The Link Between Telepathy & Mental Illness in Fiction

Superheroes, often deemed superhuman, are still people (omitting, of course, those who happen to be aliens, other-dimensional immigrants, and/or celestial beings). Putting on a mask (with a few notable exceptions) doesn’t magically immunize one from the realities of being human. Batman pays taxes, right? (Allegedly.*) Spider-Man’s got ninety-nine problems, and more than a handful are innately girl-related. (Hang in there, bud. You, too, Gwen.**) Even Storm, one of the X-Men’s most formidable members, is plagued by crippling claustrophobia, arguably the oldest and most persistent foe in her rogues’ gallery, one she’s battled as frequently as (and often alongside) any supervillain. Likewise, Green Lantern Jessica Cruz suffers from chronic anxiety, a mindset that directly clashes with her duty as an officer of the most willful fighting corps in the galaxy. Superheroes save lives, yes, but having superpowers rarely grants the possessor a picket-fence life of their own.

On the contrary, the archetypal hero’s day-to-day, though aided by extraordinary abilities, tends to incur the repercussions of such a lifestyle. With great power comes greater consequences; once the dust has settled and the day is saved, there are still bills to pay, destroyed buildings to restore, and bystanders in need of medical attention. And while the majority of that care involves stitching skin and setting bones, what of the wounds that cannot be touched? Superman is capable of saving a crowd from falling debris in a heartbeat, but Clark Kent is no psychologist, and getting through the emotional toll of experiencing such an event is a separate battle entirely. Furthermore, the trauma of that hypothetical crowd is incomparable to the aftermath of one person’s mind being supernaturally accessed (and possibly altered) by another.

*For more info on the Batman tax issue, kindly see Batman Vol. 3 #93 (2020) along with this article for further insight.

**My deepest apologies to Mr. Parker and the Stacey family. The line was right there. (Unlike on that bridge***.)

***I am so sorry.

Exhibit A: David Haller

Telepathy, the ability to read minds, can injure something deeper than skin and bone, causing damage far beyond the reach of the average EMT—the potential to derange an entire personality. David Haller, the long-lost son of Charles Xavier, a.k.a. Professor X, founder of the X-Men and one of Marvel's most powerful telepaths. As a child, David witnesses his godfather being gunned down by a terrorist group, an event that prematurely triggers his telepathic abilities (see New Mutants Vol. 1 #28 [1985]). Acting on instinct, young David psionically (and unwittingly) incinerates the assassins’ minds while simultaneously linking them to his own. In addition to the accidental murder of multiple people, David telepathically experiences their deaths, leaving his psyche in shatters and his mind catatonic. David’s personality splinters into a multitude, including the absorbed consciousness of Jemail Karami (the leader of the terrorist group), with each piece controlling a portion of David’s psychic abilities. These personality fragments eventually come to dub their collective as Legion—the ultimate case of supernatural dissociative identity disorder (DID).

It’s impossible to know whether David would have developed this disorder without the trauma he experienced as a child, as no official material on David’s life before the incident indicates early symptoms of DID. Therefore, it's reasonable to assume the following: in an alternate, terrorist-free world where David’s abilities emerged naturally under far less stressful circumstances, the absence of trauma results in a young telepath of sound mind, gifted with near-limitless potential that develops gradually, granting David the time needed to learn how to harness it. One might push even further than this alternate world to consider a fundamental concept: had Charles Xavier’s prodigal son never inherited the X-gene, would David Haller have developed DID at all?

Credit: Susan Wilkinson via unsplash.com

Can't forget about Jean Grey(s)

Another X-Man’s origin is eerily similar. When ten-year-old Jean Grey witnesses her best friend Annie Richardson being hit by a car, the shock activates Jean’s telepathic abilities, allowing her to inadvertently slip into her friend’s mind as she dies. Grieving from the experience while trying to accommodate the new voices in her head, the future Marvel Girl withdraws from the world and sinks into depression. Regular psychology does little to address the unprecedented nature of her trauma, but young Jean is eventually introduced to her future mentor, Charles Xavier, who assists by temporarily suppressing her telepathy (to be returned once she's deemed mature enough to handle the responsibility). The more recent Jean Grey Vol. 1 (2017) solo series retells the story with Annie Richardson’s death leaving Jean comatose (just like David Haller), but every version of Jean’s backstory has her telepathy subdued by Professor X for the same reasons.

