Hallucinations (27 page)

Receiving the correct diagnosis—narcolepsy—was deeply reassuring to Stephanie W., as was meeting others with similar hallucinations in the Narcolepsy Network.
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With this diagnosis and the prescription of effective medication, she feels there has been a complete change in her life.

Lynn O. wished that her doctors had told her earlier that her hallucinations were part of a narcoleptic syndrome. Prior to her diagnosis, she wrote,

In a later letter, she observed, “I find myself in the fresh stage of having to reevaluate many of my ‘paranormal’ experiences, and I find I am having to reintegrate a new view of the world based on my new diagnosis. It is like letting go of childhood or, rather, letting go of a mystical, almost magical view of the world. I must say, perhaps I am experiencing a touch of mourning.”

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any people with narcolepsy have auditory or tactile hallucinations along with visual ones, as well as complex bodily feelings. Christina K. is prone to sleep paralysis, and often her hallucinations go with this, as in the following episode:

Another correspondent, J.D., also described the hallucinations associated with sleep paralysis, including the feeling of pressure on her chest:

On one occasion, she had a hallucination resembling an out-of-body experience:

T
here was little physiological understanding of sleeping, dreaming, or sleep disorders until 1953, when Eugene Aserinsky and Nathaniel Kleitman at the University of Chicago discovered REM sleep—a distinctive stage of sleep with characteristic rapid eye movements, as well as characteristic EEG changes. They also found that if their subjects were woken during REM sleep, they would always report that they had been dreaming. It seemed, then, that dreaming was correlated with REM sleep.
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In REM sleep the body is paralyzed, except for shallow breathing and eye movements. Most people
enter the REM stage ninety minutes or so after falling asleep, but people with narcolepsy (or those with sleep deprivation) may fall into REM at the very onset of sleep, plunging suddenly into dreaming and sleep paralysis; they may also wake at the “wrong” time, so that the dreamlike visions and the loss of muscle control characteristic of REM sleep persist into the waking state. Even though the person is wide awake, he may be assaulted by dream- or nightmare-like hallucinations, made even more terrifying by an inability to move or speak.

But one does not have to have narcolepsy to experience sleep paralysis with hallucinations—indeed, J. A. Cheyne and his colleagues at the University of Waterloo have shown that somewhere between a third and half of the general population has had at least occasional episodes of this, and even a single episode may be unforgettable.

Cheyne et al. explored and categorized a huge range of sleep-paralysis-related phenomena, based on reports from three hundred student subjects as well as a large and varied population who responded to an internet questionnaire. They concluded that isolated sleep paralysis (that is, sleep paralysis without narcolepsy), being relatively common, “constitutes a unique natural laboratory for the study of hallucinoid experiences” but stressed that such hallucinations cannot be compared to ordinary hypnagogic or hypnopompic experiences. The hallucinations accompanying isolated sleep paralysis, they wrote, are “substantially more vivid, elaborate, multimodal and terrifying,” and therefore more likely to have a radical impact on anyone who experiences them. These hallucinations may be visceral, auditory, or tactile as well as visual and are accompanied by a feeling of suffocation or pressure on the chest, the sense of a malignant presence, and an overall
sense of absolute helplessness and abject terror. These, of course, are the cardinal qualities of the nightmare, in its original sense.

The “mare” in “nightmare” originally referred to a demonic woman who suffocated sleepers by lying on their chests (she was called “Old Hag” in Newfoundland). Ernest Jones, in his monograph
On the Nightmare
, emphasized that nightmares were radically different from ordinary dreams in their invariable sense of a fearful presence (sometimes astride the chest), difficulty breathing, and the realization that one is totally paralyzed. The term “nightmare” is often used now to describe any bad dream or anxiety dream, but the real night-mare has dread of a wholly different order; Cheyne speaks of “the ominous numinous” here. He suggests that the term for the night-mare proper be spelled with a hyphen, and this convention has been adopted by other workers in the field.

