A (Beautiful) Mind on leash
It was February 13th, 2015, my birthday. I was nursing a broken heart and an empty life. Most of my friends had left the city for greener pastures, and some had returned home. I was, however, stuck in this city, at least for the next five months.
I was living by myself in downtown Madison, and my neighbor was a junior at UW, who also happened to be my dealer. I found out about him from an acquaintance who had scored some pot the previous week. I had one too many Johnnie Blacks and decided to leave him a letter when my knock went unanswered. I told him I was his neighbor, that I wanted to score some, and left my number. My penmanship was terrible in my inebriated state. Not that it would have been any better sober, having not used a pen and paper in years. Little did I know that this act of defiance, this little letter, would be the beginning of a battle with my mind that would last more than a decade. I would learn later that I was schizophrenic-adjacent. The next part of this story is about my break from reality.
I was an insomniac in those days (or nights). Unable to fall asleep until late, I struggled to stay awake at work. This led me to abuse coffee during the day and drink too much Johnnie Black at night, all in a desperate attempt to catch some shut-eye. I had been on a health kick before I got into the pot trip. The pot was supposed to help me sleep and protect my liver, I told myself. Maybe it also helped with the loneliness and latent depression. I am not one to self-diagnose. Just self-medicate.
This green stuff was potent. It would knock me out every night. Legitimately paralyzing. Life was good after that birthday. It was almost a gift I gave to myself: good sleep at night, no hangovers in the morning, a spring in my step, and a well-rested body. I was coping well, and man, was I productive.
The usage steadily increased through the months leading up to the events of July 4th. We’ll get to that. The delusions started slowly. An odd moment of apophenia, a small pattern, a deja vu, a recurring flashback; you know? But I was wholly functional. No one knew I was a user. I was killing it at work, my mental health appearing fantastic on the surface. But something darker lurked underneath it all. I wouldn’t know until August 15th that year.
Three months into my new drug-addled lifestyle, I was up to two joints a day. I would smoke one just after returning from work while taking a walk to the lake downtown, calling the ducks my friends and heading back by sunset. By this point, I felt invincible, not caring about getting caught, smoking openly on the streets. Only stubbing it out if the cops were within sniffing distance. But I am sure they knew. They always knew. But I knew the laws. That’s what I told myself—they wouldn’t be able to prove anything.
This went on for a few months, and I was obviously hooked. I remember scenes from Trainspotting, and I wasn’t too far from it. I needed my fix every day.
My second joint of the day would be after dinner. I’d roll and smoke it in my room, in front of my computer, while scrolling through Twitter. There was always a Popsicle involved after, to satisfy those munchies. I was watching my health, you see. No sugar-laden desserts for me. No sir. I was fit as hell; the doctor had told me I was healthy as fuck. This was good, I told myself. I could do this until my two-year golden handcuffs period ended, after which I would move to a different job and city, closer to people I knew and loved. But for now, I would continue this lifestyle while plotting my next steps, preparing for interviews, and learning more computer science-y things. Twitter in 2014-2015 was different. All we spoke about was deep learning, and the only people I followed were AI researchers.
One night, while I was watching Andrew Ng’s course on Machine Learning, one of the slides gave me the epiphany of epiphanies. It was a slide on how neural networks learned different features in each layer, increasing in abstraction as we go higher. This worked for all modalities—images and speech. I tweeted something to the effect of: “Maybe the trick to getting Real AI is to train models combining all modalities.” I thought it was genius. I was sure this would go viral, and I’d be recognized for the genius that I am. This was my first instance of delusion of grandeur. I hit the sack, hoping to wake up to my tweet going viral. But nothing happened. Not even a like? Why weren’t people recognizing my brilliance? I had to get to the bottom of this. The downward spiral had begun.
That morning, I dressed differently. I put on my newsboy cap, a scarf, and my leather jacket without even thinking about it. It was automatic, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw a young Sherlock Holmes. I gave a knowing smirk, appreciating the beauty of my brain on autopilot, finding patterns in my behavior according to my circumstances. Today, I was going to be a detective, figuring out why my genius wasn’t recognized.
