Delusions, by my psychiatrist’s definition, are beliefs so strong enough that you will at all costs hold on to and act by, and usually they are outside what others regard as true and rational.
I am in my early 40s, a single mother of 2 from separate men. I ran a thriving pastry shop. As I desired, I sailed out smoothly with love and a relationship.
🍀When I try to explain my sexual delusion, I have to start by saying this: it did not feel like desire. It felt like certainty—an unshakable belief that my body and other people’s intentions were being controlled by something outside me.
I believed that sexual signals were constantly being sent to and from me. Ordinary looks felt loaded with meaning. A cough, a gesture, a passing comment—everything seemed coded. I was convinced that people could sense my thoughts and that my body was responding without my permission. At times, I believed I was being compelled to act, as though refusal itself would bring danger or punishment.
The most frightening part was how real it felt. This wasn’t fantasy. I wasn’t choosing these thoughts. They arrived fully formed, urgent, and authoritative. I felt exposed all the time, as if privacy no longer existed—not even inside my own mind. I remember thinking, If everyone already knows what I’m thinking, what is the point of boundaries?
Because of this belief, my behavior changed. I spoke without filtering. I misread situations badly. I crossed lines I would never have crossed when I was well. Afterwards, I felt confused and ashamed, but even that shame became part of the delusion—I believed it was proof that I was being watched, judged, or tested.
Looking back now, I can see how distorted my thinking was, but at the time, it was airtight. Any attempt by others to correct me felt like deception or denial. I thought they were part of the same system I was trapped in. That belief isolated me completely.
What helped was not someone arguing me out of it, but someone helping me slow down enough to question it. As my illness was treated and my thoughts became quieter, cracks appeared in the certainty. I began to notice moments where the belief didn’t quite hold. Those moments were terrifying at first—because letting go of the delusion meant admitting how unwell I had been.
Eventually, I understood that what I experienced was a sexual delusion, not a reflection of my values or my desires. It was my mind trying to make sense of fear, vulnerability, and loss of control by attaching meaning to the body.
That distinction saved me. It allowed me to feel remorse without self-hatred, responsibility without condemnation, and hope without denial. I learned that psychosis can hijack the most private parts of a person’s identity—and that recovery means reclaiming them, slowly and gently.
I am better off today, and for that I thank my doctor, who never took advantage of me sexually but realised my mind needed delicate care than others on the ward
🍀🍀🍀🍀🍀🍀🍀🍀🍀🍀In retrospect,
Account listened to,
Documented by Dr Owoeye Oluwatobi Ajibola
Culled from my book Psychiatrist’s reflective pearls
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