I don't remember exactly when the hallucinations began, but I do remember the first time I was in a ball on the floor crying my eyes out because of all the flames and screams, which apparently only I could see.
My dad found me. I don't know how I would've pulled through if he hadn't been there telling me it would all be okay. That I was going to be fine. That everything would be fine. Afterwards he kept bugging me about seeing a doctor or a psychiatrist or a priest or someone, anyone, who could help me with the horrible images in my mind. At first, I wasn't very keen on the idea. I didn't like the hallucinations, but I didn't like been told I was sick either. I didn't feel sick at all.
But as the hallucinations got increasingly worse, and my dad kept reassuring me I was just reliving some childhood trauma and any person with Ph.d would be able to fix me right up, I finally went and had a talk with my doctor.
He told me it was post-traumatic stress syndrome. That I was experiencing it due to the horrible car crash my parents died in when I was a kid.
He gave me some medicine and the hallucinations went away. And so did my dad.