I grabbed my usual order of an Americano and a scone from the breakfast bar at work and got on with my day. I had my 1:1 with my manager that day. When I entered his office, I saw a math equation scribbled on his whiteboard. I gave a knowing smile. I’d figured it out. He was a math PhD. This was the clue I needed. I was supposed to figure out the math behind the AI model I had in mind before I could receive any accolades for the idea. Ideas are a dime a dozen, after all. I needed to do the work. And that was exactly what I was going to do. The work.
That evening after work, I rolled my first joint as usual and started on my walk. But that evening, I took a different route to the lake. I was on autopilot again. It was not a conscious choice, and when I realized I wasn’t on my usual path, I gave another knowing smirk. This was all entirely metaphorical. This was my new path, I told myself. A path to greatness. The delusion of grandeur escalates. On my way back home, I noticed my CEO’s Chief of Staff get out of a car with her phone pointed in my direction. The lyrics from Spoon’s “I Turn My Camera On” played in my ears. I smiled again. This was the universe guiding me. She was filming my swagger for posterity. I was a new man, after all. I was going to change the world. This was my first delusion of reference.
And so the cat-and-mouse chase began. Me against the world. Following every move I made henceforth. I was going to be famous. This was a huge insight. Life and world-shattering this would be. I went back to work.
The weeks passed, and I walked everywhere with a renewed sense of confidence and purpose. Everyone at work was nicer to me, treating me with great reverence and talking about me fondly behind my back. It felt like I was the talk of that little town. The delusion of reference deepens. I couldn’t stop seeing patterns everywhere, and I remembered what Blue M had told me—intelligence is all about pattern recognition if you think about it. The delusion of grandeur was at an all-time high. I noticed all the women I was fond of wearing pink a whole lot more. It was an anomaly. “It must have significance, this pink color,” I thought. All the accolades at work made me think they were trying to keep me in healthcare software while I was plotting bigger plans in my head. All while following the clues to see where it takes me.
Over Memorial Day weekend I decided to step it up a notch. This ‘following the signs’ thing. I knew the color pink had significance but I didn’t know what it meant. I was going to find out. Down the rabbit hole we go.
I was driving down my usual route I took when I wanted to test out the limits of my car. I had a fancy car that I wildly enjoyed driving on the empty roads of the suburbs. ‘Ho Hey’ by The Lumineers was playing on the radio. The lyrics go, “Took a bus to China Town (Hey!). I'd be standin' on Canal (Ho!). And Bowery (Hey! Ho!)”. I had a flashback to the year prior when I’d taken a bus to NYC to meet Yellow J. And the bus stop was at Canal St. ‘That’s it,’ I thought. That’s the clue I needed. I needed to go to NYC to find the answers. Off I went, grabbing just my passport, a change of clothes, and my laptop. One way ticket to NYC was purchased. I landed early in the morning at JFK. What next? I wasn’t sure so I decided to retrace my steps from my last trip. I got Pho in Chinatown for breakfast, 42nd street Chicken over Rice for lunch, a beer at a dive bar in the early evening, and then strolled into Central Park. I caught a glimpse of a girl wearing a bright pink T-shirt. Ah! The clue. I followed her as she took me around the park, hitting all the attractions and finally we landed at a spot near the exit where a group of people were gathered singing and dancing. ‘I love this city,’ I thought as I sat down to enjoy that moment in time.
It was getting dark and the crowd was dissipating, so I took my leave too. I headed out of the park and I noticed a girl with a pink bag. On to wherever this one leads me, I thought as I followed her. It was a series of following the color pink: a shirt here, a pair of sneakers there, even a tiny pink ribbon until I was led to the Apple Store on 5th Avenue. The little transparent cube? Yeah, that’s the one. Absolute genius marketing I thought. I knew what this meant now. It wasn’t just about the science, I had to build the product.