Shelley Adler, in her book
Sleep Paralysis: Night-mares, Nocebos, and the Mind-Body Connection
, also brings out the extreme nature of the sense of terror and doom that makes the experience of sleep paralysis unlike any other. She emphasizes that night-mares, unlike dreams, occur when one is awake—but awake in a partial or dissociated way; in this sense, the term “sleep” paralysis is misleading. The terror of this state is heightened by the shallow breathing of REM sleep and a rapid or irregular heartbeat, which can go with extreme excitement. Such overpowering fear and its physiological accompaniments can even be fatal, especially if there is a cultural tradition that associates sleep paralysis with death. Adler studied a group of Hmong refugees from Laos who had immigrated to central California in the late 1970s and were not always able to perform their traditional religious rites during
the upheaval of genocide and relocation. In Hmong culture, there is a strong belief that night-mares can be fatal; this evil expectation, or nocebo, apparently contributed to the sudden unexplained nocturnal deaths of almost two hundred Hmong immigrants (mostly young and in good health) in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Once they were more assimilated and the old beliefs lost their power, the sudden deaths stopped.

The folklore of every culture includes supernatural figures like the incubus and succubus, which assault the sleeper sexually, or the Old Hag, which paralyzes its victims and sucks their breath away. Such images seem to be universal—indeed, there is a remarkable similarity of such figures in widely disparate cultures, although there are local variations of every sort. Hallucinatory experiences, whatever their cause, generate a world of imaginary beings and abodes—heaven, hell, fairyland. Such myths and beliefs are designed to clarify and reassure and, at the same time, to frighten and warn. We make narratives for a nocturnal experience which is common, real, and physiologically based.

When traditional figures—devils, witches, or hags—are no longer believed in, new ones—aliens, visitations from “a previous life”—take their place. Hallucinations, beyond any other waking experience, can excite, bewilder, terrify, or inspire, leading to the folklore and the myths (sublime, horrible, creative, and playful) which perhaps no individual and no culture can wholly dispense with.

I
n Charles Bonnet syndrome, sensory deprivation, parkinsonism, migraine, epilepsy, drug intoxication, and hypnagogia, there seems to be a mechanism in the brain that generates or facilitates hallucination—a primary physiological mechanism, related to local irritation, “release,” neurotransmitter disturbance, or whatever—with little reference to the individual’s life circumstances, character, emotions, beliefs, or state of mind. While people with such hallucinations may (or may not) enjoy them as a sensory experience, they almost uniformly emphasize their meaninglessness, their irrelevance to events and issues of their lives.

It is quite otherwise with the hallucinations we must now consider, which are, essentially, compulsive returns to a past experience. But here, unlike the sometimes moving but essentially trivial flashbacks of temporal lobe seizures, it is the significant past—beloved or terrible—that comes back to haunt
the mind—life experiences so charged with emotion that they make an indelible impression on the brain and compel it to repetition.

The emotions here can be of various kinds: grief or longing for a loved person or place from which death or exile or the passage of time has separated one; terror, horror, anguish, or dread following deeply traumatic, ego-threatening or life-threatening events. Such hallucinations may also be provoked by overwhelming guilt for a crime or sin that, perhaps belatedly, the conscience cannot tolerate. Hallucinations of ghosts—revenant spirits of the dead—are especially associated with violent death and guilt.

Stories of such hauntings and hallucinations have a substantial place in the myths and literature of every culture. Thus Hamlet’s murdered father appears to him (“In my mind’s eye, Horatio”) to tell him how he was murdered and must be avenged. And when Macbeth is plotting the murder of King Duncan, he sees a dagger in midair, a symbol of his intention and an incitement to action. Later, after he has had Banquo killed for threatening to expose him, he has hallucinations of Banquo’s ghost; while Lady Macbeth, who has smeared Duncan’s blood over his slain grooms, “sees” the king’s blood and smells it, ineradicable, on her hands.
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A
ny consuming passion or threat may lead to hallucinations in which an idea and an intense emotion are embedded. Especially common are hallucinations engendered by loss and grief—particularly following the death of a spouse after decades of togetherness and marriage. Losing a parent, a spouse, or a child is losing a part of oneself; and bereavement causes a sudden hole in one’s life, a hole which—somehow—must be filled. This presents a cognitive problem and a perceptual one as well as an emotional one, and a painful longing for reality to be otherwise.

I never experienced hallucinations after the deaths of my parents or my three brothers, though I often dreamt of them. But the first and most painful of these losses was the sudden death of my mother in 1972, and this led to persistent illusions over a period of months, when I would mistake other people in the street for her. There was always, I think, some similarity of appearance and carriage behind these illusions, and part of me, I suspect, was hyper-alert, unconsciously searching for my lost parent.

Sometimes bereavement hallucinations take the form of a
voice. Marion C., a psychoanalyst, wrote to me about “hearing” the voice (and, on a subsequent occasion, the laugh) of her dead husband: