, a little about myself: I am a recent graduate from New York University, or NYU for short, with a double major in journalism and psychology.

I know what many of you are thinking: "journalism, really?" and, yes, journalism. My parents advised me to not major in journalism, citing many sources saying that the degree was virtually worthless, but I went for it anyway. However, as a compromise—since they were paying for part of my college—I double majored in psychology. While I didn't hate psychology, I didn't love it. I was never fond of memorization for learning, I was more of a hands-on kind of person, but I grew to like psychology through my major and now it comes in very handy.

As a journalist, now, psychology is very useful when interviewing people and writing articles. You are able to capture and understand the mental state and personality of the person much easier. Well, at least for me. One of my peers could never grasp the ability to understand another's mental state, even though we were both in the same psychology courses.

Getting back on topic—since I was able to use this gift given to me by my major in psychology, my articles in the paper I was hired at gained a lot of attention, both online and in the actual paper. People would comment things like, "wow, it was like I could feel the emotions of person X," or, "it's like I knew him since forever." Random things like that, people would say.

This eventually got the attention of my superior; thankfully, it wasn't to his dissatisfaction. In the end, I got promoted. I was able to freely travel the country in search of stories, instead of being confined to an office or a noisy coffee shop gathering information from second-hand sources.

It was a dream come true! I was finally going to get to write my first, real article! And that's where I am now.

Now, you may wonder, "what is the article I'm writing about?" I'll give you a hint, it has something to do with my psychology major... Nothing? Well, I'll tell you: delusions of grandeur!

Well... that's a gross oversimplification, but it captures the essence of what I'm doing. I've been traveling the country interviewing patients in psychiatric hospitals diagnosed with delusions of grandeur.

I'm pretty sure many know what this is, but I'll explain anyway: delusions of grandeur are basically delusions about one's self or something having to do with themselves that they wholeheartedly believe to be true, even when it is obviously false. An example would be someone believing a secret organization named the Potato Cult is out to get them, or that they are some deity and have omnipotent abilities—things like that.

Again this is an oversimplification of the complexity of the mental illness known as delusions of grandeur. But, at the root of it, this is the best way to think of it—I think.

Right now, I'm on my way to another psychiatric hospital to meet a few patients. By the way, this hospital is located in Colorado, United States of America.

Befitting of one of its nicknames, "Colorful Colorado," the views of the mountains and fauna were breathtaking for someone like me, who grew up in an urban city like New York City.

After driving for a while and getting lost in the greenery, I eventually arrived at the hospital.

Screeech... Click. Clunk.

I came to a stop and got out of my car. In most of my interviews with people at these kinds of facilities, I would be quite energized, since the tales these people spun were quite interesting despite the ludicrous nature of them. There were times that I wondered if the stories they told were real or not. It wasn't because the content was believable, but the way they told the stories with such conviction really made one feel as if what they were talking about was actually real.

Now I knew most of what they said was a jumbled mess of crazy, outlandish stories, but there was always a voice in the back of my head that would say, "maybe this is actually real..."

While I always suppressed that voice, it was still there scratching at my conscience every interview.

Squeeek. Jingle~

"Hello, how may I help you?"

I entered the hospital with a jingle from the bell attached to the top of the door, and was greeted by a brightly smiling receptionist at the front counter. She wore a uniform of light blue that looked like scrubs that an ER doctor wore, but it was actually a pair of loose-fitting, button-up shirt and pants.

"Yes, I am the journalist who made an appointment to see a number of patients here."

"Alright. I'll need to see your ID to confirm your visit."

I reached into my pocket and fumbled around, trying to squeeze my hand out of my pocket whilst grasping my wallet. I eventually got it out and handed it over to the receptionist. In around a minute of her typing away at her keyboard, she handed my ID back to me.

"Alrighty, I will inform the doctor of your arrival, and he should be with you shortly."

With the understanding that it would be a bit before I could see the patients, I sat down on one of the lobby couches. It wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

Sitting there, waiting, I looked down at the coffee table in front of me. There were various magazines splayed across the table—Women's Health, Forbes, Men's Health, etc. There were a wide variety to choose from, and I wondered if I should read one or not. I wasn't really a fan of this kind of writing. I preferred the serious, more scholarly kind. But, that's just my personal opinion.

As the clock on the wall slowly ticked by and the light outside gradually closed into night, I started to ponder on the different things I had suppressed thinking about until then. The main one being: 'where the hell am I gonna stay the night?'

While one could say I was a good journalist, I was in such a hurry to get here that I completely glossed over one of the most important aspects of traveling, and that was lodging. I hadn't booked a hotel room, so I could only hope there was something nearby where I could spend the night after my interviews.

Just as I started to think more seriously about this, my train of thought was abruptly interrupted by the assistant coming in the lobby and calling out my name.

"Mr. Marcus Koch, Dr. Reeves is ready for you."

As we made eye contact, I got up and walked over to her. She was a short yet plump black woman, probably in her mid-late 30s. She had the air of a big sister around her and it was very pleasant chatting with her as I made my way into the visiting area.

When I went past the doors into the visiting area, I spotted Dr. Reeves.

"Ah! Mr. Koch, nice to meet you," Dr. Reeves said as he shook my hand.

The man had rough and firm hands, one you would feel from a comforting father.

"Nice to meet you too, Dr. Reeves," I returned with a verbal greeting of my own.

