How a Car Accident Saved My Life

By LAF
Do You Have An X-Ray To Prove It?

I’m 47 years old, was diagnosed with bipolar around age 25 and ADHD at age 44. Last week I learned that I have the triad: bipolar, ADHD and OCD. For twenty-four years after college I held nine jobs before I became disabled at the age of 44. 

Receiving a diagnosis didn’t change who I was, but it explained a lot. I was overwhelmed yet empowered by the information. I was always told that my behavior, thoughts and words were wrong, and I agreed. I was taken to the doctor twice in my teens for being depressed. Both doctors just said to relax. Now I want to scream from the highest peak, “I have the answer! Maybe now I can change!” But, that’s not how everyone else saw it. Some of the first responses I got were, “Do you have an x-ray to prove it?” and, “The doctor is just trying to get money out of you. Stop taking the medication.”

One of the first aggressive episodes that I can remember was at age 13. I punched a boy and he fell to the floor. I remember an incredible feeling of uneasiness beginning that school year. 

Sophomore year in high school I punched the kid sitting in front of me. My moods were very erratic. I was a quiet student one moment, a raging tornado the next. Words were my most powerful weapons. I spoke before thoughts had a chance to be processed. My insides spun like a hamster wheel. If I wasn’t scared, I had the confidence of Super Girl.

In college I felt progressively worse as I matured and held more responsibilities. I didn’t understand my anger, confusion and almost constant anxiety. I had explosive arguments wherever I went. 

By the age of 20, I was a college graduate and in the workforce. I was very independent and successful at work, but my anxiety and confusion hit a new peak. Everything was thrilling and overbearing at the same time. The obsessiveness was in control. My stomach spun just as fast as the thoughts in my head. People were calling me crazy to my face and behind my back. I agreed with them. 

At the age of 23, I had a car accident that indirectly led me to mental health treatment. I never should have been behind the wheel of a car. I had no intention of being reckless, but I wasn’t being safe either. The car spun around a few times, flipped over and landed on its side. I simply crawled out of the car and waited for the police. 

The orthopedic doctor I saw asked why I was on valium, and handed me the business card of a psychiatrist.

I was originally treated for depression before the diagnosis of bipolar. Once the right combinations of meds were found, I felt for the first time like I had support. I’ve been in treatment with medications ever since. My illness is always with me, but I am better at maintaining my life. If not for that car accident I don’t know where I would be.  

There are people who don’t believe that I have a mental illness. A few weeks ago when I was confiding how I felt, someone said to me, “No. That didn’t happen, you never said that before, that’s not ADHD.” If I had thought to give a report of my daily life for all these years would they still question me?

If I was to “report” the events of an average day it might go like this: “I had an argument with you today in my office. Luckily I realized that you weren’t there before someone walked in and caught me. I think the fire alarm above my desk might be a camera. When I left, I thought the toaster might be on so I went back. After I was in my car I thought the light was on, so I went back. On the way home I ended up in New Bedford. I thought I didn’t lock the gate, so I went back. Home now. Did I spell-check the last document that I emailed? I have to go drive around the block because I may have I hit something.”

Even without complete acceptance (or an x-ray), I’m thankful for my doctor, medications, support group, volunteering, hobbies and the love of my family that allows me to maintain my life with mental illness.

The Challenge of Mornings

By Rebecca Sande
And They Say It Could Be Worse

People always say that things could be worse. I am quite sure that indeed they could be. To some people who see me, I seem to have it all together. To the few who know the real me, even though I have a home and small support system, I sometimes feel like this is the worst. 

My name is Rebecca. I have two wonderful sons, and I suffer from severe mental health issues. My illnesses range from MDD (major depressive disorder) and OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) to DID (dissociative identity disorder) and schizoaffective disorder. Some days are great and I love being the quirky person that I am, while other days are lower than low, and I just do not want to exist at all. It’s easy for someone on the outside looking in to think that things aren’t as bad as I might say, but for me it’s not like that at all. 

It starts out with just getting up in the morning. For some people, this is something you just do without much thought. For me, there are days when I have to fight myself to get out of bed and start my day. There are days when I compromise with myself and go back to bed after I do what I have to. Some days I wake up and begin the day with little effort at all. 

Once the early morning struggle is over and I am semi-exhausted with myself, I have another struggle ahead of me, which is eating. First, I must have my black coffee. Once that first cup is in me, I may try to eat (a battle I sometimes lose). The mental struggle of what should be a simple no-brainer has now turned into a duty. Soon after follows a bout of OCD and the accompanying anxiety: checking locks, lights, doors, appointments, phone, computer and anything else my obsessive little thoughts can find. It is only 10 A.M. and I am already dreading my day.

And now, a little bit about my attempts to go out in public. Let's talk about the voices in my head that yammer before I’ve even left home, the worry of the social mocking that is sure to come just from going out. What about the people who will stare at me? What about the whisperings? What if someone follows me? What if there is a horrible catastrophe? All of this and only one foot out of the front door. Meanwhile, the logical side of me fights and screams that I have to get the shopping done, or go pay that electric bill, and no one will even notice me (it would be nice if I could believe that).
This is why I have to start leaving an hour or two before I have to be somewhere. I do not drive myself anymore because I have a horrible fear that I will be the cause of some major accident, so I take the bus. Some days the bus is the safest place to blend in with my surroundings, but typically, not so much. 

Despite all of the daily challenges I face, I let a smile be my armor. It’s not especially easy for me to do so on days when I just want to give up. Despite the people who see me and say things could be worse, I face every day with a new hope that the next day has to be a little better.

I take my medicine and go to therapy like I am supposed to and it truly helps. No one would look at an elderly person and tell them to get over being old. So, I hope one day we all get to the point when we stop telling each other it could be worse and we start making it better.

Bruni in the City: Friends Until the End…or Until Next Tuesday?

A Column by Christina Bruni
Breaking Up with Buddies is Hard to Do Too

Caroline was a daisy in my life—like a springtime flower that brought joy. She suddenly disappeared after a few years in the early 2000s under mysterious circumstances. Yes—I let her go without trying to get her back.

Carny was the college buddy whose friendship I chronicled in my memoir, Left of the Dial. We drifted apart after I was shunted into “the system” and didn’t get back together after that.

Margot—the mental health buddy also of Left of the Dial fame is still in my life though from afar. She lives in year-round sunshine and sends me postcards from her kitchen table.

Y. was the true-blue friend I bonded with for a number of years until, through my own doing, the friendship came undone. It’s possible that I failed to call her back when she invited me to dinner for my birthday. How’s that for a friend? 

I tell you loyal readers: no matter what’s going on in your life, reach out to a person who reaches out to you. Make the effort instead of thinking of yourself. Don’t send them a cheery refrigerator magnet in the mail one year later and think that suffices.

My friendship with Y. ended in January 2007 because of my own actions. As if my antics before then weren’t enough, she, like all my friends from the taupe 1990s is gone.

My friend DJ is a forever-friend even though I haven’t seen him in years. He was my Best. Friend. Ever. Still is. He moved to Atlantic City.

My “five friends theory” goes like this: you can count on one hand the number of good friends most people have. I have three friends hovering in my life now.

We should all run far away from negative people who tend to bring us down. I call them energy vampires.

DJ and I once sat in a Vietnamese restaurant in Bay Ridge. He told me: “You and I see things differently. We think differently.” 
Break bread with people. I’m able to relate to people from different walks of life. I don’t care about age or race or income. In this way, a person’s status in society doesn’t matter to me. I’ve had friends of all stripes and I will continue to have friends of all stripes. You have to see beyond appearance and listen to people and understand them. We’re all human beings doing the best we can with what we’re given. On the inside, where it counts, a lot of us are hurting. See what you can do to lighten another person’s load.
Envy serves no purpose except to make you miserable and keep you stuck. Other people have been turned off when I tell them I’m a librarian and own a co-op. As soon as I say this, they refuse to meet me.

