The Year I Spoke with Chris Evans

How the beginning stages of schizoaffective disorder impacted my life

Melanie Cole imagined talking to actor Chris Evans, of Captain America fame. hoto by Rommel Azucena on Unsplash

I can’t entirely trace the lines back to when I started hearing voices in my head. Maybe before COVID, maybe after it. As most things in life—ideologies, relationships, finances—it swerved its way into my life like a stealthy snake or a hideous car crash. I’ll be upfront right now and say that in 2022, I was finally diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder.

Schizoaffective disorder is a strange (and rare) cousin to both schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. It’s as if the two conditions had an unwanted, peculiar child. Back in 2019, I didn’t know I was on the path toward being diagnosed with a psychotic disorder, and my life would have looked very strange to an outsider before the world was locked down by COVID. Before it could fester. Before I could lose myself in psychosis.

Most Americans are unaware that a person can be functionally psychotic. By this, I mean that they can be experiencing symptoms of psychosis, but still living their daily lives without much disruption. In 2019, I was working as an emergency manager for a large city in the U.S. and was living with daily psychotic symptoms. I didn’t know this, though. I didn’t find my behavior strange. I didn’t even think to tell anyone about it because, to me, it was normal. I was experiencing something called anosognosia—or lack of insight—into my illness. I was unaware that anything was wrong. In fact, I was unaware that I was even hearing voices.

It’s truly embarrassing to write about, but somewhere down the line, I started to hear the voice of Chris Evans. Yes, that Chris Evans. The one and only Captain America. I still don’t know if the voice I heard was actually that of Chris Evans, or if my mind just assigned what I was hearing to him (my friends and I were watching a lot of Marvel movies around that time), but something about his presence made me feel calm and safe.

I don’t remember the first time I heard Chris. It felt as if he had been in my life all along. I couldn’t imagine life without him. I do remember the voice being quite casual at one point, during the time I was still working, the time before COVID. It would narrate what I was doing. “She’s brushing her teeth,” “She is shampooing her hair,” “She is washing a plate with a sponge and scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing.” It was innocuous. It sounded like my own train of thought, but it wasn’t mine. It was different somehow.

In 2020, my mental state had deteriorated to the point that I needed to quit my job. I was no longer functioning with psychotic symptoms, but I was still unaware that I was psychotic and was getting into fights with my manager, while other coworkers expressed concern. I was quitting my career, really, one I had built up for eight years. It was jarring. By this time, I was having full conversations with the voice I was hearing. It had turned from something rather passive into an active part of my life. I named it Chris.

Chris became far more interesting than the outside world. I preferred his company to that of my family and friends. I would converse, out loud, with Chris for hours at a time when I was alone in my apartment. I could never hear Chris outside of my head, as some people with schizophrenia spectrum illnesses do, but rather as a second stream of consciousness. This went on for over a year. I would talk to myself at home, on public transportation, in the car, and at social gatherings.

Then, one day, I woke up. This happens with anosognosia sometimes. The wool lifted from my eyes, and suddenly, I could see that I was gravely ill. Chris didn’t exist. I was hearing voices and had been for quite a long time. I remember sitting in the shower, crying to myself over and over again that I was “unwell” and praying to God for someone to please help me.

A few days later, I woke up around five a.m. on a dark November morning. I noticed something strange. The Universe was floating above my head, nebulous and spinning. It suddenly cracked in two, pieces flying away to nowhere. Suddenly, like cicadas on a hot summer night, whispers filled my ears from all corners of my bedroom. They were loud, making it hard for me to hear anything else. They told all the secrets of the Universe. They told me to hurt myself.

I became fascinated with looking at myself in the mirror. I wanted to see my face and my eyes. I wanted to see if I recognized myself. I didn’t. What I did next may have been one of the bravest things I’ve ever done in my life.

I happened to live on the edge of a large park. On the other side of the park is the city’s largest hospital. I ran across the park to the hospital. In my state, I got lost on a route I knew well and ended up taking wrong turn after wrong turn before finally finding the entrance to the emergency room half an hour later. I ran to the front desk and told them I was having a psychotic episode and that voices were telling me to hurt myself.

I was subject to a long interview, searches with metal detectors, and had a security guard and a social worker stand outside of my room until I was dispatched to a behavioral health facility. I was given an antipsychotic, and for the first time in over a year, I finally felt some peace.

It wasn’t until I left the behavioral health facility that I noticed Chris was gone. I wouldn’t receive the correct diagnosis for another two years, but at least I had something. My bravery that morning saved my life. I would like to think that the real Chris Evans would think it was a pretty Captain America thing to do.

Melanie Cole is a writer and poet from Tacoma, Washington. She writes on themes of family, faith, the natural world, natural disaster, and the unusual. Her work has been featured in Grit City Magazine, Dandelion Revolution Press, PHIL LIT, and on The Mighty. Melanie is the Editorial Curator of The Faoileánach Journal. She has several upcoming publications.