My Manic Story

Friendship was my anticipated topic for this post. However, two things changed that. My recent “Family of the ‘Patient’” post already includes a discussion of “chosen family” and other friends. I also have a blog follower who is kind enough to respond with comments; as I began to reply to one of her comments, I realized I had enough material for a stand-alone post. So Isyss, this one’s for you!

I’ve actually had two hospital stays for one manic episode. The first occurred literally as I was moving from my previous home city to the current one. Apparently when I’m manic, I like a good story – where I’m the author, director, and star performer. Once at the airport and due to a series of events that seemed connected to me, I attempted to get the attention of my two step-daughters (who weren’t there). As might occur in a film or play, I saw myself as a good parent seeking a last-ditch effort to salvage troubled relationships. I shouted with all my might to let them know at which gate to find me. I also insisted that the airline representative contact one daughter by phone. The result was that the airline refused my boarding the plane and instead called airport security. As it happens, the driver was someone I knew from living in a former town. This only fed my being convinced that a story was being played out, that he was driving me to see the girls. As it turns out, the destination was a hospital room. I was still under the delusion that I would meet up with the step-kids if only I proved worthy or convinced them that I was serious. Their mother D and I drank a lot of tea; my joke was that peppermint tea solves every health problem except leukemia (from which she died). So I thought if I insisted on “lots and lots” of tea, they would know that was their code to find me. At the hospital, I noticed another resident, asleep and facing the wall. To me she looked like the oldest step-daughter, so I tried to sneak into the room to take a look. Of course, that didn’t sit well with the hospital staff, who directed me back to my assigned room. Upon leaving the hospital, I hadn’t yet given up hope that the girls would meet me at the other end – until I wound up at the psychiatric unit under a 72-hour hold. Reality hit, and I worked to get out of there as fast as possible, which meant convincing the staff I was no longer a threat to myself or others.

At the end of my stay, I was in communication with my parents and ready to head home. They were told by their local mental-health staff that I would receive better care where I was at, so they tried convincing me to stay. (Later I discovered just how much more difficult it is here to find a psychiatrist willing to take on a new patient, even with ample health insurance.) I thought surely they were wrong and frankly, I was hurt that they were dragging their feet. The psychiatric unit confirmed my previous diagnoses of generalized anxiety disorder and ADD, adding one akin to “temporary severe emotional strain due to grief.” They relayed to my parents that the unit was for short-term stays only, and I boarded a plane home.

With an incomplete diagnosis, another episode was eventual. About five weeks later, I found myself amidst another story line. This time I deluded that I was meant to improve upon weak areas in my parents’ marriage by way of more “magical thinking.” When I verbally shouted and phone texted in nonsensical ways, my dad became stern and his face turned bright red; I added his blood pressure to my list of concerns. I was surprised when two police officers arrived at the door. (Remember Isyss, my family and I are white; the police, for the most part, are perceived as helpers.) After a brief discussion, I was standing near the officers. I paused first and then went for it; I tried to slap one of the officers in the face. (My dad later says that was a completely lame attempt.) Again reality struck; in a blink I was taken down. Fortunately, I was not charged with disorderly conduct or any other criminal offense; instead I was taken by ambulance to the hospital. As a supporter of civil rights, it amused me that I had gotten away with trying to slap a cop but, thanks to bruised ribs that took weeks to heal, a life experience I find unnecessary to repeat.

My blog friend Isyss asks why my hospital stay was as long as three weeks. I have only my own story, so I didn’t realize that was atypical. Certainly at the time, it felt like forever! Anyway, first I was brought to a part of the hospital to be checked medically. Two memories stand out. I wondered whether the blinking light on the ceiling was staff observing me or worse, causing me some harm. On one occasion, I tried to kiss another patient gently and lovingly on the cheek; I was met with a sharp slap to the face, an irony not lost on me.

In a matter of hours, I was moved to the high-security unit of the mental-health wing. I lived a week or so with minimal privileges – I had to ask, for instance, for crackers and peanut butter or any reading material. I was allowed brief phone calls at allotted times and no one came to visit. Since I was bored silly and high-strung (anxious and manic?), I spent a lot of time pacing in the limited confines. There were regular visits with my assigned psychiatrist.

Eventually, I was moved to the more general mental-health wing. At first, I was pleased with the improvement in conditions. There was a food room, where at any time I could access goodies like tea and oatmeal. Rarely used by others, the exercise bike near the television became my favorite hangout. There were scheduled events such as gym or craft time and, upon approval of the psychiatrist and my personal favorite, escorted walks outdoors. I attended all of it, if for no reason than to pass the time. Hours and accessibility to the phone improved. I was allowed visitors and eventually, absences from the hospital with allotted times and escorted by approved friends or family. I was fortunate that a friend from college was generous as my visitor and approved escort. I soon became bored with the routine. In regular visits with my psychiatrist, I attempted to figure out the best way to convince her it was time for me to go. Finally in her absence, I met with her peer, who approved my release. My parents came to the hospital to pick me up, with the understanding they would meet with my psychiatrist; she kept them waiting literally for hours and I received a verbal diagnosis of bipolar disorder. However, nothing came in writing and I was offered no follow-up care except to meet with my regular medical doctor.

Two years have passed with no more episodes. Apparently, it’s unusual for someone with bipolar disorder to receive no diagnosis until age 46. As long as I can remember, (generalized) anxiety has been a part of my life. But given the dramatic nature of my manic episode, I honestly can say I never had one before or since.