C’mon, it’s 2017. We should be honoring and embracing each other’s individuality. It matters only whether a person is kind and caring, not whether they have something that you don’t have. Focus on going after what you can do and be and have in your life.
Truly, I’m most happy hanging out with other creative people, whether it’s hosting a dinner party in my apartment or meeting others at a poetry reading.

My artist’s statement is written thus: I act as a Chief Joy Officer to create things of beauty to share with others to make them feel good.
The more you can spread good vibes, the better you’ll be able to attract great friends into your life. You deserve to have a life of meaning.

In the end, each of us has to be a good friend to ourselves even when other people aren’t kind to us. It comes down to having self-compassion so that we can have compassion for other people.
What matters most is that each of us has the grace of kindness to shower the people we meet with love. Love is all you need—it’s so true. And it’s what the world needs now more than ever.

We should love our friends and be happy they’re in our lives. For as long as our friends are here we should be grateful. We should let them go when they’re supposed to leave.

Let My People Go! A Call to Action

Let My People Go! A Call to Action

By Suzanne Gruer, Former Resident of an Adult Home

The Warehousing of Our Peers Must End

Almost five years ago, I was fortunate to leave the Garden of Eden adult home in which I resided for close to that long. My move from that adult home to the supported housing apartment in which I now reside was a one-time occurrence. Thousands of adult home residents today are less fortunate. They desperately want out. Yet few residents are escaping.

Current adult home residents are desperate to move for the same reasons I was: unsafe and unsanitary living conditions, theft, rancid food, compulsory program attendance, forced and unnecessary medical procedures, punitive hospitalizations, and suffering of all of the above in coerced silence. The owner of Garden of Eden was known for ordering residents to perform tasks for his benefit. Indeed, he once called me to his office to demand that I throw out the remains of his gourmet meal after he dined. Fearing he would hospitalize me if I refused, I complied.

Shortly thereafter, a social worker from the mental health day treatment program I was coerced to attend, in cahoots with a psychiatrist friend, completed an HRA 2010E application for supported housing on my behalf. In less than two months I moved into my airy, sunlit apartment. One month later the social worker lost her job.

Most residents were not as fortunate as I. They had no way out. Adult home owners conspire with day treatment and mental health providers to portray their residents as victims incapable of caring for themselves in a supported apartment milieu. I entered Garden of Eden ready to work so I could move out and rent my own place. Instead of working, I was forced to attend a day treatment program. I sat in that program for close to five years of my life. I now view those years as five wasted years, time I can never get back. Shortly after I moved I obtained employment, proving that I could have worked long before I moved into my apartment.

Frustration has been mounting over the inhumane warehousing of people with mental illness and other disabling conditions for many years. This frustration led to the 1999 Supreme Court decision, Olmstead v. L.C., in which the Court ruled that under Title II of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), individuals with disabilities are entitled to live in communities of their choosing, rather than in institutions, so they can become integrated, fully participating members of their communities.

In 2003, Disability Rights New York (then Disability Advocates Inc. or DAI), the Bazelon Center for Mental Health Law, the Urban Justice Center’s Mental Health Project, MFY Legal Services, New York Lawyers for the Public Interest, and pro bono counsel Paul, Weiss, Rifkind, Wharton & Garrison LLP filed a class-action lawsuit challenging the adult home industry’s illegal warehousing of approximately 4,000 individuals with serious mental illness in New York City. In 2009, they prevailed in a five-week federal court trial. In 2012, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit vacated that ruling on the grounds that the class representative, DAI, did not have standing to represent the class. In other words, the Court stated the class needed to be represented by actual residents living in adult homes.

The case was refiled as O'Toole vs. Cuomo. In 2013, a settlement was reached that required New York State to provide a multi-step, five-year process to transfer potentially over 4,000 adults with mental illness to supported apartments from adult homes.

The first step in this process is “in-reach,” during which housing contractors send representatives into adult homes to ask residents if they want to be assessed. Only about half of the 4,000 class members have expressed a desire to be assessed, largely because of poor “in-reach” and adult home practices that inhibit free discussion, such as lack of privacy to speak with in-reach workers.

Assessment is the second step. Although there are delays at each step, and the State of New York is performing poorly throughout the process, the most significant and alarming delay is at assessment. Because the State has neglected to enforce its contract with Transitional Services for New York, Inc. (TSI), a backlog of over 800 people waiting for assessment has persisted for more than a year. Of the 2,200 adult home residents who have expressed interest in moving to supported housing, approximately 500 residents have actually moved to community apartments over the past three years. A large part of the delay seems to be due to the insufficient staffing of the evaluation team. TSI employs only four people to conduct evaluations of adult home residents who wish to move into apartments in the community.

Both the assessment of a resident and a resident’s Human Resources Administration (HRA) approval (the third step) expire after twelve months. For some residents, there are issues that are never resolved such as assessment discrepancies resulting in either the assessment or the HRA approval timing out. This forces the resident to re-initiate the transition process after they have been expecting to move for at least a year.

The last steps in the transition process are housing contractor referrals and interviews, apartment viewing, apartment selection, moving to an apartment, and coordinating the appropriate services to help each resident to succeed in the community. These steps are conducted poorly as well, with residents often lacking services when they move.

The multistep process is bad. Yet bad has become worse. Over the past two years, more than 1,000 people with serious mental illness have been newly admitted into the impacted adult homes, contrary to the State’s unenforced regulations prohibiting such admissions.

In February 2017, a complex legal situation arose when the State colluded with the adult home industry to challenge the regulations for, and ultimately undo, the settlement.

On March 22^nd, the Coalition of Institutionalized Aged and Disabled (CIAD) spoke out in Albany against all this. This group of residents and allies works to advocate for the 5,000 residents trapped in adult homes. Simultaneously, plaintiffs’ counsel took legal action seeking to uphold the settlement.

Recently, in the comfort of my supported apartment, on my own couch, I watched a newsflash about NYC schoolchildren being fed rancid school lunches and the ensuing outrage. For years as an adult home resident I had no couch on which to sit and had to eat the rancid food served. Last night I cooked myself fresh chicken soup because I felt like it, all the while wondering: Where is the outrage concerning how adult home residents are made to suffer; about how I was made to suffer? Adult home residents, for the most part, are not viewed as the people we are; rather, adult home owners see us as objects that are mere conduits for profit. Most others don’t see us at all.

Note: To find the best way to get involved, please contact Geoff Lieberman of CIAD, at (212) 481-7572, or glieberman@ciadny.org