"All the patients I mentioned in the email said that they would be willing to talk with you today. One was especially enthused over your visit. Let me warn you, though, I wouldn't believe anything he says, even if it sounds like he's telling the truth. He has quite a way with words," explained Dr. Reeves, as if trying to warn me about Hephaestus' trap.

"I'm well aware of their firm belief in what they see as being real. Don't worry, I won't get fooled by some crazy folktale," I reassured, make Dr. Reeves well aware that I wouldn't take anything they said seriously.

"Alright. Well, enough chit-chat, would you like me to get the first patient for an interview?"

"Yes, please. If you could."

With that, the doctor motioned to the nurses to go and fetch one of the patients.

As I looked around, it was similar to how I remember seeing other psychiatric hospitals—they were all quite bland. Normal hospitals would usually have some patterning, or something to make the walls or floors more interesting, but this hospital wasn't even up to that standard with its plain grey ways and plain white floors. It almost felt like being in a cold, concrete box.

As my thoughts drifted away into the realm of lamentation over the blandness, the first patient was brought out.

The man was jittery and looked like he had been tased one too many times, and the electricity just kept looping around his body, shocking him repeatedly, making him incapable of sitting still. It didn't look like he was suffering from Tourette's or some genetic disorder, he just looked like he was on crack or something.

Before I began the interview, I set my phone to the side and started a voice recording. I always did this for my interviews since there would always be things that I missed and would want to go back and listen again.

When the patient sat down at the table I had come and parked my butt at, I spoke to him first.

"Hello, my name is Marcus Koch, I am a journalist. I just wanted to let you know, I am recording our conversation, are you okay with that?" Consent was important in any situation, especially in this line of work.

"Y-Yes, it's fine," the shaking man nervously replied.

"Would you like to share your name?"

"Ronald Moore."

"Ronald, would you be willing to tell me as to why you're in here?"

"S-Sure. I-I was seeing a therapist, since, you know, I act a-a little cagey. I-I constantly l-look like I'm on something, you know? Well, I started having this feeling that someone was secretly d-drugging me and that my jitteriness was a-actually because someone p-put sss-something in my drink or f-food. I-I even found proof! After I drank a glass of water I g-got f-from m-my fridge, there was this white stuff at the bottom of the c-cup! I knew someone had d-drugged me a-and that was t-the proof! But, when I told my therapist about this, s-she suggested that I-I be admitted to a mental hospital! Why? There was nothing w-wrong with me; I had proof even!... S-So, yeah. That's h-how I ended up here. It's been around five years since then."

After recounting his descent into madness, Ronald looked at me, expecting me to say something.

The whole time he spoke, I was focused on his facial expressions, his body language, and every minor detail that couldn't be captured in an audio recording. Just when Ronald's patience seemed to be running out, I spoke to him.

"Interesting, so you say that there was a person intentionally trying to drug you, and he drugged your fridge water of all things? Also, how long have you had problems with your jittering?"

"Yeah, man! I almost caught him once too! I came home after work one day, and I heard some noise from the k-kitchen and when I went in, I saw someone run out my back d-door and jump over the fence! T-That person was d-definingly trying to d-drug me!... Oh, I've been j-jittering since I was a kid, why?"

'...First, that was probably a thief... Second, since he was a kid...' I scribbled down my notes on the notepad that I always carried around with me. The man I was talking to, suffered from delusions of grandeur where he was the target of some mysterious person trying to drug him. However, the fact that the jitters that he attributes to this mysterious person, started in his childhood never connected in his head.

This was one of the reasons I was attracted to this mental illness. The fact that the reasons behind the events these people perceive as "evidence" to support their delusion have clear explanations and reasonable solutions that have nothing to do with their delusion, yet they fail to see the obvious, was quite interesting to me.

It was like the famous experiment of a video telling the viewer to count how many passes the basketball players made to one another and in the end asking the viewer if they saw the man in the gorilla suit that walked across the screen. In the pursuit of trying to focus on this one area, they became blind to what was right in front of them.

After I concluded the interview with Ronald, another patient was brought out. She was similar to Ronald in regard to her delusion, except she believed that her neighbors were out to kill her cats. The funny part was, she didn't own any cats. Whatever her case may be, she was similarly crazy, maybe even more so than Ronald.

Different form the other two, the last patient to come out seemed calm and collected. He wasn't like the jittery Ronald or the wild-eyed woman, he had the calm of a refined man—whatever that may be. He walked over with a limp and sat down right in front of me.

"Hello, my name is Marcus Koch, I am a journalist. I just wanted to let you know, I am recording our conversation, are you okay with that?" I said the same lines I had said twice today already, making sure that I covered my bases.

"Yes, I am fine with that. My name is Harold Weber, nice to meet you."

Before I asked him to introduce himself, he had done so already, and offered me a handshake, to which I accepted. The man talked in a calm and deep voice, one that told of his age. The man wasn't tall or short, based on American standards. He was 5'11", with brown hair that was slightly grey, he wore a commonly seen pair of glasses, and there was nothing rather telling of unique characteristics other than that. He had no telling dialect either, which made me think he came from the Pacific Northwest.

"Harold, would you like to tell me why you're here?"

Harold took some time before speaking. His face had a look as if pondering the meaning of life.

"I...I think you should know a bit about my history, before I tell you why I'm here."

"Alright," I responded, and kept quiet, waiting for Harold to speak again.

"I used to be a meteorologist, you see. I was a professor at the University of Utah, until a few years ago. That day...that day changed my life forever, and I will never forget it. It went like this..."