Featured in Brian Michael Bendis and Stuart Immonen's All-New X-Men Vol. 1 (2012), an alternate version of Jean Grey is pulled from the past into the present along with the other four original X-Men members, and the stress of future knowledge—including Jean’s own death(s)—snaps Professor X’s suppression, and the time-displaced Jean accesses telepathy a year earlier than in her original timeline. Initially overwhelmed, the teen ultimately learns to merge telepathy with telekinesis in a way previous versions of the character never did—although, with no Xavier available to guide her on the moral responsibilities of being a telepath, there are a few learning curves. This younger version has her questionable moments, but despite her dark destiny/history, Jean Grey as a whole is generally considered a benevolent force with a fairly healthy respect for the minds of others.

Of many other telepaths, the same cannot be said.

Physical vs. mental boundaries

Supervillains, even non-mind readers, tend to display characteristics associated with narcissistic personality disorder: lack of empathy, rocky relationships, delusions of grandeur, and a hunger for reverence—often all rooted in a fragile self-esteem. Toss telepathy into this melting pot, and it’s a recipe for questionable ethics. From mega-baddies like George Lucas’s Supreme Leader Snoke to the reformed Emma Frost, former White Queen of the Hellfire Club, most telepaths walk into minds with nary a second thought (pun intended). For others, like Stephenie Meyer’s Edward Cullen, it’s more reflex than choice.

Toward the late noughties, tweens worldwide were completely taken by the sparkly vampire’s obsession with Bella Swan, but in today’s consent-conscious climate, a latecomer to Twilight (2005) may not be so inclined. When Edward—a self-proclaimed masochist and Bella’s senior by a hundred or so years—fails to break the boundaries of a seventeen-year-old’s mind, he sneaks into her bedroom to observe this girl anomaly in her sleep, not once, but on a semi-regular basis. A century of involuntary eavesdropping on people’s thoughts may be a forgivable quirk, but breaking and entering is a choice. The aforementioned Jean Grey has toed a similar line of moral ambiguity, wiping friends’ memories without consent or consultation to suit what she considers to be the greater good. And if telepathy has the potential to amplify an egomaniacal mindset, blurring the black-and-white line between the White Queen and Jean Grey into something grayer (also intended), can it also create such a mindset, or any other instability of the mind, from scratch?

In other words, is the use of telepathy alone enough to impair the user’s original psychology?

Analyzing the aftermath

Obviously, as no scientific data exists to support a satisfactory answer, inquiring minds are left to rely on conjecture. In a Venn diagram of telepathy and mental illness, a hypothetical pattern should appear—a more compelling argument, however, may be found through check-ups on telepathic targets. At its core, telepathy is invasive. The ethical outcry gains volume when invasion crosses into modification, as there’s a big difference between privacy and free will. Granted, not every instance of mind control is intentional. Smallville’s (2001) sixth season features Chloe Sullivan’s mother (and Wonder Woman lookalike) whose Kryptonite-infected ability allows her to compel others at will. She recalls, years earlier, ordering her daughter to scrub ink off her hands, only to find Chloe much later, still scrubbing, her skin bloodied and raw. Understanding the danger of her abilities, Moira Sullivan commits herself to a mental institution to prevent further accidental damage.

Similarly, the residents of Westview are bycatch in Wanda Maximoff’s reality-warping net, but in her defense, the protagonist of WandaVision (2021) never planned to have a mental breakdown. The Scarlet Witch has notoriously suffered many throughout Marvel’s source material, often to the detriment of countless others and/or the entire world (see Avengers Disassembled (2004), House of M (2005), and Decimation (2005) for said detriment). However, when Vision lifts Wanda’s hex off his co-worker, the fact of the matter becomes clear. “She’s in my head,” the terrified co-worker explains. “None of it is my own. […] It hurts so much.” In the end, Wanda undoes the hex, but the lasting effects on the townsfolk, if any, are not widely shown—save for one. Captain Monica Rambeau of S.W.O.R.D., initially introduced to viewers as one of the victims cast in Wanda’s sitcom universe, gets super cool energy powers.

Post-brainwash

Jessica Jones, on the other hand, gets PTSD. Unlike Wanda Maximoff’s grief-stricken preternatural outburst, the Purple Man’s eight-month-long hold over Marvel’s most relatable private eye is profoundly sinister and by no means an accident. Along with granting him control over others in his immediate vicinity, the pheromones secreted from Zebediah Killgrave’s skin give it a purple tinge, thus the inventive codename. Though more hormonal than neurological, Killgrave's voice carries the same power as any telepathic command. Worse still, according to Jones's chilling account in Alias Vol. 1 #25 (2003), the gritty Bendis and Michael Gaydos-helmed comic that debuted the super-normal superheroine, thoughts planted by the Purple Man feel no different than one’s own. On top of coming to terms with the heinous acts she carried out under his control, a post-Killgrave Jessica Jones has to accept that the only reason she “loves” her abuser is because he told her to. And even then, as those diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder can surely attest to, knowing that something isn’t real doesn’t help much when the brain believes it is. Telepathy, in this context, is an unfathomable violation that poses a significant risk to a victim’s psychology, and, sadly, Zebediah Killgrave is not the only villain known to toy with the minds of others.

On top of the heinous acts she was forced to do, Jessica Jones has to accept the only reason she "loves" her abuser is because he told her to.

Not so black and white

Featuring the plight of four secret aliens and their human classmates, the TV series Roswell (1999) distinguished itself from fellow late-nineties teen dramas with a literal star-crossed lovers trope, X-Files-esque conspiracies, and an epic Dido title sequence. Tess Harding is introduced in the latter half of season one as a suspected enemy, eventually settling into the group as an amicable rival. The dynamic shifts again with the death of Alex Whitman, initially ruled a suicide due to his manic behavior hours before, but later, [SPOILER ALERT] the shocking season two finale reveals Tess as the true killer. Cause of death? Tess’s ability to warp minds. Desperate to return to her home planet, Tess has Alex decode an alien instruction manual without his consent or knowledge, and the months-long task withers his very human mental faculties. Distraught and fragmented, Alex confronts Tess after a mild encounter triggers the memory of her damaging manipulation. “I might as well be dead,” he tells her, and when she tries to repair his mind and memories with more warping, Alex’s brain simply gives out. The plot unravels as other mind-warped characters begin glitching, recalling deleted memories as their fingers tap an unconscious rhythm—a pattern Alex would often strum against his guitar.

Whether the warps weaken naturally with time, crack under the pressure of external probing or fail due to Tess’s own overexertion, hints of their deterioration are cleverly sprinkled throughout the season whose final episode brilliantly portrays the tragic fragility of the mind: a boy brought to that edge and the girl willing to push for the sake of a perceived “greater good”. In the trope of juvenile telepaths, Tess Harding is a worst-case scenario, an antithesis to the white-hatted Jean Grey, and a cautionary tale of the unintentional murderer.

Magical maladies

As to whether telepathy can be used with the precise intention to damage a mind, the magical universe of Harry Potter (novel series, 1997; movie series, 2001) offers a resounding abso-freaking-lutely. While the phrase “mind-reading” is considered rudimentary in J. K. Rowling’s Wizarding World, the craft of Legilimency is, in essence, Rowling’s magical take on telepathy. Upon this and various other spells and enchantments, the vast complexities of the mind—and its limitations—impress a practical influence.

Often regarded as one of the greatest Legilimens, He Who Must Not Be Named has an alleged history of torturing victims into literal madness via this technique, prolonging their torment until the brink of death. Similarly, the Imperius Curse, one of three Unforgivable Curses frequently used by You Know Who’s flock of Death Eaters, functions much like traditional mind control, placing a person under the influence of the caster. Bartemius Crouch Senior and Junior, as well as the Muggle politician Herbert Chortley all display signs of mental deterioration after being Imperiused for a prolonged period. The latter’s somewhat comical impersonation of a duck (and subsequent admittance to St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries) is accredited to a botched attempt of the curse, and Herbert Chortley is not the only person to be driven mad by magical mishap.