My Mental Health Journey: Mirroring Success Through the Eyes of a Relationship

My Mental Health Journey: Mirroring Success Through the Eyes of a Relationship
A Column by J. Alfreda
Success is Obtained by Letting Go of the Toxic Pieces
Our relationship has been strained at best, a really rocky road. It’s a love/hate relationship that borders on psychosis. But, in the final analysis, I am the one who knows her best. She is the closest person to me. She is me.
There was a pouring of rain on our already strained relationship. You see, I have schizophrenia, bipolar type, which onset at age 20. Many voices and much pain have infiltrated my mind over the past 35 years. I have just arrived at a place of readiness to accept this illness as mine.
You might possibly think it’s strange that it took me so long, but I have always thought of my illness as another entity, an alter-ego, an arch nemesis. I refused to see myself as a whole person. My war had an enemy though I couldn’t see that the enemy was unintentionally me. Success would start with forging my “selves” and attaining as much peace as possible. 
Schizophrenia is a different realm of reality. You realize what you go through intermittently. But, when you are there, it is real. It is marked by delusions, extreme paranoia, suicidal thoughts, steep highs and lulls of depression in my case.
In the beginning, it was like having my life, mind and soul hollowed out and strewn across the four corners of the Earth in scraps, feeling like I had to travel to each site and retrieve them piece by piece in a zombie state. The disease alienates you from yourself.
Schizophrenia is a useless, evil being who can’t stand in a church for fear of bursting into flames. It is a pimp that bids actions contrary to your will, turning you inside-out. That is, until you fix it.
I walked around in this nightmarish, delusional state for 24 years before a medication was created that I would respond to and not put me in the conveyor-belt-shuffle-mode.
When I was 20, I was sure that by now I would have an engineering firm, a great home, kids, and the whole nine yards, but that hasn’t been in the plan for me. I have barely been able to take care of myself. I did manage to finish college, though on the revolving door plan; one quarter in school, the next in the hospital and so on. I changed my major from chemical engineering to journalism because after the first break, with the tranquilizers I was taking (that was all they had for schizophrenia back then), I found I could not comprehend my coursework anymore. I was in my junior year before the break.
You can imagine why I would rebel against this entity. It has undermined my every opportunity and effort to gain success, but it is a part of me and I have resolved to make myself whole.
After some soul-searching prompts, my first stop was in the gratitude market. You can’t ask the Universe for more without thanking It for what you already have. It just wouldn’t be polite. I bought a gratitude journal in which I write daily those things I am grateful for: past, present and future.
The little things that I appreciate and make me happy fascinate me the most. In my first entry I always thank God for “waking me up this morning clothed in my right mind,” a phrase my grandfather used to say in his prayers, which has taken on a new meaning for me. You can guess why.
I’ve also created a gratitude board somewhat akin to a vision board, visually celebrating all of the things that make me happy, appreciative and that I am thankful for. It has things as frivolous as vintage clothing and jewelry, as marvelous as a multi-hued sunset or a cobalt night sky, and as welcoming as family and all that it entails. It helps me to embrace the positives of my life.
Some would say I lost everything in the deal. It may seem that way from one perspective if viewing my past, but it is far from the truth. In picking up the pieces for the umpteenth time, I discovered me, the whole of myself. I am coming from a natural place, a place of gratitude and love─not someone else’s definition of who I am, or even who I think I am; it is a place of true character.
My true character has been revealed by letting go of the toxic pieces and embracing the positive aspects of my true self. This is how I define success.

Bruni in the City: Finding Mr. Right Now

Bruni in the City: Finding Mr. Right Now
By Christina Bruni
The Guy Showed Up On My Doorstep

Loyal readers, I ask you, is it so hard for any guy to say, "I'd like to take you on a date?" Most likely they fear being rejected. Yet, I don't have a crystal ball. If you like a girl, let her know. Trust me, a modern woman like myself doesn't automatically think "date" when a guy asks her "Do you want to...?"

Christina Bruni

Come right out and say, "I'd like to take you on a date." Old-fashioned, yet totally charming. Don't do it via text or e-mail either. Ask the woman when you see her in person.

At first, I didn't think a guy could like me simply because I had the greatest hard time reeling ‘em in on OKCupid and other dating websites. No guy took my bait, even though I had a gorgeous photo. Then a friend told me a guy liked me, so I decided to reciprocate and see how it would go. I had been blind early on. The more we talked, I got interested in him.

On the Internet, men and women specify a list of acceptable traits they're looking for. Focusing on a checklist, most people rule out potential partners. In the fall, I had decided that I would accept whatever package the guy came to me in. I had quit my involvement with Internet matchmakers at the time I published Left of the Dial.

The deciding factor was that I don't want kids. Online, 50-year old guys were clamoring for a brood—even though the older the father is, there's a greater risk his kids will develop autism, ADHD, or schizophrenia. I couldn't compete with the bevy of women who wanted to breed fast.

Ever since I was a young teen, I knew I did not want to marry or raise a family. My only dream was to live an artist's life in the City. At 50, I'm still a quirky creative gal who lives her life “left of the dial.”

You can imagine my joy and disbelief when the guy arrived in real life like a living breathing checklist. He listens to alternative music and likes to attend poetry readings and comedy clubs. He's a lefty like I am.

There's a fluidity to this right now. I won't force things. What I like most of all is that I met a guy with social graces—he can hold his own and interact with others with ease. The journey is what counts. This is how it is in the modern world—having fun most of all and being a caring companion to the one you're with. I respect that he's an independent spirit like myself.

By fall, I had decided I wanted to attract a guy into my life instead of hunting him down. What luck I had in actually meeting a person who is open-minded and respectful.

It hit me, too, that it's not about what I can get out of things—it's about making the other person feel good. Like Grace Slick sings about wanting and needing somebody to love in the song "Somebody to Love."

Wherever this leads is not the point. The point is that talking with him is better than taking a happy pill. For so long I had to deal with a parade of turkeys trotting through my life. A woman who gave me a psychic reading called the guys I would meet "turkeys." No kidding.

I'm just a girl in the city living her life. The point is that I'm 50 and I got here so I can give readers hope. It's never too late to find joy in living. Today is the greatest day of all. Trust me, you'll get what you want if you're a go-giver, not a go-getter. Focus on what you can give other people.

Black, Christian and Mentally Ill

Black, Christian and Mentally Ill

By Robyn Carrothers

In case you haven't noticed, I'm African American. My people did not ask to come to this country yet it was built on their blood, sweat, tears and backs. I'm proud of the sacrifices that my ancestors made. Therefore, I stand on their shoulders and strengths.

I'm a Christian. I believe you have to accept Jesus as your personal savior. I attend a good church. The people there are very friendly and giving. They also support you when it's needed. They are also very caring. I've gotten a lot of support and love there.

I'm also mentally ill. Yes, I said it. That's the part that gets to everybody. I have to take three pills a day to remain stable. If I don't, I will be in serious trouble. Not to mention, I've been in the hospital five times because of it.

Okay, you think I'm a hot mess and full of contradictions. I am not supposed to be black, Christian and mentally ill. Black and Christian, yes, mentally ill, no. So there is a taboo with that.

Being black and mentally ill is something that black people shy away from. In the black community, some consider it to be weak or retarded. If the illness pops up, yes, they'll say we're crazy. Sometimes, families will not support you. Whispering and talking about it won't make it go away.

In the Christian faith, it's either you get delivered or you're not trusting God. Yes, I would like to be healed. This is my cross to bear. This is the thorn in my flesh. If God chooses to heal me, then that would be good.

These three qualities together seem like a contradiction. Some people will say there is nothing wrong with you. You just need one good piece (if you get my drift). Others feel, this is something you will grow out of.

I try not to think about what people or my family think. My family had a hard time with it at first. When I got a correct diagnosis, they were relieved. Many people feel that I want attention when I have a mental breakdown.

The point I'm trying to make is that it doesn't matter if you're black or Christian. What matters is how you and the people around you take it. Some can be supportive, others will say, “Go away.” I'm not weak, but I'm going to be okay with the support of my family, church, friends and peers.

So I'll hang in there along with this illness, trusting God and hoping this will encourage someone to hang in there, too.

Crazy Is Not A Bad Word

Crazy Is Not A Bad Word

By Cathy

How I Survived My Childhood

I'm crazy. I used to feel ashamed of that. I see the world through the eyes of a lunatic. I earned my crazy the hard way. I was raised by maniacs. I reckon I've finally accepted the fact that they probably couldn't help themselves any more than I can sometimes. I was also raised in the Deep South, in a place I lovingly call the asshole of the Bible belt. If you've been there then you know exactly where I'm talking about.

When my parents split up, I bounced from house to house. My reverend grandfather and grandmother opened their Baptist home to me and my mother on many occasions. It took me awhile to forgive mom for that one. It's always funny to me that people act so shocked and indignant when it turns out preachers can be vicious bastards. I spent much of my teen years misdiagnosed and dosed by a shyster with one black and one grey Mercedes. On days he wore his grey Armani he drove the grey Mercedes. I'm sure you've met him. He didn't treat the upper middle class kids with the double sets of parents and mega coverage. He just kept us locked up, played pill popping roulette with us, and taught us to question the validity of every thought or feeling we had. I do hope he rots in hell, tortured by all his ill-gotten gains.