It was May 23rd, 2015, the Saturday before Memorial Day. I decided to rent a car and drive down to Boston from NYC because ‘I'm Shipping Up To Boston - Dropkick Murphys’ played on the radio the previous night before I went to bed. I knew the next clue would be in Boston, where Yellow J lived. I thought about how all roads lead to her. The drive down to Boston was picturesque, to say the least. Both sides of the highway were adorned by the greenest foliage one could imagine. I gave Yellow J a call to see if she wanted to meet. I had to tell her all about this adventure I was having. But she said she wasn’t in Boston but at her cousin’s place in NJ. It made no sense. She was supposed to be in Boston. That’s what the signs told me. I stopped mid-way at a diner to get some lunch. I decided I’d have a beer as well. Just the one; it was under the prescribed limit according to state law. I was fine. I heard a notification on my phone. It was Google News informing me that John Nash had died in a car crash. The important thing to note here is that before I got to that moment, my delusions of grandeur had convinced me that I was the smartest mathematician to have lived. This news put a brake on my plans and my path. It was a wake-up call. I had a beer AND I was driving on the highway. For a genius this was not very smart. I decided there was nothing in Boston for me. THIS was the point of it. I was taking too many risks. I had to be more careful. I sobered up over the next hour, grabbed a coffee at the Dunkin Donuts across the diner, and decided it was time for me to head back to Madison.
It was July 3rd, 2015. I rolled my usual joint after dinner, smoked it, and decided to roll another. Tomorrow was the 4th of July, after all and I had nowhere else to be. As I scrolled through Twitter, I noticed some oddly disturbing tweets. I KNEW they were talking about me. In code that wasn’t easily decipherable. It was the Indians against the Americans. They all wanted me. They wanted to claim me as their own. I reveled in this feeling of being recognized. My time had come. I felt humbled. My phone buzzed. It was a work email. I opened it to see an image of Neo from The Matrix with the caption, “You are the one.” It was sent by my ex-girlfriend, who was planning a “hackathon” later in the month and wanted to know if I wanted to lead the effort. But I knew that was a coded message too. I was indeed the one, the smartest one on the planet. She needed a reply to this email immediately, i.e., before the 4th of July. Odd, I thought, since it was a holiday. I ignored it. I had made my choice. I was going to quit my job and work on AI full-time.
There was something ominous about midnight. I could sense it - the looming significance. The clock struck 12, and the official Twitter page of GOI wished the American counterpart a “Happy Birthday!” Fireworks went off in the background. An ambulance wailed down my street. Or was it a firetruck? Or was it the cops? I was high! Are they trying to say I need medical help? Or are they coming to arrest me? I was paranoid, charting every possibility down its course. It was just pot. People don’t get arrested for getting high, I told myself. Must be the medical thing. I needed help. I was spiraling. That was it. I had to quit my job immediately. I sent an email to my CEO, keeping my manager in CC. She replied with disappointment. It was done. I was free.
I hadn’t slept for 48 hours. The sun was rising. It was America's birthday. I don’t like birthdays. As the sun was rising, Darwin (my cat) was looking out the window, scratching the glass. Curious, I walked up to it and opened the blinds. I saw an empty couch between my building and the next. How peculiar, I thought. How did it get there? When did it get there? Was it a metaphor for me moving to a different place? A different city? A different life? Maybe.
I made a bowl of cereal and came back to my room only to notice three men sitting on the couch, smoking much like they used to in ‘The Wire’.
It was about the drugs! This was the clue I needed. They had figured it out. They were coming after me. Fear set in. Paranoia set in. I had to make my escape. How? Where?
Fuck it. I grabbed my laptop, my phone, my passport, my wallet, and my car keys. I headed to the airport. I knew I had to get out of there before they got to me. The delusion of persecution begins.
I parked my car at the airport parking lot and headed to the counter. I asked the lady if I could buy tickets there. “Certainly,” she said, “where to?” I didn’t know. “Give me a minute.”
I called my friend in Columbus. He didn’t pick up. It was 6:30 am. Ugh. I had to think quickly. I opened my laptop and tried to decide between Columbus, Seattle, and San Francisco. I did the math. There were more friends in Seattle. They could help figure it out. I needed to get to the Indian Embassy away from the Americans. Yes, they’d protect me.
I took a one-way flight to Seattle. My phone ran out of charge mid-flight. I was worried about how I’d reach any of my friends without a phone. I still had my laptop. I remembered posting a tweet with the location tagged of a coffee shop near my friend’s place from my last trip there. Yes, that would be enough. I had my credit card and an address. I’ll just get there and ring the bell. But once I reached his place, I noticed his name was no longer on the list. The guard outside said he didn’t live there anymore.
Fuck!
The paranoia escalates.
“I need coffee. I need cigarettes. I haven’t slept in two days. I can figure this out.” Even if I’d forgotten my phone’s charger, I still had my laptop. I went to the aforementioned coffee shop, got myself a coffee, then a smoke. Uff.