Memory charms, when performed properly, are difficult, though not impossible, to break. Even an attempt to undo these charms can devastate body and mind, as seen with Ministry of Magic employee Bertha Jorkins, who is left with very little of her mind intact after YKW does exactly that. Set within the margins of our reality, the Wizarding World and its magic system are rooted in legends and occult philosophies explored during the Renaissance period, and thus it can be reasoned that they would adhere to certain physical principles. Therefore, assuming that Memory Charms latch onto the hippocampus, the region of the brain where memory is stored, an attempt to detach this charm could resemble a page being ripped from a book. (Youch.)

All this to say that even—and especially—with magic involved, the human mind can only be stretched, hexed, torn, and twisted so far before something irrevocably snaps.

Dangerous minds

On the flip side of telepathy, the user’s mind is linked to a vast network that, depending on the context, exposes them to a massive pool of information. Given the complexities of the average brain, navigation is bound to be tricky, and if that terrain happens to be scathed, diseased, or mentally unstable, even trickier. The concept of a visual topography of the mind is explored in Stranger Things (2016) through main character El (short for Eleven), the daughter of an MKUltra test subject and, as such, a psychokinetic powerhouse. Inside an array of abilities, the most predominantly used being telekinesis, El’s extra-sensory perception (ESP) extends beyond that of generic telepathy, bypassing superficial thought to land directly at the subconscious. El is shown this method through her mother (who exhibits at least a portion of her daughter’s ESP) when she invites El into her own distorted memory bank. In later seasons, El attempts the technique again, this time on an enemy. It works, but at a price: by reaching into Billy Hargrove’s mind (one trapped within a collective under the control of an other-worldly entity dubbed “The Mindflayer”, later revealed to be a creation of Vecna, the show’s ultimate antagonist), El inadvertently exposes her physical location and is briefly imprisoned within her own mind.

Throughout the show, El displays signs of exhaustion, both mental and physical, including the character’s notorious nosebleeds, sustained from exorbitant use of her abilities. This visual cause and effect suggests that Eleven’s powers demand a physical cost, one she is charged at every world-saving season finale. The final episode of season three sees El utilize her abilities to the very brink, seemingly severing her connection to them for good. However, the following season hails the return of Dr. Brenner, the man essentially responsible for Eleven’s abilities and whose selfish exploitation of the extraordinarily gifted unfortunately makes him an expert on those abilities. Whether Brenner’s very particular child-rearing methods accelerated the strength and range of El’s natural telekinesis and telepathy (or whether these methods activated them in the first place) is up for debate; the fact is, her powers are restored through his intervention.

It’s also worth noting that Brenner’s mere reintroduction into El’s life, combined with the protocols she endured as a child test subject (having her head shaved, being confined under guard inside a government facility) may have sparked the initial re-emergence of El’s latent telekinesis. Perhaps the most upsetting feature of Stranger Things (2016) is Dr. Brenner himself, and the idea that without his hand in El’s upbringing, she may very well have lived an ordinary life, free of the accompanying trauma of her talents that may or may not have manifested naturally—and with only the occasional bloody nose.

The human factor

Other noteworthy side-effects of telepathy usage range from chronic headaches—as experienced by Matt Parkman in Heroes (2006)—to the full-blown agoraphobia of Simon Phillips, who featured in a single episode of J.J. Abrams’ sci-fi drama Fringe (2008). A perfect example of the brain’s limitations, Simon’s telepathic abilities force him into complete isolation from society due to the pain of automatically perceiving the thoughts of anyone in close proximity. Moreover, the brain ages. For the average person, to lose control of one's mind, whether through natural decline or disease, is tragic. For a telepath, it’s dangerous.