People get annoyed with me because I tell them an entire story just to answer what they believe to be a simple question. I scream like a banshee at times. I learned that from my granma. My granma was a fantastic, beautiful, emotionally crippled woman. She really helped cultivate my insanity, but she loved me, and I knew it. Most of the time. She was what some would call bat-shit crazy. I miss her every second of every day.

I don't scream as much as I used to. I don't self-harm anymore either. I've been coke-free for more years than I can remember. I don't hate me anymore most of the time. When I do, we talk, and sometimes the conversation ends up falling out of my mouth usually in front of people at really inappropriate times. I don't hang my head anymore when I'm caught being crazy. Screw that! I'm the fat old crazy lady who mutters to herself and then laughs like an idiot when you give her that silly look of alarm.

I'm almost 40, and older than I should be. I'm still pretty. I don't mind saying that anymore. I'm pretty and I know it. I'm still working on liking the other parts of me. I've stopped caring that I'm the crazy lady. My old man loves me, even when I scream like a banshee. Who knew how much an old grouchy ass-pie-hermit could heal a mad woman's heart. When I have random outbursts of pure silliness (cos I really need to let it out) he doesn't walk away and pretend not to know me when it happens to be in the middle of the grocery store. My crazy mama loves me, and even though our relationship hasn't always been healthy, it is amazing now. My beloved sons love me, and I would kill for my boys. I have so much love in my life now.

And we're all freakin' nuts! We're crazy and we're the walking wounded. Everyone I know is crazy. My “sane” friends are crazy. Ohmygosh! Have you seen the state of the world? There isn't a sane person on this planet! I'm not even sure if the cosmos itself isn't bat-shit crazy! Sane people stand by and watch their governments drop 21^st century bombs on 18^th century villages? Sane people turn on each other over which political party is doing the best job of fucking the masses? Fuck sanity! Give me paranoia with a side of whatever I may need to keep it from getting stupid!

So, that's now my treatment plan. I take the medication I need to deal with the anxiety, and I have an awesome therapist. Keeping the anxiety in check helps me deal with all the other fun stuff that comes with a personality disorder, PTSD and some other fun labels that are all just part of who I am. I no longer want to be cured. I no longer apologize for being who I am. The more I accept and cherish the crazy parts, the less control they seem to have. Crazy is not a bad word, because without crazy I might not have survived my childhood or my twenties.

A Voice for the Voiceless: One Man's Saga

A Voice for the Voiceless: One Man's Saga
By Pete
A Call for Mental Health Advocacy
I was born at the Flower Hospital in New York City in 1936, the only child of older parents. There were questions as to whether my mother, whose health was unfavorable, should have contemplated childbirth at the age of 36, but she found a way. My father was 57 years old and didn't want children.
I was otherwise a healthy baby boy born into a life of privilege. My mother ensured that I would be afforded every opportunity to succeed. I attended kindergarten at Friends Seminary and in 1946 joined the St. Thomas Boys' Choir.
After moving to Bucks County, Pennsylvania, I attended the Lawrenceville School where I played soccer and became an All-American swimmer. During the summer I held various jobs as camp counselor and lifeguard. I attended Brown University, majoring in Classical Studies. I became captain of the swim team, and set a number of swimming records. After graduating from Brown, I attended the Institute for Classical Studies in Athens, Greece, then returned to Lawrenceville to teach Latin. I also became a Housemaster and coached Lower house athletics.
I was married in 1960 and earned an M.A. in Latin from Columbia the following year. That Spring my wife and I had our first child.
In 1961, I began teaching Latin at a private school near Toledo, Ohio, where I also coached the Greek and Chess Clubs and was involved in community-based classical associations. Our second child arrived in 1963.
In 1965, the Toledo Blade published a story on our propitious expanding clan entitled, "Family Puts Fun In Learning." I began working that year toward a second Masters degree at the University of Michigan. We moved to Ann Arbor where I obtained an M.A. in Greek in the spring of 1966.
As I started work on my doctoral thesis, our third child arrived. I was now 30 years old and looking forward to a promising future in academia and ongoing roles as a coach, mentor, and community leader. But my proudest and most important responsibility would always be the one which carried me home every day, as a loving husband and father of three.
Then I started finding Satanic messages hidden in the works of Cicero and Virgil. Then came the voices. My wife and I argued. I became violent, threatening her and the children. I grew withdrawn and became complacent. I paced, began smoking, and gained weight. Needless to say, the family was thrown into a collective shock, confused, helpless and terrified.
In November 1966, I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. Thus began an odyssey of torment and disgrace which I have now endured for nearly half a century. The out-of-pocket cost of my care over this time is well into the millions of dollars.
By the early 1970s, as the situation became increasingly volatile, my wife filed for divorce. Paranoid schizophrenia decimated my family, which has since, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist.
I had no contact with my children for nearly 20 years, until one day in 1994, my son came to see me. By then I was known as "Sir" and insisted on being called "Sir." Later I changed my name again. To this day my caretakers refer to me as "Pete."
Prior to her death, my mother set up a charitable trust naming me as its life beneficiary. She was well-aware of the severity of my condition while reserving the hope I would someday improve. Nevertheless, medical understanding of schizophrenia was still in its infancy. By all accounts, she had arranged to provide for my care for as long as I lived, if necessary.
Thus far, the courts disagree. After 29 years' residency in a long-term psychiatric facility (which does not accept Medicaid) I am now 77 years old, in ill health, and at risk of eviction as the result of nonpayment of expenses exceeding $220,000. In pursuit of a resolution to my legal dilemma, my son and guardian has learned firsthand that the mentally ill have no voice in mainstream society and little influence in our courts and legislature.
The severity and progression of my disease has left me psychotic and utterly incapacitated, unable to manage my own life and affairs. Consequently, my story has been provided by my son who not only assumed the responsibility for my care but in so doing became a voice for all victims of mental illness and their caregivers who seek justice and peace of mind.

Bruised Skies and Lost Lies by Samuel

Bruised Skies and Lost Lies

By Samuel

A Cast-Off Kid Grows Up to Share the Trauma of His Childhood

It was cold and the sky was black and blue with winter’s punch. A 16-year-old child drifted anonymously, heading west across PA Interstate 80, looking over his shoulder continuously, although he had a strong sense of his own solitude. He was not frightened, nor aware that he should be, for this was his life and his reality. His relationship with his mysterious father, whom he barely knew, had somehow begun to unfold. He had never laid his eyes on him.
A momentary thought passed through, as he reflected: “How dare you challenge me for living like that?”
Daylight was slowly fading and Christmas Day was approaching. Rides would be scarce, if at all. He barely weighed eighty-five pounds that year and carried all his material possessions in a small duffel bag. “Save the sleeping bag.” Thank God he had enough common sense to steal an army-issue down-filled bag. With no fond memories to keep him warm, the sleeping bag was his safe place as he searched for the next bridge to sleep under. The bridges provided dry shelter and kept a great deal of the wind chill to a minimum. As they provided a flat surface to sleep on at the very top of the incline that supported their weight, he realized too, nobody would ever notice him resting up there. He was alone. He was safe. He was at peace. Serenity had been bestowed upon him—again, by the simple art of locomotion.
Damn it! Tears streamed down his face and froze on his cheeks. How could the commonwealth of Pennsylvania allow this to happen? He knew people and their loved ones were settling down to meals, warm homes, family, friends, gifts, Church, and the seemingly endless celebration of love, music, and tidings of great joy. Merry Christmas? He swore he saw his black and blue marks reflected in the wintry sky for the last time. The only way to not see those bruised colors in the sky again was to leave this place forever.

