Producing Dance Music Helped Me Cope With Schizophrenia and Saved My Life

Illustration by Howl

"ONE two THREE four." Kick drum thumps on the one; snare snaps on the three. There's order on the dance floor: rhythms, repetition, structure, phrasing. Schizophrenia is the antithesis of order—a disorder of disorder. My thoughts come apart: My thouas ce mogh arpat. So I turn up the bass and follow along "ONE two THREE four." I roll up a spliff and write a song.

I toiled through much of my late teens and early twenties from 2009 to 2012, unknowingly developing and then succumbing to a web of delusion and paranoia driven by hallucinations. The process was as engulfing and terrifying as a nightmare without the release of waking up. It ended in handcuffs and a hospitalization.

I started producing music at twenty-three, in the fall of 2012, on the way back from my first and only major psychotic episode. (I still experience intermittent symptoms of psychosis.) I write on my way back, because I'm still working on it; it's the greatest challenge I've ever faced. The first step was admitting to myself that the torture I had experienced over the preceding several months was a product of my mind and had no basis in reality. They weren't sending me coded messages. They weren't watching me constantly; they weren't screaming when I needed to sleep. There was no they. When I realized I had a lifetime of illness to look forward to, suicidal may not be strong enough a word to describe how I felt.

The next step was deciding I wasn't ready to die. But if I was going to keep going, I was going to need a reason to. I couldn't think of anything better to focus on than the one thing which made my newly inherited misery subside, even if only momentarily: music and the community around it.

I began my induction into electronic music when my symptoms were starting to get bad, but before they took a turn for the worse. I was living and going to school in New York City. A few good friends and I were on the dancefloor as often as we were able, worshipping at the altar of the soundsystem. We heard Boys Noize work methodically at Webster Hall, watched A-Trak juggle Robot Rock at Terminal Five, and felt the wall of bass at the first Reconstrvct events in Bushwick (Big up Joe Nice!). I was happiest on the dancefloor. It was ecstatic.

I started making music because it made me feel like I was still connected to that world, even if I was just listening in my headphones in my childhood bedroom or in an art studio in downtown Lowell, Massachusetts, where I live. Lowell is a small city 45 minutes northwest of Boston, but its history and culture distinguishes it from other Boston suburbs. We are home to the largest proportion of Khmer(Cambodian)-Americans in the United States, made up of people who fled the 1979 genocide. Lowell also survived a major crack epidemic in the 90s that was documented in the HBO show "High on Crack Street." The city still carries the weight of violence, addiction, and poverty, but despite its history of trauma, there's so much life here. The city is full of art, with brilliant writers, visual artists, and musicians working and interacting. I bartend and serve food at UnChArted, a gallery at the crux of the art community. Upstairs, the gallery supplies studio spaces for artist to use, which is where I write my music now, working out ideas on an old electric piano, lifted.

Schizophrenia is a disorder of which relatively little is understood. The symptoms, which vary from person to person, are well-documented. But the mechanisms, which produce the symptoms, are only shallowly comprehended. The prevailing explanation is called "The Dopamine Hypothesis," and my amateurish understanding is that schizophrenia is caused by the brain's inability to regulate dopamine production and reception. Dopamine is a lifeblood, in that it serves many functions in the brain. Current treatments inhibit the flow of dopamine imprecisely, which leaves me feeling stifled and sedated.

Personally, I understand my schizophrenia as a cluster of disorders. There are the readily recognized symptoms of psychosis: hallucinations, delusions, and paranoia. The are also symptoms of thought disorder—disorganized or broken thinking—as well as symptoms reminiscent of Autism spectrum disorders, like hypersensitivity and social anxiety. I have motor-tics associated with Tourette's syndrome. Depression, from which I suffer, is a mood disorder. I'm also conscious of distressing traits in myself that call to mind OCD, BPD, and PTSD.

My schizophrenia is a minefield, but writing music transcends it. Electronic music lends itself to the task serendipitously, because it is music to be experienced first, and intellectualized second. It's a music to move your body, a music to trigger instinct. When I began making music, I was free to feel my way through it, even if I was almost completely ignorant of the theory behind it. I was free to express myself with no real consequence and was rewarded with a song for my efforts. I could share my songs with friends, which helped me stay connected to the world through my music when much of the time I couldn't see past my symptoms and felt the need to retreat.

So I kept producing, and still do something musical every day, whether it's learning some theory, fooling around on the keyboard, or writing a song. I produce electronic music because I like the way it makes me feel. If you love music, you'll fall head over heels into the universe, because music is innate and infinite.

I taught my first music production class this summer at an alternative high school in the Lower-Highlands neighborhood of Lowell for students who don't fit into more conventional classrooms. It was one of the most frustrating but rewarding experiences of my life. I guess I'd kind of forgotten how hard it can be to be a fourteen year old, let alone a fourteen year old facing the socio-economic challenges these kids are facing. I ended up forming my first group project with two brilliant young artists I've met in Lowell. We're called Arty $lang. I'm also producing my solo music as Madhatter. My music brings together the dance music of my formative years with a lifelong love of hip-hop and collides them with lessons learned under the tutelage of local noise, jazz, and punk musicians.

I'm still dreaming of the day I can come home to New York City and feel those kick drums thumping in my chest again, smack my lips at the snare's snap. But I'll be forever grateful for the humbling lessons I've learned from the beautiful people I've met, fighting my madness in The Mill City.

