Note to reader:  This is MY STORY.  I place zero judgment on anyone reading this who is taking anti-depressants or any form of medication that helps you get through your day-to-day life. I am simply sharing my experience and my opinions are my own. Let me be clear that when I use the term ‘crazies’ in this piece, I am referring to myself also. In no way do I mean to offend anyone. All my posts are light and I never intend harm or insult on anyone.  So ‘crazies’ will be used. I’m allowed.  I AM one. Thank you for reading! Stay Happy. 😉

I think I enjoyed my madness. It separated me from the normal people. But years later, I am realizing and accepting that it was all a cloak, a protective layer, from the reality I didn’t want to face. 

I spent 16 days in that psychiatric ward in Massachussetts, which took us into January 2000. I remember saying to myself that someday I would write about that time I rang in the New Year with a bunch of crazies. Well, here I am. My mother was quite fascinated with the ‘getting in’ process. On entering the hospital, she took the lift to the 8^th floor, and then through a set of double doors to a security guard and scanning machine. She was ushered into a space where two more doors immediately locked behind her, leaving her in between two sets of bullet-proof doors. A green light flashed, signalling it was okay to go through to the Psychiatric Ward. I was generally there waiting for her, either that or in the breakout room kicking the male nurses’ asses in table tennis. (Try saying that fast three times!)  I may have been mad, but that didn’t affect my competitive streak!

The days were structured, which I believe was designed to keep us all in a routine. Most of the patients lacked structure in their lives. Meals were at the same time every day. Apart from Fridays when dinner was moved from 5:30 pm to 7:00 pm.  Pizza Night.

The day went as follows:

7:00 am             

Nurse:                 Wakey Wakey, you nutters!  (She didn’t really say that, but I like to think that’s what she was thinking)

Me:                      Morning Joan, did you sleep well?

Joan:                   Not really.  Why do you keep trying to kill me every night?

Me:                      You keep farting.  Maybe it’s your meds, but the smell is woeful.

Joan:                   Ignores me and continues to brush her hair.  She had so much thick blond hair.

Out in the corridor

Patient 1:            Give me my fucking pills!

Nurse:                 @Patient 1, you need to wait your turn, stay in the line.  Everyone is lined up.

Patient 1:            I’ve got my soldiers here and they’re going to blow your fucking head off if you’re not careful!

Me:                      Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I don’t see any soldiers (spoken in my head of course)

Nurse:                 It’s okay, I’ve got my bullet-proof uniform on today. 

The nurse seemed completely unphased. As she spoke, she caught my concerned look and winked.

Patient 2:            Hey! I need a shower. Why can’t I have a shower? 

Nurse:                 @Patient 2, you’ve had a shower twice today already. You’re squeaky clean.

Again, unphased, like this was her regular morning routine.

Me:                      Jesus they’re all nuts in here…

I always kept my thoughts to myself. I quickly figured out that there were a lot of troubled people here, and if I started sharing my own thoughts out loud, I might be lumped in with them. I knew I had to be on my best behaviour, to get out as quickly as possible. 

After we got our medication, the day continued on as follows:

7:30 am              Breakfast – plastic cutlery, paper cups. 

The coffee was actually good. Luckily for me, I was allowed as much as I wanted. Not so for others, depending on their diagnosis.

8:30 am              Free time (to have that third shower 😊)

9:00 am              Morning group session.  

There were two assigned groups. Group One consisted of alcoholics and drug addicts. Group Two had the patients dealing with Schizophrenia, Multiple Personality Disorder, and such – a lot of them heard voices and had conversations with themselves, oftentimes crying, more often than not shouting – it took me a while to get used to them. They were all beautiful people, each with their own story. I wish I could write for all of them. 

For the first few days, as I didn’t have an official diagnosis, and given that I’d been brought in on a night of heavy drinking, I was placed in Group One. This meant I got to mingle with all sorts who told me they could hook me up once I got out, or that I could score a nice spliff if I kept in touch.

In this session we sat around in a circle on very uncomfortable mustard-coloured plastic chairs. The first day, I couldn’t stop thinking of the movie: ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’. The conversation started with the patients talking about any withdrawal symptoms they were feeling, as well as some other emotional topics. I didn’t feel threatened or scared, but I did feel like my problems were much less significant than theirs. I didn’t have much to say because I didn’t really fit in the alcoholic or drug addict category, but nevertheless I was required to participate in the sessions. We had to write a letter to our addiction. I played along with this one and wrote a letter to a bottle of Heineken. I was quite proud of this letter. I wish I’d kept it. A lot of it made sense. 

10:00 am            Art and crafts – I was TERRIBLE at this.  I made a bracelet and painted a teacup.

11:00 am            Free time. It was here I discovered the ping pong table. The nurses soon established that I was pretty good. By the end of my two-week visit, I had organized a league.

