Schizophrenia Books Fiction Novels & Stories

The flowers and the greenery looked so inviting; I was beginning to forget the scent of nature and the feeling of the breeze on my skin and in my hair. I turned to the long shelf to find something to read to help pass the time. But most of the books were biological journals and some other non-fiction. And I wanted to read fiction; maybe some lying on pages and dreamy characters could help with the boredom. I roamed through the shelves carefully looking for something. Just when I thought the search was going to be harder, I found a few and decided to read the one with the prettiest covers. The book was so interesting; I didn’t know fiction was so good. I never really gave them a chance becaus

"And now?" "Now?" Dr. Jafar's lips twisted, a grimace of pity and horror. "He's schizophrenic - trapped between reality and illusion. Lives on sedatives, talking to Gean's ghost like he's still breathing. When the drugs fade, he sees the truth - Gean's dead, and he's alone with his madness. Breaks down, wants to burn it all. One minute he's sharp as a blade, the next he's clawing at shadows, manic and lost."

“Episodes?” She nodded. “Delusions. Hallucinations. You are schizophrenic. The shocks, as you call them, were part of your therapy. You became violent last time we tried to help you, so we had to restrain you again. You keep talking about wolves, Austin, ghosts, and conspiracies. None of it’s real, Ruby. They’re all figments of your mind and manifestations of your trauma.” I wanted to scream that I wasn’t crazy, that I knew Austin was real. But the words stuck. The drugs still fogged my brain, and the sharpness of her tone made me doubt myself for a fleeting second.

"I had to get away." "Where did you want to go?" "Nowhere." He didn't bother pointing out the contradiction. I was full of them. My restless hands looked for somewhere to hide and escaped into my pockets. "Do you want to take off your coat?" he asked me. "It's OK." "Well, at least sit down." He nodded toward his office. That was when I realized I was still standing and walked through the door, stopping in front of his bookshelves, perusing the titles. Most of them were texts on psychology and animal behaviour. Eventually, I stopped and tapped the spine of a book, The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud.

This was my last hope. “This is my last hope! This fucking study is…” I would have roared, body trembling and palms sweating when my gaze fell on the bookshelf. “Maybe I'll find a book that will help with my madness after this.” I sighed, giving up. I began to rummage through the covers, hoping for a title that would catch my attention. Shawn seemed to read a lot of books on self-growth and improvement. He also read a few about redemption but when I found one titled: ‘The Weightiness of Guilt’, something about it drew me closer.

The bible didn't fail me as much as the bible was unable to stand the findings of my research. People cover themselves with the floor. Those who have next to nothing to support themselves. They, too, must live. I must live the storm if it helps fight the end somewhere. Life is hurting me at floor level. Amy is dead. I didn't kill her. She failed me in my desire to have a company in the future. The doctor says she was under considerable stress. They dug her up. But what's this? I can still talk to her. How? Whispers in my mind speak to her. That's because I am a patient with schizophrenia. How does he know for sure? It is not normal when he trusts a book without testing and confirming the con

"I'm glad you do. But I must tell you this; it's going to be hard. It's not going to be easy. You'd feel like bailing and you'd feel like a shitty person. We all are at a point in our lives before we heal. So when you come the day after tomorrow, I want you to come with every baggage you can carry and we will offload as much as we can to make you feel lighter by the time you return home, okay?" I nodded. She picked a book and handed it over to me. "This is a book I wrote last year: The Abstractness of The Mental. I give it out for free to my patients as I like to call you all." I laughed and nodded before looking down at the book. It had a glossy feeling to it and a picture of the brain and

The book on the table, looking at the title of the book, one would know that it was related to psychotherapy, psychological suggestion of a kind. Mu Zenin frowned, "Ms. Xiao, I don't have time to play dumb riddles with you here." Xiao Wanwan laughed, "Mr. Mu, don't you understand? You've been tricked! Someone hypnotized you, that's why your body isn't working! There used to be many books like this one, Jingjia used to have many of them, she clutched them in her hands and read them every day, and even asked me how to make a man happier!"

Daniel Hart was a chapter closed with no intention of being reread. And then, on a crisp Saturday morning in early October, I met him. The bookstore was nearly empty—one of those independent shops with mismatched chairs, shelves that reached too high, and the scent of cedar and old paper in the air. I went there often, drawn to its quiet corners and anonymity. I was in the psychology aisle, flipping through a worn copy of The Body Keeps the Score, when I heard a voice behind me. “That one saved my life. Or at least explained why I couldn’t sleep for three years.”

“You should stop reading fiction books. They are just fiction. They don’t teach you anything worthwhile.” Iva smiled at him because she knew that he was upset due to her book-reading habit as she wouldn’t let him get close until she finished the book. “Non fiction does inform the mind, but fiction infiltrates it. One gives you the maps of the world, while the other lets you wander through many worlds from your home. You should try reading some fiction as it sparks original thinking, Dear.” “Pfft, original thinking? How?” Gareth turned his head and stared at her. “Give me one good example?”