Illustration by Howl

"ONE two THREE four." Kick drum thumps on the one; snare snaps on the three. There's order on the dance floor: rhythms, repetition, structure, phrasing. Schizophrenia is the antithesis of order—a disorder of disorder. My thoughts come apart: My thouas ce mogh arpat. So I turn up the bass and follow along "ONE two THREE four." I roll up a spliff and write a song.

I toiled through much of my late teens and early twenties from 2009 to 2012, unknowingly developing and then succumbing to a web of delusion and paranoia driven by hallucinations. The process was as engulfing and terrifying as a nightmare without the release of waking up. It ended in handcuffs and a hospitalization.

I started producing music at twenty-three, in the fall of 2012, on the way back from my first and only major psychotic episode. (I still experience intermittent symptoms of psychosis.) I write on my way back, because I'm still working on it; it's the greatest challenge I've ever faced. The first step was admitting to myself that the torture I had experienced over the preceding several months was a product of my mind and had no basis in reality. They weren't sending me coded messages. They weren't watching me constantly; they weren't screaming when I needed to sleep. There was no they. When I realized I had a lifetime of illness to look forward to, suicidal may not be strong enough a word to describe how I felt.

The next step was deciding I wasn't ready to die. But if I was going to keep going, I was going to need a reason to. I couldn't think of anything better to focus on than the one thing which made my newly inherited misery subside, even if only momentarily: music and the community around it.

I began my induction into electronic music when my symptoms were starting to get bad, but before they took a turn for the worse. I was living and going to school in New York City. A few good friends and I were on the dancefloor as often as we were able, worshipping at the altar of the soundsystem. We heard Boys Noize work methodically at Webster Hall, watched A-Trak juggle Robot Rock at Terminal Five, and felt the wall of bass at the first Reconstrvct events in Bushwick (Big up Joe Nice!). I was happiest on the dancefloor. It was ecstatic.

I started making music because it made me feel like I was still connected to that world, even if I was just listening in my headphones in my childhood bedroom or in an art studio in downtown Lowell, Massachusetts, where I live. Lowell is a small city 45 minutes northwest of Boston, but its history and culture distinguishes it from other Boston suburbs. We are home to the largest proportion of Khmer(Cambodian)-Americans in the United States, made up of people who fled the 1979 genocide. Lowell also survived a major crack epidemic in the 90s that was documented in the HBO show "High on Crack Street." The city still carries the weight of violence, addiction, and poverty, but despite its history of trauma, there's so much life here. The city is full of art, with brilliant writers, visual artists, and musicians working and interacting. I bartend and serve food at UnChArted, a gallery at the crux of the art community. Upstairs, the gallery supplies studio spaces for artist to use, which is where I write my music now, working out ideas on an old electric piano, lifted.

Schizophrenia is a disorder of which relatively little is understood. The symptoms, which vary from person to person, are well-documented. But the mechanisms, which produce the symptoms, are only shallowly comprehended. The prevailing explanation is called "The Dopamine Hypothesis," and my amateurish understanding is that schizophrenia is caused by the brain's inability to regulate dopamine production and reception. Dopamine is a lifeblood, in that it serves many functions in the brain. Current treatments inhibit the flow of dopamine imprecisely, which leaves me feeling stifled and sedated.

Personally, I understand my schizophrenia as a cluster of disorders. There are the readily recognized symptoms of psychosis: hallucinations, delusions, and paranoia. The are also symptoms of thought disorder—disorganized or broken thinking—as well as symptoms reminiscent of Autism spectrum disorders, like hypersensitivity and social anxiety. I have motor-tics associated with Tourette's syndrome. Depression, from which I suffer, is a mood disorder. I'm also conscious of distressing traits in myself that call to mind OCD, BPD, and PTSD.

My schizophrenia is a minefield, but writing music transcends it. Electronic music lends itself to the task serendipitously, because it is music to be experienced first, and intellectualized second. It's a music to move your body, a music to trigger instinct. When I began making music, I was free to feel my way through it, even if I was almost completely ignorant of the theory behind it. I was free to express myself with no real consequence and was rewarded with a song for my efforts. I could share my songs with friends, which helped me stay connected to the world through my music when much of the time I couldn't see past my symptoms and felt the need to retreat.

So I kept producing, and still do something musical every day, whether it's learning some theory, fooling around on the keyboard, or writing a song. I produce electronic music because I like the way it makes me feel. If you love music, you'll fall head over heels into the universe, because music is innate and infinite.

I taught my first music production class this summer at an alternative high school in the Lower-Highlands neighborhood of Lowell for students who don't fit into more conventional classrooms. It was one of the most frustrating but rewarding experiences of my life. I guess I'd kind of forgotten how hard it can be to be a fourteen year old, let alone a fourteen year old facing the socio-economic challenges these kids are facing. I ended up forming my first group project with two brilliant young artists I've met in Lowell. We're called Arty $lang. I'm also producing my solo music as Madhatter. My music brings together the dance music of my formative years with a lifelong love of hip-hop and collides them with lessons learned under the tutelage of local noise, jazz, and punk musicians.

I'm still dreaming of the day I can come home to New York City and feel those kick drums thumping in my chest again, smack my lips at the snare's snap. But I'll be forever grateful for the humbling lessons I've learned from the beautiful people I've met, fighting my madness in The Mill City.