James Mangold’s Logan (2017) explores this concept through an ageing Charles Xavier in a bleak, feels-like-but-isn’t-a-post-apocalyptic future. In this timeline, Professor X suffers from “fits” that send unrestrained psychic waves beyond his body, trapping those nearby in a telepathic blast radius. While the specific event isn’t shown, it’s strongly implied that one such fit wiped out the absentee X-Men in the film, leaving Wolverine—thanks to his healing factor—the sole survivor. Assuming this is a form of dementia or some other decline of the mind, this portrayal suggests that the telepathic aspect of Professor X’s brain had become “unshackled” as a result of the degradation, leaving his power to run amok without the control center of a healthy brain. And without control—without fully functioning mental faculties—telepathy has no emergency switch, save for powering off the user.

For the average person, to lose control of one's mind is tragic; for a telepath, it's dangerous.

The capacity of the human brain, while inconceivable to itself, is physically finite. While modern science has made waves in mapping the human brain, its full extent has yet to be fully defined. However, as with anything in this reality, a finite limit must exist, whether definable or not. The brain is like a computer, and like all computers, it requires a specific amount of power to function efficiently. The higher the output, the more power is needed to maintain stability, though human beings (most of them, anyway) are not naturally equipped for power upgrades. Despite an ability to hear thoughts, telepathic humans are still bound by the same biological constraints as their ordinary, non-powered peers. On any given day, the average mind may struggle under the weight of its internal dialogue, and if this alone can lead to cognitive overload or psychological distress—including anxiety, depression and “pathological symptoms”—then the idea of exposure to external dialogue is not just overwhelming, but the potential damage of such a phenomenon is simply incalculable.

Beyond the scope of thought

And if external thoughts have the capacity to cause devastation, what of feelings? Similar to telepathy, empathy is the ability to feel others' emotions, which are more nuanced and arguably more potent than thoughts. Empaths, therefore, stand to suffer even greater consequences. Many fictional empaths struggle to perceive the surrounding anguish and suffering—from Raven, original and current member of DC’s Titans Vol. 4 (2023), whose personality problems affect her empathic dexterity in recent issues, to Charmed’s (1999) Prue Halliwell, who temporarily acquires the “gift” of empathy in season three’s "Primrose Empath", which both affects her mental state and augments the eldest Halliwell's telekinetic powers beyond her control. Unlike telepaths, who can at least differentiate between external voices and their own, empaths may struggle to identify their own objectivity within an emotional soup mix.

Conversely, what are the potential effects on the user’s psyche when feeling extends into manipulation? Life-altering, according to Zeb Wells, writer of Marvel’s Hellions Vol. 1 (2020), featuring Manuel de la Rocha, aptly codenamed Empath for his emotion-controlling mutant powers. When asked about the effects of these powers on the character, Wells explains, “He never had to face emotional consequences for his behavior when he was younger. [Empath] could make people react however he wanted them to. So he never got good data from the world. He’s completely warped.” Similar to David Haller’s backstory, this supports the theory that prepubescent extra-sensory abilities have lasting effects on a person’s psychology, and this problem potentially extends beyond mere mental or emotional connection. Absorbing any aspect of another human being, be it thoughts, feelings, or even whole identities, has dire consequences.

Identity crisis

Identity absorption pulls aspects of another's personality into the user, and, depending on the context, may or may not be permanent. The origin story of X-Men's Rogue involves the unintentional theft of Ms. Marvel’s powers and consciousness, a canon event that leaves the latter in a coma for years. Rogue’s ability to absorb powers, memories, and even personality traits through touch is one of the most extreme cases of psychic overload and a clear example of how taking on another’s psyche can have lasting consequences on both user and victim. A comparable case is that of Heroes’ (2006) Peter Petrelli. Absorbing powers through proximity rather than touch, Peter accumulates countless abilities throughout the show’s run, which leads to emotional instability and subsequent power suppression altogether—hinting at the brain’s finite capacity to process external input. When Matt Parkman, the show’s primary telepath, attempts to read Peter’s mind, it creates a painful feedback loop as Peter absorbs Matt’s telepathy and reads his own thoughts rebounded in Matt's mind. (Read it again, I dare you.) In addition to taking on Matt’s chronic headaches, Peter experiences coughing and sweating before his body eventually gives out, unable to cope after the powers start adding up during part one of the first season.

