After experiencing a psychotic episode, Matt Racher thought he’d traded his soul for musical talent – but felt like he’d lost his creative gifts instead. In this article, Matt explores the lingering effects of schizophrenia and the ongoing struggles between his treatment and his sense of self.

I stood in the hospital room doorway, watching the psychiatry resident speak to my parents. She’d asked, “Do you think he’s ready for discharge?”

I jumped in, eagerly. “Yes, I’m definitely ready!”

“Seems like he’s ready,” the psych resident replied, almost sarcastically.

But while I genuinely felt ready to leave, the delusions had plans of their own.

Discharged – but not free

My parents and I grabbed my belongings and a blue discharge folder with a few local resources. I signed myself out.

I remember riding the elevator down from the 10th floor, home to the crisis stabilization unit, squinting against what seemed like blinding sunlight. Even though the elevator was moving down, I felt like I was finally climbing out of the depths of hell.

My family knew something was off. My friends knew I was not okay. Even one of the doctors I worked for called me to share how concerned he was.

But my delusions were still there. Everyone I saw seemed like a special agent, knowing what they were doing to me, but trying to hide their true intentions.

One of my earliest memories of returning to my parents’ house was this desire to pick up the acoustic guitar. I wanted to give my strumming a test run.

During my psychotic episode, I thought I’d made a deal

While I was in the hospital, one of my delusions was that I’d had an encounter with the devil. In an echo of the old folklore stories, I’d made a deal to exchange my soul for the ability to play blues guitar like no one had ever heard. I recall visualizing an old, shadowy figure in a leather jacket, with a worn, weathered face.

He’d approach me often during my hospital stay, as if he were checking in on me based on our “agreement.”

I vividly remember the feeling of fear – like a cold gust of wind – every time I saw him. He turned out to be one of my hallucinations, tangled up in a delusional narrative that spiraled into chaos during my time in the hospital.

The day the music “died”

As I strummed my guitar, I recall saying aloud, “My guitar playing isn’t the same. Something’s missing.”

Immediately, I thought of the “deal with the devil” delusion that was still at the forefront of my mind.

“There must be no deal. I must have done something wrong.”

I felt as though the music in my soul had been taken away, not enhanced. I’d been stripped of every guitar lick, of every rhythmic pattern. It was as if I’d gone from speaking a language fluently to struggling to make sense of the alphabet.

In that moment, I recall feeling as though music had no purpose in my life anymore – that my once-enlivening passion was laid to rest forever.

I mourned for the loss of things that had once been innate: my sense of timing, rhythm, and feel – my connection to creativity.

Years into recovery, I still longed to be who I once was

As the months passed, I began to accept what felt like a loss of who I once was and how I’d defined myself.

I'd always aspired to pursue singing and songwriting. But as my psychosis dissipated, and the dust of the delusions finally settled, I started to accept that something had changed in me and that this change could last forever.

I learned about the negative symptoms of schizophrenia, the long-term effects of psychosis, and how antipsychotic medication can impact the brain and mind.

On one level, I reluctantly began to accept that, for me, antipsychotic medication would always be necessary. This thought was an anchor keeping my boat as stable as possible in rough seas.

Yet, as the weeks went by, my mind continued to battle itself. On the one hand, I had this nagging thought of whether the music would come back if I went off my medication. On the other hand, I knew it would never be worth it.

The curiosity was there, though, and I held onto it for years. When I thought about stopping my treatment, it felt as if I were tiptoeing through the night to see what was behind a hidden, locked door. A door that everyone who loved me had begged me to stay away from.

And, given what I’d experienced during my episode, I knew it wasn’t safe to go there. Like two broken records playing simultaneously, my parents and psychiatrist would remind me: “If you stay on your medication, you may never have to go through an episode of psychosis again.”

Yearning battled with insight

Yet that tiny, but powerful thought remained. Sometimes it was quiet, but on other days, it was so loud: “Matt, you want your music back. You want your passion and connection back. You don’t need these meds. You’re better...”

This narrative became as strong as the one that said, “The music’s gone, and you need to deal with that.” They were contradictory to each other, yet, somehow, they ran in tandem. If I stopped the medication, maybe my music would come back...

Another tipping point

In 2022, nearly 11 years after my second psychotic break, I considered myself to be in long-term remission. I hadn't, as far as I was aware, experienced symptoms of my illness in over a decade.