Life was so much like he had been told Hell would be, at the age of 8, that he didn't consider suicide because Hell only seemed like more of the same. Now that's one unusual motivation to keep on living, he thought. “My God, is this how it’s going to work for me as long as I agree to keep on living?” The concept of suffering had not yet been bestowed upon him. However, he did wonder, “Where have I gone so wrong so soon?” “God doesn't put anything on your plate you can't handle,” he heard in response.
The professionals would have most certainly labeled his black and blue marks as “SAD.” This truly was his personal seasonal affective disorder this year for Christmas. He knew he wouldn't allow his affection to manifest itself into an infection. He already knew how to forgive and love the person appropriately. Parenting was no easy task for himself. Didn't folks say it in itself was a full time job?
He knew “Chaucer and Beowulf have nothing on me.” School had already taught him that. Thank goodness the public education system was providing him with the knowledge he needed to survive. “You have got to be kidding me. What is so wrong with these people and this system?” Too frightened to speak, because when he does, “some adults become angry and treat me poorly because I have challenged them.” “OK, it's all my fault. I can deal with the responsibility because you won't.”
There would be no welcome food-source tomorrow, Christmas Day, and tomorrow was nearly an eternity away. Plan ahead for food? The concept of planning ahead for anything except cigarettes was something people who sensed they had a future would have thought of.

Time didn't seem to exist yet it seemed to keep happening. This was all he seemed to know, so he never considered contemplating to any great length, “Why me?” Surviving much like a parasite would, seemingly lower on the food chain than a barnacle, he had found nothing to cling onto that lasted.

He shook as the coldness of reality migrated throughout the bag. The cement was hard, much like life itself, so it was comfortable, because it seemed familiar. So was crying.

Then his mind drifted to the thought for the day: Would anyone consider him immature for crying? He didn't think God would. At least he had one good friend to talk to. He was having difficulty however hearing Him speak. But he didn't give up on his chosen approach. And that was that.

“Life seems okay.” Already he thought, “nearly complete.” His communication skills were being honed, though he had no clue. Sleep was at two to three hour intervals at the most, and neither the weather nor hunger pangs had a thing to do with his inability to rest.

Note: The author was the 16-year-old in the story. He was living in an orphanage at the time when the State of PA revoked their charter and closed it down. His option from the system was to return to foster care and he wasn't willing to do that so he spent two years being homeless until he was emancipated at the age of 17. This is part of a larger story. Samuel's diagnosis is PTSD and in essence there is no end to the story.

To Growl or Not to Growl: That is the Question by Matt

To Growl or Not to Growl: That is the Question

By Matt

My Miracle with Zoloft

My problems began, believe it or not, when I was two and a half years old. This I report on good faith from the voice and words of my father. I trust him on this one, and I trust my earliest memories, as well, starting sometime around age four, which are of a child who was always, always unhappy. This “condition,” if you will, continued, or rather persisted, until almost exactly three and a half years ago (if my memory serves me right, and these days, often it does). I am now forty-five, and I’ve been a “different person” since that time. I’m sure at least some of you have guessed the reason: medication, specifically, Zoloft.

I have taken many different medications over the years, including virtually the entire range of SSRIs (selective serotonergic reuptake inhibitors), but this one, for some perhaps strange reason, did a whole lot “more” for me than any of the others. To wax poetic, Zoloft kicked me out of bed. It punched me into alertness and awareness, and it got me going—swinging and ringing and dinging like a Liberty Bell.

Until the Zoloft, I had been drinking, smoking crack and about three-packs-a-day of rolling-tobacco cigarettes, and I weighed some 50 pounds more than I do now. I was in a perpetually agonizing mental condition that defies words. (As a writer, I should try to put it into words, but I fear the length of my possible description.) Suffice it to say, then, crack, and before that cocaine, were the only things that really made me feel alive, i.e., normal. Ritalin “worked,” but was also way addictive for me. When under the influence of crack or cocaine, my symptoms would disappear, and would stay gone for up to three days after the getting high, although usually this respite lasted no longer than two days.

I had been slugging to AA meetings for fifteen years prior to the Zoloft, but to no avail. I had never, as they say in AA, “put any time together.” I’d go a week max, and then “relapse.” (I put this term in quotes because I’ve become highly skeptical of the AA lexicon, or vocabulary. And that’s not all. Believe me. But we mustn’t get angry.) So, after fifteen years of trying to stay off the stuff (booze, cocaine, then crack and cigarettes), I had this psychiatrist at the substance abuse clinic I was attending who tried the generic Zoloft out on me. That’s what Medicaid likes to cover, generics. Suffice it to say that for all intents and purposes, on that very day I crawled out from my chronic, endless nightmare-of-a-shell. Included in this “shell-existence” were shame—perpetual shame; guilt, perpetual as well; envy; fear (shitting-the-pants kind); hatred, loathing and contempt for everyone who wasn’t blood; a gnawing, rotting sensation of all-enveloping inadequacy and inferiority; consequently a jealous, embittered hatred for everyone who made me feel small, which was—and I say this literally per all my age-peers—everyone. Everyone made me feel small. Everyone. Every one.

Am I angry? You bet I am. But at what, one might ask?

I would say the biggest main targets of my anger are those arguably institutionalized belief-systems in the so-called “recovery community” that presume to tell me that I should be grateful, and that I’m wrong if I’m not. Those “in recovery” will deny saying this, but there’s no point arguing with them—much as it’s almost impossibly difficult to argue with any fanatic, or religious fundamentalist of any stripe. Again, the people I’m referring to will deny they bear any similarity to such an ideological “type.”

So, in a sense, I’ve been at war since the Zoloft-induced change. I’ve been at war over two things: 1) As part of an effort to make up for forty years “lost” to virtual functional incapacity, and 2) over those who had and have the gall to tell me how, “spiritually” speaking, I should view such a life-altering loss (with gratitude, etc.). Their merely seemingly benign and innocuous rhetoric, if I’m not careful, enrages me.

For fifteen years I attended meetings, really never agreed with it (AA) at all, but I had, literally, no other free community that even pretended to care enough to offer support. That’s how badly off I was. I stunk. I couldn’t afford toilet paper. I was easing my bowels onto the street during crack-runs to the housing projects, and I looked like the proverbial “bum.” I was knocking at hell’s door (hats off to Dylan).

However, I’m much better now. Thankfully. There. I’ve said it. Gratitude.

Jars of Clay by Lara Ferris

Jars of Clay
By Lara Ferris
A Story of Recovery and Redemption
My life has always been a bit of a contradiction. My above average intelligence and nearly flawless memory enabled me to be an excellent student. However, this same brain that allowed me to achieve academic success also caused me to suffer spontaneous episodes of inexplicable rage, feelings of self-loathing and bouts of severe depression. On the surface I had all the ingredients for a healthy, normal life: a stable home environment, loving hardworking parents, a great younger brother and a nurturing extended family. We lived in a moderate middle-class suburban neighborhood, my mother ran a daycare out of our home so she could be there when my brother and I were not in school, and my father worked as a Teamster. My parents both worked hard to provide us with all the things they had lacked growing up. My brother always had the latest cool sneakers, I always had spending money and we both had all the popular toys. I got good grades, I stayed out of trouble and I had friends. I appeared to be happy. And I was, most of the time.
Other times I felt like a complete fraud. Around my family and friends I was generally cheerful and calm, but alone in my room I would succumb to negative feelings of self-doubt, hopelessness and despair. The darkness would come, and I would allow it to wash over me until I was adrift in a black sea of torment. Writing saved me; it’s the only thing that kept me from going under. I began writing at a very early age. First came silly juvenile rhymes, followed by haiku and sonnets about young love and heartbreak and then came the good stuff. The real, raw, visceral, primal stuff. My words spilled forth like blood from a seeping wound. In fact, that is exactly what they were. Writing was my therapy, my catharsis. I didn’t write because I could, but because I had to. Those words became my lifeline, the one thing that kept me anchored when I felt myself drifting. To this day, I never underestimate the power of words; they can hurt and they can heal.
I was very protective of my writing. I let the general public see the sappy, fluffy, romantic poems. But I kept the dark stuff hidden. I didn’t let anyone see that side of me. I lived in constant fear that the facade would crumble and my true identity would be revealed, an identity I worked very hard to conceal. So I never showed it to anyone, not even my mother, whom I’ve always been very close to. I often wonder how my life might have been different had I shared my words and the thoughts and feelings behind them. But I didn’t. And so my mood swings, occasional depressive episodes and even my sporadic angry outbursts were all attributed to adolescent hormones and teen angst. The real underlying cause, my mental illness, went undiagnosed and untreated for over twenty-five years.
Those were interesting years, filled with lots of ups and downs. I got married and divorced…more than once. I gave birth to three children. I owned a home. I lost a home. I lived on my own and I lived with my parents. I held down a career for 19 years. And all the while the battle in my head continued to rage on.
It all came to a head six months ago. I was in yet another unhealthy relationship, unemployed, battling a severe technology addiction and living a secret double life built on lies, deceit and immorality. I had been frantically spinning plates like a clown in a circus for so many years. One day all those plates just came crashing to the ground. I was on the verge of losing everything—my family, my children and even my life—until I agreed to seek immediate help.
It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t. But I am very fortunate to have so many people invested in my health and well being. Psychiatrists, counseling, medication, group therapy, social workers, family and friends have all combined to make my recovery a reality. But the most integral piece of the puzzle is my renewed relationship with the Lord. I found a church home and attend every Sunday, I am involved in a women’s Bible study and I have surrounded myself with godly women of faith. God’s unfathomable love and mercy astound me every day. He has broken the chains of addiction and freed me from the captivity of my own dark mind.
One of my favorite Bible passages is the story of the Potter and the clay. We are but clay in the hands of the Lord. He has the power to shape us into vessels of His grand design. And should those vases become marred or shattered, He can rebuild them into something even more extraordinary. So don’t be afraid to be broken. For the jars that have been pieced back together are the ones that let the light in.