12:00 pm            Lunch – I normally sat with the patients in Group 2. I needed a break from learning about doobies, joints, and heroin in Group 1. I had different conversations with these people. Most would be talking to themselves, and would include me from time to time. There was one who told me very convincingly that I had a beautiful third eye, looking carefully at my forehead. I thanked him and remarked that I was seeing much clearer that day. 

1:00 pm              Free time

1:30 pm              Writing – Both Groups.  

We sat in a large room, about 18 – 20 of us in total, and wrote whatever we wanted. Some just sat there staring off into space, some doodled, some were prolific. I had been put on a dose of Lamictal (a new alternative to Lithium) and Atavan a few days prior.  So, I wrote about that. (I go into much more detail in my book about these drugs).  

2:30 pm              One-on-one therapy.  We all got 15 – 20 minutes with our counsellor to check in. My check-ins were generally entertainment for the counsellors. They could feel my sadness, and yet regularly commented on my soft and happy outlook on things.

4:00 pm              Yoga – I never liked yoga. 

There was an exercise bike that they let me use during this time. As I was still playing competitive squash, I needed to stay in shape. That rusty old bike had a chain that needed oiling. It was SO loud. I know I must’ve driven them all mad (yes, I just said that), with my manic peddling for 45 minutes. 

5:00 pm              Free time

5:30 pm              Dinner

7:00 pm              Doctors’ visits. This involved learning about my apparent ‘condition’.

8:00 pm              Movie and/or visiting hours. Some of my best friends came to see me with silly gifts and cards. This was probably the best part of my therapy. I’ll never forget the love they gave me.

10:30 pm            Line up, line up! Get your meds here!

11:00 pm            Lights out.  Cell phones confiscated.

Some of the people I met over the twelve years of my ‘mis-diagnoses’ were truly lovely and wonderful people. However, I can’t help but believe that being ‘labelled’ as bi-polar also in a way ‘enabled’ me to BE BIPOLAR. 

I don’t think I got the help I needed to overcome my insecurities, which basically all stem from the stigma I grew up with around being gay, and battling the guilt the Catholic Church imposed on me as a child. (Read more here:  https://orladoherty.com/coming-out-ille-gay-ly-1992/ )

I will admit that in 2014, when my former wife and I were moving back to Ireland from the US, I did a naughty thing and USED my ‘condition’ to help get our dog Shandy over. We had two dogs, and didn’t want to leave them behind. The smaller one, Odi, was a Cairn Terrier and had no real issues so we felt comfortable enough putting her in the hold for the long trip. The bigger one, Shandy, was a rescue dog and had nervous reactions to everything. We joked about how I should give my medication to her! I asked my doctor if he’d write a letter to United Airlines to say that I absolutely and without question needed my EMOTIONAL SUPPORT ANIMAL at all times, in order to get through day-to-day life. I admit I felt like a bit of a fraud, but it was the only way. Shandy would never have survived the trip; we were sure of it. It was quite comical when walking through the airport, me holding onto Shandy with her special Emotional Support Animal RED JACKET on.  We overheard a little girl ask her mother “why is that lady allowed to have her dog with her?”.  As we sat down at the bar, Shandy curled up under my feet and the lady explained to her daughter that “well she’s probably very sick darling, and she needs her doggy to help her get through the day”.  Meanwhile, I ordered a pint of Heineken for each of us…

Between 2000 and 2012, I visited Psychiatric Wards twice in Boston, once in Philadelphia right after my father died, and twice in Santa Barbara. It was there that I made the choice to holistically heal myself. After 12 years of many different anti-psychotic drugs, including Risperdal which numbed me, I very slowly withdrew. It was almost a year-long process. I was able to feel again. Most importantly I was able to hear the music again.  Every.  Single.  Note.  I was alive again.  I owe much of this to the support of my friends and family and I remain grateful to each one.

This post is a bit longer than most – I apologize – I don’t think I can fit anymore in here right now.  (That’s what SHE said). 

To finish, all I’ll say is, I fully respect the need for medication for certain people. And I hope that my readers will respect my choice NOT to take medication anymore. Instead, I allow myself to go through the highs and lows of whatever it is I am. I believe that my friends are the best therapy in the world. If I’m manic, I write. When I’m sad, I write. I don’t know if I’m bipolar.  But I remember when the doctors announced that I was, my immediate answer was ‘I’m not bipolar, I’m Irish!’

*********************************************************************************

P.S.

I have a friend, Laura Delano, who was also in the mental health ‘system’ for most of her young life.  She found freedom from it and is now a speaker and teacher on the topic.  She is free of prescription medication and talks in a much more detailed and informative way than I do.  If you’re interested in learning more about misdiagnosis and mis-use of prescription medication, check out www.LauraDelano.com