“Oh wait, I had all my Google contacts synced to the cloud, and I had a Google Voice account. And this place had free Wi-Fi. Sorted,” I thought.
I called all my friends in Seattle. Finally, Blue V picked up, even though it was still very early. I told him I was in Seattle and had to meet immediately. I was in trouble, I told him. I couldn’t say what it was on the phone because they were watching and tracking me. I needed help. Badly. He sensed the urgency and said he’d pick me up. We drove to a friend’s place, and I narrated the happenings of the last four months of my life. They were speechless. I told them I wanted to go back to India. They concurred. They decided to ask my friend from Columbus to meet me at my place in Madison, who would help me pack and keep me company until I took the flight. I was relieved. I had found comfort in numbers that I didn’t have when I was trying to do all this on my own.
I headed back to Madison. I waited at the airport for Blue N. We took my car and headed back to my place, where we would hurriedly pack everything I wanted to take back home. The flight was the next day, and I felt a huge sense of relief. I was going back home where nobody could hurt me. I didn’t care for this country anymore.
I landed in Bangalore, and the paranoia escalated again. I had read about extradition treaties earlier. What if the customs police didn’t let me into the country and shipped me back to the US, where I would be prosecuted? I was going to be confident and act like nothing had happened. The customs official asked how long I was back for. I said Indefinately. “Welcome back Home!” he said while stamping my passport and gave me a wide, knowing smile. He knew, I thought.
Weeks passed, and the signs, the patterns, the references had reduced. I stayed clean after I was Home. The paranoia had come down. I felt safe. I was in my country.
It was the night of August 14th. I was at Purple S’ place, recounting all the little details from my little adventure. He listened with great patience. We had been drinking all night. It was late, and I headed back early in the morning.
The next day, he came to my place and spoke to my mom and brother for a bit. He then spoke to me and said I had to get psychiatric help. I refused. I had proof, dammit. Didn’t you hear my entire story?! It couldn’t all be a coincidence! Since it was August 15th and the doctor wasn’t available, I was to go for a consultation the next day.
That night, as I scrolled through Twitter, I saw the patterns again. I saw people referring to me. “Happy Birthday, India!” said the US government’s Twitter handle. Fireworks went off in the background. The dogs started barking. An ambulance siren wailed in the background. I was in trouble. The dogs, my friends, were giving me a warning. They were coming for me. I had to do something. Maybe if I convinced them that I was actually crazy, they’d not give me the death sentence for smoking a little bit of pot?
I knew what I had to do. I went to the first floor, restless, pacing up and down the stairs. I noticed an electric saw on account of some renovation work my brother was getting done. “Maybe I can just saw a little bit of my leg off?” That would convince them that I’d lost my marbles. But I couldn’t figure out how to get it to work. I needed another plan. My brother yelled out for me, asking what I was doing upstairs. I panicked and jumped off the stairs, head first. I had done it. This would count as being irrational, and I would be deemed mentally incompetent to go to prison. Phew.
I was bleeding profusely. My brother panicked. I was rushed to the nearest hospital. They refused to treat me. I was then rushed to NIMHANS. Stitches were administered. Sedated, I slept all night. The next morning, I noticed the color pink again. It was everywhere. All the menial work staff wore pink jackets. I was too tired to panic. I felt helpless. I had given up. I had followed this color everywhere in Madison, and now it had followed me back Home? What was the metaphor here? What’s the message? Who is telling me what now? Was this a metaphor for me hitting rock bottom?
Yes, this was my rock bottom. The doctor called it Pot Induced Psychosis (PIP).
Wonderful.
He was confident I would make a full recovery and be back to normal. I would have to lay off the pot, however. This was acceptable to me. All of this had to end. My brain was on fire for months and it needed to rest.
I have since been 'Terrified, mortified, petrified!” by my own brain and always had to watch out for making too many connections or going too deep.
I have lived in another kind of paranoia—the kind where I can’t trust my brain anymore. I have had to keep it on a short leash. Always vigilant.
But here I stand a decade later, vindicated that my original idea for Real AI was, in fact, a great idea, as seen by Open-AI's multi-modal models. It wasn’t crazy afterall.
I am easing that leash slowly but surely now, trusting my brain once again, letting it wander a little deeper. A little free-er.
We’ll see where this takes us.
[To be continued…]