Book Ends: Silent Screams by D. Cross

Book Ends: Silent Screams by D. Cross

Reviewed by Columnist Kurt Sass

Silent Screams is a brutally honest, well-written account of the life of a woman who has endured a myriad of hardships most of us could barely imagine.

Although the first four chapters are devoted exclusively to her experiences with (and failures of) the mental healthcare system, the remainder of the book is a biography of a life full of setbacks, and more importantly, uncaring people.

The book is full of countless example of how people in all facets of life had failed her. For example, growing up, many doctors would dismiss her many symptoms until her condition grew worse and worse. This neglect continued until she finally got diagnosed with tuberculosis, far later than necessary. In addition, the nuns refused to believe her when she said she had difficulty walking up stairs.

Years later, while in a psychiatric hospital for six weeks, she was never told her diagnosis, participated in completely silent group therapy and psychiatry sessions and was discharged even though told that she had no home to go to.

Ms. Cross also reveals later in the book about an illness later in her life and the many many delays in getting a proper diagnosis and treatment, all the time while in constant pain.

If all this wasn’t enough, throw in some uncaring relatives and three “predators” and you can see what a brutal existence this women had to deal with.

The major point I got from this book, unfortunately, is that no matter where you turn, especially the ones in whose hands you put your life, they will disappoint you. Ms. Cross’s viewpoint, as stated in the end pages of the book, has been one of acceptance.

While I recommend this book to most people, there are some that definitely should not be reading this. To most people, this book is a good example of how, in some cases, the medical/mental health care system, in the regard to how they treat people, has not changed (in some cases) over the years. Great strides have been made, and patients for the most part, have been treated with more dignity, but this book will show as evidence that much more needs to be done. For this reason, I recommend this book, especially for mental health and medical healthcare advocates. While I am glad Ms. Cross has found peace in acceptance, I wish she had an advocate during her times of need to help get the proper care and treatment she needed.

On the other hand, this book should not be read by anyone who is currently undecided about their opinion of mental health or healthcare professionals in general or anyone who is contemplating seeing a therapist or healthcare professional for the first time. It does not give a full representation of healthcare professionals. This is just one person’s experience and is not typical. It is also a very depressing book.

I Can See the Light by Andrea

I Can See the Light

By Andrea

I am 45 and I have been “sick” for the past 12 years of my life. I have bipolar II, an illness that I would not wish on anyone. I grew up very loved and very happy, but eventually my world was shattered.

My first marriage left me abused and broken. I tried, and succeeded for a while, to put that part of my life in the very back of my mind. Some things just can’t stay buried forever. Flashes of the past came back to haunt me, and major depression set in. I went into a very dark place, and it has taken me 12 years to even slightly pull out.

My days have been empty, and everything has seemed so dark. The darkness is frightening. It is lonely, filled with self-loathing, disgust and pain. Lots of pain. The kind that starts in your soul and seeps through your veins until it has taken over your body. I keep my doors shut and my curtains drawn. I don’t answer the phone or the door. I keep everyone and everything locked out. I don’t even open the mail. Every time I see a glimpse of the light I retreat. The darkness is now what I know. It has become too familiar. It seems that the scariest place I’ve ever been has turned into the only place where I want to be.

I spend my days and nights alone. At this point I wouldn’t have it any other way. Isolation has become my best friend, or so it seems. The anxiety added to the sadness has been an awful curse. Then you add the voices to that and it makes life almost unbearable. The voices are loud, and at times unrelenting. They tell me I’m worthless, ugly, a failure. I’m not sure why, but I always believe what they say. They tell me to hurt myself. They tell me to cut. Between the voices, and the sadness, and the anxiety, sometimes I do what they say. Cutting always seems like a good idea. It always seems like it will make me feel better, but it never does. Sometimes I do it hoping to bleed the illness out of me. Sometimes I do it just to be in control of something. I can’t control the darkness, but I can control the blade.

I’ve attempted suicide four different times, and obviously lived to tell about it. I would be so angry at whomever had rescued me. My family and the ER. I mean seriously! Why couldn’t they get it? I would be better off dead! People don’t understand and they can’t understand unless they’ve walked this road themselves. I would always hear, “what will your children do without you?” What could they do with me? My wanting to die had nothing to do with them or anyone else, it was only about me. Well, that’s selfish you might say. I don’t think so. It’s the direct result of an all-consuming illness. It’s something that I could not control.

I’ve been hospitalized over 15 times at several different hospitals. A couple of times for only 3 or 4 days, but mostly at least a week, and many times as long as a month. I’ve met and I’ve observed lots of people. Some looked like me. They looked like they didn’t belong there. At other times, some looked like me when the darkness had taken over. The hospital started out as a scary place that I wanted to get out of, but it has turned into a safe haven. It’s a place where I could feel and act exactly the way that I felt. I didn’t have to worry about putting on a face and pretending that everything is okay. It’s sad to say, but the hospital became such a safe place that sometimes at night when I can’t sleep because my anxiety and fear is running high, I will pretend that I am there. That is sick I know, but honest.

I have had many ECT treatments. They only worked against, not for, me. I will go back and say, as I did in the beginning, that I have come out of the darkness for a while and for that I’m grateful. It has taken years of therapy, a great psychiatrist and lots of medication, but I’m pulling through. The dark is not always here now. Sometimes I can actually see the light.

