“Based on our assessment of your daughter, her frequent depressive moods, followed by bouts of hyper-activity, we are diagnosing her with Bipolar 2 disorder”. The doctor’s monotone American accent, lingered on the word ‘disorder’, as the four other people in the room stared blankly at me.

Three of them had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. The fourth, a therapist (the first one I’d ever met) sat smugly, nodding her head and making pretend notes about me. She was probably just doodling. All I was concerned about was when I could have my bloody shoe-laces back.  My runners kept slipping off for God’s sake.

It was December 14^th, 2000.  Just before Christmas. Christ, I could have waited until after the holidays I suppose. But madness had her own agenda, which I couldn’t really influence.

I was 29 years old, and living with my partner Sharon. We had just bought our first home together in Somerville, a new trendy suburb of Boston. I’d been living in the US for about 7 years at this point, having left Ireland soon after I came out to my parents as being gay in 1992.

Sharon and I had a nice life, both working in the Squash Coaching industry, in different capacities. She, a Head Coach at the Harvard Club, and me, the Squash Director at SquashBusters, an urban program designed to assist low-income and disadvantaged youth in their school work. The kids would come to us several times a week, learn to play squash, get help with their academics, and participate in community service. It was my most favourite job ever.

We were living the dream. That was until this particular night when I went just a bit too far with the table dancing. As usual, it was Friday night (and the lights were low…ahem…sing along if you know the words), and we were out with a group of friends who shall remain nameless for the time being. I was known to enjoy an odd bottle of Heineken or several, and would often be the centre of attention, pouncing onto any available table or bar-top upon hearing the opening piano thrill of Dancing Queen. No-one was ever surprised, in fact everyone expected this of me and would be disappointed if I didn’t. It was my signature tune. My theme song. And sure, it’d be rude not to get up on a table, when ABBA comes on.

This particular Friday was different.  I admit that since a very early age I had dealt with depression, at least two or three times a year. Of course, in Ireland in the 70’s and 80’s, if you said you were depressed, you’d be told you were gone a bit soft. 

‘Ah would you cop on to yourself, there are people with far worse problems than you in the world’. Comments like these were meant to cure you of your suicidal or self-harm tendencies. 

I never cut myself as a kid, but I did pick at my skin so much that I would cause it to bleed repeatedly. It was usually my arms or legs where no-one would really see. I have scars on my arms mostly – I normally just say there were from sunburns over the years. But I suppose I won’t be saying that anymore!   

Generally, when I wasn’t depressed, I was the ultimate class clown. I have a quick wit and an uncanny ability to turn any sentence or conversation into something rather naughty. Depending on the company, this can go over extremely well, or else I’ll get kicked under the table at dinner to stop talking…I always know the look. And the whisper of ‘can you keep your mouth closed for once?’ (That’s what HE said).

Sometimes, my mind would race in all sorts of directions and my imagination was spectacular. I would place myself in make-believe situations and act them out in my bedroom. I know what you’re all thinking, sure don’t all kids do that? It’s just a healthy imagination. Of course, you’re right. The thing is, I’d be doing this in my bedroom at age 27! I was often extreme, particularly when I’d been drinking. The word Daredevil doesn’t touch it. Running naked became a thing. (Thank God I was thinner back then!) But then my darkness would come, generally when I was alone, and I would question my existence. A lot. 

‘But you’re always so happy, you’re always so fun’. These were words I’d hear over and over after each visit to the psychiatric ward.

I’ll be perfectly honest and say I don’t REALLY know why I ended up in hospital that night.  I do know that every time I ended a night on a high note, I frequently became depressed and I suspect this particular time, I said something about ending my life that made Sharon worry more than usual.  In hindsight, I feel bad that I put her through that, but thankful that she acted on her instincts.

I’d never been in the back of an ambulance before, so that was exciting. Being taken away actually felt safe to me. I’d obviously been struggling for a while, and now, in the protective arms of two very handsome paramedics, I surrendered to the care I was being offered. 

