A Mind That Found Itself | Page 3

several
girls. These schoolmates, who lived in my neighborhood, had mistaken for snobbishness
a certain boyish diffidence for which few people gave me credit. When we passed each
other, almost daily, this group of girls and I, our mutual sign of recognition was a look in
an opposite direction. Now my opponent was well liked by these same girls and was
entitled to their support. Accordingly they applauded his good plays, which was fair.
They did not applaud my good plays, which was also fair. But what was not fair was that
they should applaud my bad plays. Their doing so roiled my blood, and thanks to those
who would have had me lose, I won.
In June, 1894, I received a high school diploma. Shortly afterwards I took my
examinations for Yale, and the following September entered the Sheffield Scientific
School, in a non-technical course.
The last week of June, 1894, was an important one in my life. An event then occurred
which undoubtedly changed my career completely. It was the direct cause of my mental
collapse six years later, and of the distressing and, in some instances, strange and
delightful experiences on which this book is based. The event was the illness of an older
brother, who, late in June, 1894, was stricken with what was thought to be epilepsy. Few
diseases can so disorganize a household and distress its members. My brother had
enjoyed perfect health up to the time he was stricken; and, as there had never been a
suggestion of epilepsy, or any like disease, in either branch of the family, the affliction
came as a bolt from a clear sky. Everything possible was done to effect a cure, but
without avail. On July 4th, 1900, he died, after a six years' illness, two years of which
were spent at home, one year in a trip around the world in a sailing vessel, and most of
the remainder on a farm near Hartford. The doctors finally decided that a tumor at the
base of the brain had caused his malady and his death.
As I was in college when my brother was first stricken, I had more time at my disposal
than the other members of the family, and for that reason spent much of it with him.
Though his attacks during the first year occurred only at night, the fear that they might
occur during the day, in public, affected my nerves from the beginning.

Now, if a brother who had enjoyed perfect health all his life could be stricken with
epilepsy, what was to prevent my being similarly afflicted? This was the thought that
soon got possession of my mind. The more I considered it and him, the more nervous I
became; and the more nervous, the more convinced that my own breakdown was only a
matter of time. Doomed to what I then considered a living death, I thought of epilepsy, I
dreamed epilepsy, until thousands of times during the six years that this disquieting idea
persisted, my over-wrought imagination seemed to drag me to the very verge of an attack.
Yet at no time during my life have these early fears been realized.
For the fourteen months succeeding the time my brother was first stricken, I was greatly
harassed with fear; but not until later did my nerves really conquer me. I remember
distinctly when the break came. It happened in November, 1895, during a recitation in
German. That hour in the class room was one of the most disagreeable I ever experienced.
It seemed as if my nerves had snapped, like so many minute bands of rubber stretched
beyond their elastic limit. Had I had the courage to leave the room, I should have done so;
but I sat as if paralyzed until the class was dismissed.
That term I did not again attend recitations. Continuing my studies at home, I passed
satisfactory examinations, which enabled me to resume my place in the class room the
following January. During the remainder of my college years I seldom entered a
recitation room with any other feeling than that of dread, though the absolute assurance
that I should not be called upon to recite did somewhat relieve my anxiety in some
classes. The professors, whom I had told about my state of health and the cause of it,
invariably treated me with consideration; but, though I believe they never doubted the
genuineness of my excuse, it was easy matter to keep them convinced for almost
two-thirds of my college course. My inability to recite was not due usually to any lack of
preparation. However well prepared I might be, the moment I was called upon, a
mingling of a thousand disconcerting sensations, and the distinct thought that at last the
dread attack was