My Life As My Very Own “Truman Show”

My Life As My Very Own “Truman Show”
By Lauren
When You Feel Like Life is Being Orchestrated Beyond Your Control
I grew up a very happy, healthy child. I had a loving family and plenty of friends. I always excelled in school and sports and was accepted into college right after high school graduation.
I was a college graduate and gainfully employed by the time I was twenty-two. I had a fantastic love life, an enormous circle of friends, and was having a blast living in the big city of Chicago.
This was my life for the first five years after college, until everything started falling apart. It began at the office.
I started suspecting that my phone calls weren’t real. I thought that hired actors were on the other line and that none of my accounts were actually real. I started spending less and less time with friends and family and more and more time alone. I also started getting what I thought were secret messages in the mail. I wasn’t able to understand what was happening, but the stress became too much and I was unable to keep my job.
I felt completely overwhelmed. I had started to consider telling someone what was happening, but by that point I was hearing voices that told me to keep quiet, and that if I told anyone what was really going on I would be killed. I was certain I had been implanted with some kind of device and was being watched on a hidden closed-circuit television. I knew if I didn’t make a drastic change, something would happen to me.
I decided to sell my belongings and move. I packed my car and got rid of anything that wouldn’t fit, or that might be bugged, and drove to Minneapolis to stay with some close friends from college. They had no idea what was going on.
Things were fine in Minneapolis for a while. I got a new job and was doing my best to save money to get my own place again. It was about six months until I started getting the text messages again. I was also getting emails I couldn’t explain, and the voices came back. By that point I was living with a roommate, I had lost my job again, and was not eating. It got to a point where I was convinced that my roommate was plotting against me, and had plans to murder me in my sleep. I would stay up all night, locked in my room writing and waiting for my roommate to come in and kill me. I would sleep a few hours during the day while she was at work, and the rest of my time was spent walking. I walked nearly twelve miles a day, still refusing to eat almost anything. That was the first time I was taken to the hospital and put in a psych ward.
This went on for another year until the messages, voices, and then visual hallucinations filled my day. I couldn’t hold down a job and sometimes even had trouble speaking. I was back home living with my mom and spending time either sitting in my room in the dark or walking the neighborhood talking to myself.
Because I couldn’t tell anyone what was going on, my trips to doctors and psych wards proved to be mainly useless. It wasn’t until I fled my mom’s house to Los Angeles in the middle of the night in her other car, that I finally got the help I needed.
My oldest and best friend lived in Los Angeles and took me in when I arrived there. She also got me to admit myself into the hospital there, where doctors and psychiatrists were finally able to give me the diagnosis of schizophrenia and give me the medication that would finally help bring me back to reality.
Things are better now. I was on disability for a couple of years, but was recently hired by a great company to do the same kind of work I did before everything started going wrong in Chicago. I also live near my mom, so she helps me when I have bad days.
Deep down, I wish all of this never happened. I don’t feel like myself. I’m much more withdrawn, overweight, and exhausted much of the time. However, I suppose this is better than the alternative. I also feel embarrassed about my diagnosis, but am working on that, too.

The Trouble With Dimps, the Vulcan, and the Hypersexuals

The Trouble With Dimps, the Vulcan, and the Hypersexuals
By Joe
One Man’s Journey With Mental Illness
In 2006, my wife accidentally found out about my 70k credit card debts. She feared she would be made homeless if I stuck around so she asked me to leave. It was October and I was on a manic high at the time. I was living in a cartoon world, disappearing for days without even mentioning where I was going. One day, I received a phone call from my psychiatrist. He was concerned about my behavior and wanted to see me. I didn’t want to see him, and said I was fine. But he insisted.
At the hospital, I was met by the senior house officer (who resembled a Star Trek Vulcan), and led me to a room. The door shut behind me with a thud. There was no handle on the inside, just another door that led to another world. She asked me some questions to evaluate me.
Did I hear voices ? “No.” When I read a book, did I think it was written just for me? “NO.” When I watch TV, were there hidden messages for me? “No.” She asked me what year it was: “2006.” The month: “October.” The day: “The 15th.”
I was doing pretty well, but then came the killer: Spell the word “WORLD” backwards. I tried “D-R-L-O-W.”  WRONG ANSWER! So she decided I wasn’t fit to be at large and I could admit myself for observation as a voluntary patient, or they could get a doctor and section me. That’s a minimum six-week stay. So, I chose the voluntary option.
I was shown to my room, the windows of which did not open. There was a bed, chair and wardrobe. A member of the staff came in. John with keys around his belt (that type) said, “Come on, I’ll show you around.” There was a game room with a three-legged pool table and about six billiard balls, a kitchen, a laundry room, and a lounge where the other patients sat watching daytime TV drivel. John said, “Make yourself a drink and join the others.”
A few residents were wearing dressing gowns. One girl had bandages on her wrists. Mike was talking on a cell to a girl he was waving at through the window. She was in another ward. Upstairs he turned to me and said she wants to know your name. This was Lorraine, who I became good friends with; we even had a fling in the laundry room. All the manic patients are hypersexual.
A new patient discovers quite soon that a ward has its own rules. I was having a cigarette in the smoke room chatting to ‘Jesus of Stockport’—an Asian with long hair and a beard. Jesus tells me he has a haulage firm and can get me cheap trainers. He also tells me he is undercover, working for the NHS. His job is to assess which patients are suitable for jobs in the outside world and in his haulage firm. The strange thing is with all this money you would expect he could afford a pack of cigarettes .He watches me as I put my dimp out in the ash tray. There is still a full centimeter left on it, and in the Arden ward that’s a lot of dimp. Gerry is keeping an eye on that dimp as well. Then Tony comes in and says, “Don’t leave your dimp in the ashtray, the Paki will get it.”
Lorraine used to pretend she was my doctor during family visits. She asked Tom who was visiting me to help put up the Christmas tree even though it was only October. It was a plastic one kept in the toy cupboard. When the tree was up, all the patients in the ward applauded. This attracted the attention of the staff, who quickly removed the tree. But an idea had been planted, and it had made everyone happy. So, every night for the next two months, when the staff had been reduced, we would put that tree up and decorate it.
I was in demand for interviews with visiting doctors and students. I was a textbook bipolar guy. They could not take notes fast enough. If they needed help, I could prompt them or lead them to the next question. I could tell the truth or lie, mix it up, do anything they wanted. I remember a Chinese student practically wetting herself when I got going. She could not believe her luck. I was released just before Christmas, after the kitchen was closed down by the health and safety inspectors.
Note: Joe's story takes place in the United Kingdom.

Medication (It’s a four-letter word)

Medication (It’s a four-letter word)
By Sarah (visit her blog at: www.doesthatmakemecrazyblog.com)
I suffer from bipolar disorder, a debilitating psychiatric illness that, for most people, requires a constant stream of medication.
Let me tell you something about medication. I need it to function. Along with psychotherapy, lifestyle and diet changes, and avoiding any number of things that might trigger an episode, I need medication to be able to achieve anything even approaching normal human functionality. I wouldn’t, and in fact, couldn’t, be without it. I want to put that out there before anything. I am thankful that I have access to medication. But getting to a place where you can be living well with mental illness is not as simple as doing all the right things and remembering to take your drugs when you’re supposed to.
Medication is a four-letter word. For all the good it can do when it’s working right, when it’s wrong, it can mess you up. Medication can make you sicker than the illness it’s intended to treat. I’ve been put on, and taken off an endless list of prescription medications. Pills of all different shapes, colours and sizes have gone into my body in the fashion of a lab test animal. The paper inside the boxes that lists side effects may as well be written just for me. There’s not one unpleasant side effect that I’ve yet managed to avoid. At some point over the last five years, I have experienced them all.
Some of them made it impossible for me to get out of bed. Some have made me repulsed by food. Others have made me insatiably hungry. Some have made me vomit unpredictably, or made me so dizzy that I couldn’t keep my eyes focussed or my feet on the ground. I’ve been so weak that I couldn’t walk. One made me shake so severely that I had to be carried to the bathroom, and couldn’t brush my own teeth without help.
I’ve regularly slept for sixteen hours a day because of medication, and been literally a zombie for the other eight hours, barely able to sit up straight, held down to my seat by the incredible burden of holding open my own eyelids, having no energy left over to do anything else.
I’ve gone through medication hell with the aspiration that I would find a combination to give me back the use of my brain, one that would make my thoughts make sense and convince the darkest version of myself that life was worth living.
This part of my journey has been horrendous. Even worse was that I developed a severe form of allergic reaction which meant that once my brain was settled, and finally deciding to cooperate, my medication then had to be abruptly stopped, making me a slave to whatever my brain wanted me to feel at a moment’s notice, most of which was unpleasant to say the least.
But this isn’t a cautionary tale against the use of prescription medication. Quite the opposite. If you’re treated for a significant period of mental illness (and chances are, at least one in four people will be), it’s more than likely that you will experience the side effects of prescription psychiatric medication. I want to emphasise the importance of pushing through it. Never take yourself off your medication without medical consultation. If, like me, you are within the tiny percentage of people unfortunate enough to experience potentially life-threatening side effects, seek medical attention immediately. Read the insert in the box so you’ll know to distinguish between benign side effects and potentially dangerous adverse reactions (which I stress, are rare).
Don’t give up. Communicate with your doctor. Give yourself the best opportunity to find a combination that works for you. I’ve spoken to many people who refuse taking medication for fear of side effects, but medication is an important part of self-management and a balanced care plan, and for me, it’s worth every ghastly side-effect possible to come out of the other side with a combination of pills that allows me to be part of the normal world.
Despite every adverse effect I have had to contend with, it is nothing compared with now having medications that work for me. When it comes to drugs, you name it, I’ve tried it, and in the process it’s probably made me vomit, pass out, cry uncontrollably, or tremble so badly that I can’t hold my own cup of tea.
I lost a month at work because my medications were waging war on my body and brain. But now that everything is as it should be, (within the limitations of my illness, at least), I can do many things that I wouldn’t be able to do unmedicated or without the right medication. Things like getting out of bed, or standing on the platform before the train arrives without wanting to throw myself under the next train that comes. I am able to have a conversation without slurring my speech, or speaking so quickly or with such urgency that I frighten whoever is listening.
Because of my medication, I’m confident in my prognosis, and though I have a life-long condition, I know it needn’t be life-limiting. And that’s worth all the side effects on the list.