I can remember when they strapped me onto the trolley to wheel me down the hospital corridor, sterile off-white walls, and aromas of disinfectant wafting through my nostrils. ‘Oooh matron’*, I smiled. The fact that I was being brought in for some sort of mental breakdown, obviously signalled to them that I was off my rocker. I admit, I relished in this. Even if I WASN’T off my rocker, I was determined to have fun pretending I was. 

‘Don’t get too excited’, I said. The hot paramedic smiled and pushed me into a room where, before me was a very large and cranky looking security guard. His uniform looked dishevelled and one size too small. I wondered how many times in a week he’d worn it without a good wash.  The stale smell of sweat and aftershave was a delight to inhale.  And he still had a bit of his dinner on his beard. 

‘Shoelaces’, he pointed towards my runners. 

‘Really?’, I was officially confused.

‘Yep, can’t be too careful sweetheart’.

I hated being called sweetheart. I quickly realised what was happening and I naturally had to make a joke.

‘I don’t think these are strong enough to hold me up though’. There I was playing into his hands.

‘It doesn’t take much darlin’, take ‘em off please’.

He also took my necklace and ear-rings. Just in case I started poking myself?  I thought that was quite odd. I was left alone with that security guard for what felt like hours. He wasn’t allowed to leave my room, and the door remained open while he read his book. It was only later that I realised I was on ‘suicide watch’. I thought he was just keeping me company because I was sad.

A doctor came to see me and asked so many bloody questions about what I’d been drinking, had I ever attempted suicide before, was I on medication, was there a history of depression in my family.  Now THAT particular question, I didn’t know how to answer. WAS THERE A HISTORY OF MENTAL ILLNESS IN MY FAMILY? I had no idea if there was an OFFICIAL history. But I was quite certain that the majority of my Irish family had ‘issues’. I’m guessing some of my readers have the same thoughts about their own family, am I right?

‘What do you mean by issues?’, I was asked.

‘Well, my dad always loses his temper in SuperQuinn** when the person in front of us in the queue takes too long to pay. And my brother threatened to kill me once. And my mam cries a lot. And my grandad was an alcoholic. And my uncle is the angriest man I know. And my aunty once threw my nana’s false teeth out the window after an argument’.

‘I see’.

What does he see?  I thought to myself.

‘But no official diagnosis of anything like mania, or depression?’ he looked over his glasses, scribbling manically (if I may say so myself).

I would soon learn that the term ‘manic-depression’, did NOT mean ‘severely depressed’, which is how most people understand the term. It is the modern term for ‘bipolar disorder’. And there are a few types of Bipolar, depending on the length of time you are manic, or depressed, or both, and the length of time in between bouts.

I was put in a room with another patient, Joan, who was very tall, very thin, had quite a deep voice, and looked a bit older than me. At night, she was strapped into her bed because she sometimes had fits and would fall out. She told me it was her third time ‘inside’ seemingly quite proud of it. She shared with me some funny tales of the nice nurses and the not-so-nice nurses. On my second night in that room, Joan had the most awful gas (although the hospital food wasn’t that bad). It got to be so unbearable that I got up at around 3am and sprayed my perfume in the general direction of her bed. That was a bad move. She began screaming for the nurse saying that I was trying to kill her and demanded a new room-mate. 

It was on the third day, when we had THAT meeting. The three other people in the room were my mam and dad, and Sharon. Mam and Dad had flown from Dublin to Boston upon hearing that I had some sort of mental illness. At the time, I believe they were quite uninformed and uneducated about mental illness. This was no-one’s fault.

It still makes me chuckle when I recall my cousin Maria’s reaction to my bipolar diagnosis. ‘Does she have a brain tumour? Is it cancer? Is she going to die?’ Sharon had relayed the phone conversation with Maria.

‘She thinks you have a bryyaan toomah’, it sounded even funnier in Sharon’s Australian accent.

Between 2000 and 2010, I had five stays in Psychiatric wards. I’m 11 years clear, and no longer take prescription medication (gave it up for lent). In my autobiography, I share much more detail on the type of treatment I received, and the experiences I had. This blog is just a little taste! So for today, I’ll leave you here. Hopefully, you’re teased enough to come back next week to read a bit more about my first time.

*remember those Carry On films?

**SuperQuinn was the old SuperValue grocery store in Ireland.