I was working full-time and attending graduate school classes in social work, steadily laying the groundwork for my future. The knowledge I’d gained from my recovery process would be channeled into my future job as a therapist. My prospects looked brighter every day, but one belief refused to leave the crevices of my mind: “I’m broken. The music in me is gone. I must get it back.”

Then, one day, nearing the summer of 2022, something happened that I took as a sign. I’d been getting ready for work, and the bottle containing my maintenance medication had somehow opened in my bag. Pills had spilled everywhere.

In that moment, I told myself, “Maybe I really don’t need them anymore.”

I stopped the medication. Within seven days, my symptoms had returned enough to send me into an overdriven, mental whirlwind.

I began to obsess over Native American and indigenous spirituality. I spent hours researching ancient works of art and the ancient teachings of philosophers. I became fixated on Descartes’ idea that the pineal gland, located in the brain, was “the seat of the human soul.”

I recall walking through my neighborhood in Miami, FL, at all hours of the night. I’d buy homeless people packs of cigarettes and speak with them. I convinced myself that these people were modern-day prophets; wise souls sent to Earth to give us all the answers.

One night, I’d given a young homeless man my shoes and offered him the collection of quarters I had in my room at home. He advised me to look at the constellations in the night sky, as if the “Seven Sisters” (Pleiades) had the answers I was looking for.

In my delusion of reference, everything was a sign. Everything was part of this great, cosmic scavenger hunt revealing all the answers to the universe.

Reality began to blur again

I went to work in my outreach position in Overtown. In between my duties, my delusions convinced me that I’d gained the ability to communicate with birds. “The birds are telling me something,” I thought.

My family knew something was off. My friends knew I was not okay. Even one of the doctors I worked for called me to share how concerned he was. I heard it in his voice, and this little remnant of insight told me: “Listen to them. Listen to your treatment team.”

As I connected the dots of my altered reality, I began to see the theme in the messages I was hearing from those who loved and cared about me. I remember thinking that I needed to get back onto my treatment plan.

As my psychosis dissipated, and the dust of the delusions finally settled, I started to accept that something had changed in me and that this change could last forever.

I also recall the thoughts that tied themselves to my delusion: “Maybe if I start the higher dose of meds my health team recommends, that’ll do it. It’ll help keep my mind the way it’s supposed to be. A mind connected to nature, music, ancestral wisdom, and timeless teachings. Maybe they also know that I’m one of the chosen messengers. This treatment could help me maintain this deep spiritual connection.”

What could have been a downward spiral that led back to the crisis unit on the 10th floor became a near-miss instead. A runaway train that thankfully halted on its tracks before things got worse.

I realized that recovery is a layered journey – not a finish line

Following this experience, I realized that, for me, ongoing treatment is most likely a necessity.

Yet, this time, I felt a hope I’d never really felt before. Instead of waiting in stasis outside a closed door, there was a lot more to explore about myself and my recovery.

I'm not broken yet, and I'm still figuring out this journey one step at a time. I'm grateful that I didn't spiral into another full psychotic episode and that I managed to avoid the deep caverns of my delusions and hallucinations. I'm thankful that I didn't have to face the frightening possibility of hallucinations where my parents looked like impostors or shape-shifting monsters.

So, this experience gave me both hope and caution. I hope to discover more about balancing emotional connection and my relationship to reality.

And, of course, I’ve been cautioned to adhere to my treatment regimen. But, while taking my medication as prescribed is essential, I also need the right mindset and support. These three things together are the necessary foundations for building – and often rebuilding – a life with new meaning and opportunities as I continue my recovery journey.

The information presented is solely for educational purposes, not as specific advice for the evaluation, management, or treatment of any condition.

The individual(s) who have written and created the content and whose images appear in this article have been paid by Teva Pharmaceuticals for their contributions. This content represents the opinions of the contributor and does not necessarily reflect those of Teva Pharmaceuticals. Similarly, Teva Pharmaceuticals does not review, control, influence, or endorse any content related to the contributor's websites or social media networks. This content is intended for informational and educational purposes and should not be considered medical advice or recommendations. Consult a qualified medical professional for diagnosis and before beginning or changing any treatment regimen.

NPS-ALL-NP-01654 OCTOBER 2025