Girl, Continued: The Double Bind of Being a Creative Intellectual with Mental Illness

Girl, Continued

By Heaven

The Double Bind of Being a Creative Intellectual with Mental Illness

Ever since I was little I imagined someone coming to my home to take me away from my family. I never quite fit in with them. It wasn’t that they were bad people, just different. Now I’m starting my second year of college in the fall. I suppose I am a young woman (if it suits you to say that), but in my head I am a child. I see things in a way that others don’t and am amused by things that others have ceased to take pleasure in. I have yet to find a way to express myself understandably with words and with a language many people choose to communicate with.

They always called me “different,” and by they, I mean everyone in my life. I cared about writing and reading. I would try to talk to family about perception vs. reality during the 1920s about the American Dream in The Great Gatsby, or get their opinion on Saint George and the Dragon by Raphael, but they laughed and said no one cares about that kind of stuff.

I used to want to be normal. People used to want me to be normal, which was clearly but inexplicably defined as having friends, spending time with family, and people being able to decipher whether you’re happy or sad. By the time freshman year rolled around I realized I was turning into this bizarre, eccentric, schizoid teenage girl and I was falling in love with her. I didn’t mind. In fact, I preferred eating lunch alone in the cafeteria and completing and/or presenting projects solo. The one thing I hated and loved, and still do hate and love, is my mind. It never stops and so I began wearing headphones.

It started freshman year in high school and never ceased. It became a signature thing. Every time anyone saw me, I had my headphones on and my music loud. Teachers hated it. They wanted me to point fingers at my best friend across the room at the mention of partners. They wanted me to spend the hour completing homework and only read the allotted reading material by each deadline and no more. But I didn’t have best friends, I didn’t have friends and I could not figure out too many other things to do with my time but read. I didn’t care about having friends either, about being liked, fitting in. It was irrelevant.

I never cared for gossip or small chat and every girl my age did exactly that so no one talked to me. And so I didn’t talk. I read. I wrote. Sometimes I’d look up from a book and get disorientated because I was really in my room or the library or someplace that was the setting in the book. I joined a book club sophomore year but sometimes the club members would lose me. I would talk about the characters as if they were real. I would scribble in the margins, break the spine and book ear the pages. I would laugh out loud or cry while reading. I eventually quit because of the awkward looks and depressing books I suggested that everyone hated.

I am both happy and sad. I know I should be happy and grateful to be alive and be healthy and blah blah blah, but sometimes I don’t have the strength to get up from the kitchen table. I daydream often. For hours a day and it's one of my favorite things to do. I assumed I was just different with my flattened emotions and eccentric behavior. I wasn’t like everyone and it wasn’t something I did intentionally. It wasn’t something I did to make my mother angry, friends hate me, or to piss my teachers off, although it often did. It was and is who I am and I don’t know how to be anyone else. I didn’t know the things that made me “different” were symptoms of mental illness.

Things I’ve learned:

*Make sure to kiss the boy who makes you laugh, but if he takes you home and he doesn’t have any books, don’t fuck him.

*Sorry's are like oxygen masks on high jacked planes.

*Keeping things hidden is a quick way to isolate yourself and go crazy.

*Fear of suffering doesn't rule out the fact that sometimes a person has to die young as a matter of principle; such a superhuman sacrifice is no longer beyond my strength.

Note: Heaven plans to serve two years in the Peace Corps teaching English in third-world Spanish-speaking countries and after that she hopes to teach English Literature at a university. NYC Voices and its volunteers wish her the best.

An Account of My Depression in Southern France

An Account of My Depression in Southern France
By Francois
I am currently 59 years old. I started working at a semi-familiar company with international customers and wrote my first novel at age 23, and did some law and English linguistics. Then, after a series of heart strokes, I worked in computerized billing at a transport business. Thanks to that, I did a remunerated computer training for 8 months and undertook several jobs for a couple of years.
At one point, I held a job working for a newspaper in the French Pyrenees for six years. Once every week we would work one night in addition to the working day. I had a heart condition and for this reason only did 22 hours on end on such long working days. Eventually I got so exhausted I fainted and could no longer work.
In December 1991, I was diagnosed with depression and started taking antidepressants, tranquillizers and sleeping pills. I was put on a long sick leave for three years and during this time did an interesting psychotherapy based on several cycles of some sort of rebirth therapy, noticeably through the existential, living and social layers of psychic development. Some odd things happened in the meantime. I would be unable to lace my shoes. I dangerously burned myself with an electric heating pad, unaware that I was burning. It was as though I were in a vegetative state, and for a long year was unable to write simple letters. I struggled with agoraphobia, as well.
In 1994, I was declared disabled and settled in Toulouse. A sleeping disorder and vigilance specialist and a psychotherapist resumed my treatment, and have been doing so until now in mid 2013. In this process it appeared I didn’t have a reactive depression but a major depression. Besides my heart treatment, my psychotropic medical treatment consists of two Effexor and one Abilify in the mornings, Victan as a tranquilizer, and at night two Norset and a sleeping pill, Zopiclone.
In 1997, my former boss came to see me in Toulouse. He invited me to a restaurant and told me that I would be welcomed back at the newspaper again. He conveyed that he understood that none of what had happened to me was of my own making but to a great extent the result of the crazy hours the newspaper kept. But it was already too late, because my major depression had become awfully difficult to handle.
In the late 1990’s, I was able to live with a New York retiree here in Toulouse, take some trips, be more active, and indeed write. But in late 2000 we split up, and since then I've been living alone.  In principle, given that retirement age for my generation is close to 62 years, I will become a retiree in late 2014.
Because I was a smoker, I developed lung cancer which required surgery. I had a successful left inferior lobectomy and haven’t needed chemotherapy or radiotherapy. I just wish major depression could be healed with the same efficiency. Sometimes, yes, I manage to go out with a few great friends or enjoy long stays with my mother, but this is a very treacherous illness and as soon as I am alone I go down the tubes. Since I live on a modest disability pension with rent relief and my mother’s help, I manage to get along economically, and I must be grateful I only have to send a form every three months, so I am not otherwise subject to inspections.
Not long ago, a non-profit had invited me to run a writing workshop, but I had to let it go because the ups and downs of my illness made it too difficult to handle. So I really can’t work, not even for my pleasure, and I keep being subject to agoraphobia so the shortest walk on my own becomes hell. I need to be in the company of a friend to enjoy a walk.
I have given up the hope that I will be able to know a true life in the company of a woman I would love. The only person who is ready to share my ordeal so far is my mother and I plan to live with her. I still hope to build a circle of friends thru which to enliven my relationships and enrich my own life.