I’m coming out of the stigma closet and sharing my experiences. It was St. Patrick’s Day 2000. I ran to the WTC as fast as I could. I walked into tower 1 and into the Marriott where the club was. Then security came and so did the manager of the hotel. They knew me and asked me what was wrong. I told them that they are trying to take my soul and my roommate is going to kill me. I called my folks and told them to hurry and come get me.
I was terrifying my mom with my paranoia. She broke into a scream and started to try and hold me. I thought now she is going to kill me. She started to look like a man, a monster. I ran outside and called my boss. I didn't know who to trust anymore. I told my mother to call the police on the other line. My boss told me to lay off the drugs again. I laughed and I ran out the front door half clothed and down the street to my childhood playground.
I started to run again and quickly two cop cars surrounded me and then they opened the trunk. My father grabbed me from behind in a bear hug. He was crying and handcuffs were tightly put on my wrists. He said, “please take her.” I looked at my mom and she too was crying. They were going to put me in the trunk and dump me in the river. But it was just a movie. I can't die. I started to cry.
They put me in the back of the police car and talked about me. Then the assholes stopped for a cup of coffee and left me in the car by myself. I was scared out of my mind. Then an ambulance pulled up. Right in the center of the public shopping area of my hometown. They loaded me into the back of this ambulance and sat me down and started to ask me questions. I wouldn't speak. They kept asking me my name and I wasn't going to tell them.
Then a doctor came and said, “We are taking you to a better place.” I thought to myself, “I don't want to die yet.” They put me in a straight jacket and another ambulance came for me, but this time they didn't lock the back door. They were going to just let me fall out.
Two weeks at my parents’ house, I was highly medicated and was busy going to therapy and walking along the water. I had no real contact with work other than my insurance not covering mental health. I started writing a lot but ignored everything that happened in the prior weeks. “It was just an isolated event,” that's what the doctors said. The closer I got to going back to work, it started all over again.
Things at work were bad. No one would come near me. They had all heard what happened and thought I was contagious. The walls started to talk about me again. The laughter was focused at me again. I turned mental again.
I became very isolated and used to lay in my bed and listen to a CD called Dreams of Angels. It was the only thing that helped. I couldn't listen to words anymore. The noise in my head was too loud. I was gaining weight because of the medication and no one told me about this. And my mind went into search mode and wouldn't stop. Ruminating is what they call the same thoughts that happen to you over and over again.
I lost everything and had to leave my apartment and move home with my parents, right back to where my life began. Life seemed over.
This is the story of my first break. Today, seven years later, I am just accepting my illness. I’ve shared this story in full with only two people in seven years. It’s time for me to let go, accept and understand as best I can.