While Peter's experience highlights the physical toll of airborne absorption, iZombie (2015) takes a more gruesome avenue. Recently deceased main character Liv Moore is forced to survive on human brain matter that she manages to procure through her position as a medical examiner. Though not empathic in the conventional sense, her ability to experience the memories and personality traits of her cadavers presents a unique take on, ahem, identity absorption. Each experience affects Liv’s emotional and psychological state as she temporarily adopts the personality traits of her dinner, demonstrating the psychological impact of even transient absorption of any aspect of another’s psyche, even a dead one. Ethically, this portrayal raises basic concerns (cannibalism, bodily theft), but while eating brains to prevent becoming a mindless, ravaging zombie softens the moral dilemma, it does touch on the complex issues faced by those able to perceive—and take on—the mental and emotional states of others.

Sans ethics committee

Figures like Empath, the Purple Man, and even well-meaning Mantis of Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy can all mold psychological states like a child with putty, personifying the violation of autonomy that, again, raises the question: where is the line between benevolent influence and outright violation, and is it at all possible to prevent it from being crossed?

Skillfully tip-toeing along this tightrope is the Yamanaka Clan of Naruto (manga series, 1999; anime series, 2002), whose Mind Transfer Jutsu (the act of swapping consciousness with another, granting the user command of the target's body and deeper consciousness while the target is knocked unconscious within the user's body) casually borders on psychic theft. Though neither the manga nor the anime explicitly depicts the technique being used malevolently, with its primary use being intelligence gathering and battlefield strategy for the good guys, its very nature is problematic at best when analyzing through this investigative lens, as the potential for abuse remains inherent in the technique itself. When used by corrupted characters, psychologically invasive abilities are particularly prone to parasitism (say it five times faster): intoxicating the user, violating the target, and destabilizing both. A sinister example of such an entity is Marvel’s Shadow King, a being of pure psychic infestation that resides on the astral plane, burrowing into unsuspecting minds and feasting on consciousness.

Reality bites

As for a means of protection from such a parasite, barring the development of armor akin to Emma Frost’s impenetrable diamond form, S. L. Huang’s Zero Sum Game (2014) offers this advice: “To avoid being vulnerable to telepathy, become a psychopath.” Though lightly cynical, this remark opens the door to analyzing telepathy as a literary device, i.e. the concept of hearing voices reconstructed as a metaphor for mental illness. Many telepathic characters wrestle with their powers in ways that echo the experiences of the mentally ill, though whether this parallel is intentional remains open to debate, and likely varies between writers. Tied to this is the common and unsettling trope of ESP characters being temporarily institutionalized, both to create dramatic tension that causes the audience to doubt a story’s established reality, as well as possibly alluding to the historical treatment of people with schizophrenia and other psychiatric conditions. For much of history, those who experienced things outside the accepted norm were dismissed, locked away, and/or cruelly treated—a theme mirrored through characters like David Haller, a telepath who is constantly unsure whether his experiences are a result of his psychology or his mutant powers. The Legion (2017) TV series—featuring aforementioned mental parasite, the Shadow King—examines this question in a surreal, often visually distorted manner, where the viewer is left to question along with David: ability or a disability?

Final thoughts

Telepathy and related abilities, both as superpowers and narrative devices, should always be wielded with caution, as their effects on both the target and the user are often irrevocable. Then again, the same could be said for childhood trauma. The portrayals of telepathy, empathy, and their use as devices of manipulation in various forms of media highlight the precarious balance between connection and autonomy, echoing real-world concerns about mental health and the ethical complexities of one individual exerting power over another. Can it ever be determined whether or not telepathy is a path to mental illness? Unlikely, since the ability to read minds (so far as modern science can tell) does not exist outside of fiction—for which, all users of any medium of story should be grateful.

What do you think? (Assuming, of course, those are your thoughts ...)

Featured image credit: Susan Wilkinson via unsplash.com