Reply From the IOC re: "Biathaob"

You may remember my post about applying to work as a graphic artist for the Vancouver Winter Olympics when I was hypomanic. At the end I mentioned that I had written the IOC with a suggestion for a new sport - "biathabob." This sport is a combination of biathlon and bobsled. There would be a driver, and the person in the rear would shoot at targets as they sped down the course.

Here is the letter I received from the IOC. Just thought it would be nice to share. :)

Nobody Says Hello Afterwards

In a psych ward, you quickly develop strong bonds with your fellow patients. After all, you are there 24/7 - way more than the nurses, cleaning staff, or anyone else. Even though you are trapped, it is your turf - much like a tiger's cage.

All of the pacing was reminiscent of a zoo, too. Up and down the hall, because there is nowhere else to walk. In my ward, they even had a sign on the wall telling you how many lengths equal a kilometer, like we were swimming. Little groups would form, chat,  and dissipate, walking back and forth.

When I got a priviledge, like street clothes or a fresh air break, my friends on the ward would congratulate me with high fives and hugs. When things went badly, I would get visits (usually from the manic patients), to try and cheer me up.

Julia, a 40ish woman who had become a good friend, was being discharged. It was bittersweet - I was happy for her, but would also miss her. I was also jealous that she was being given freedom while I was stuck, not knowing when I would be released.

"Here's my number, Julia. After I'm out, give me a call and we can chat."

Julia gave a wry chuckle.

"Don't bother. You're new at this, but I've been through it a dozen times. Nobody says hello afterwards. We will pass each other in the street, and we won't even make eye contact. It's been great knowing you, but I don't think we will ever speak again unless we end up back here. Take care."

I was dumbfounded.

I was discharged a short while after. I said my goodbyes to everyone on the ward, and exchanged numbers with some. Then I left.

When I came back out into the world, I realized that everything had changed. I had been trapped to be made whole again, and I didn't want to remember anything about time when I was broken.

I met former patients who had been my good buddies only twice after that.

Marie had become a clerk at Zellers. I was there shopping with my wife and son, asked a woman for help, and when she turned around I recognized her. She looked right at my eyes, and recognized me too. There was a brief moment of silent panic, and then it was like we had never known each other. She helped us and we left.

Big Tom, who had watched me do jigsaw puzzles and was my best hospital friend, had been moved into supportive housing near where I lived in the suburbs. I was out with my son when I saw him riding towards me on a bicycle. Again, our eyes met and there was a brief moment of shared panic, then he rode past and neither of us said hello.

It's a cruel regret, needing to leave everything of your hospital experience behind to be well, but losing your friends in the process.

Losing My Marbles

The Mood Disorders Association of BC describes mental illness like this:

Everyone has a jar with marbles. Some people are born with a lot of marbles, others with less (this is called "genetic predisposition").

Stress in our lives add marbles to the jar. When the jar overflows, you develop a mental illness. (Probably why so many soldiers develop mental illness in the form of PTSD after experiencing combat. That's a LOT of marbles).

Medication and counselling can help you lose your marbles. ;)

You can build a cap on your jar called "resiliency" by doing things to keep mentally fit like eating a proper diet, exercising, meditating and getting enough sleep; and not doing things that are risk factors like drinking, smoking pot (ironically, hard drugs don't seem to be a risk factor. Go figure), and not sleeping.

If you have lost your resiliency and your jar is overflowing with marbles, then you have a problem that needs treatment.

My jar recently became full, my reliency dissolved, and my bipolar disorder and anxiety flared up - badly. I am on medical leave right now as I work on losing my marbles. I started cycling rapidly between extreme hypomania and extreme depression (I have been going from bottom to top in one week, but thanks to treatment I have started to just be hypomanic - at least for the last few weeks). The hypomania can be pretty funny (and cause me to write lots of blog posts), the depression not so much (it's made me suicidal a couple of times in the last few months).

Here is a photo of what I was working on the other night while I was hypomanic and couldn't sleep, in spite of taking tranquillizers:

 



It's a magnifying glass that you aim at the Eastern horizon. When the sun comes up it focuses light on the tiny rose you can see in the top middle, just above the table. The rose has a photo-sensitive diode in it, and is attached to a circuit that activates a vibrating motor from an old X-Box controller. The motor then gently rings two antique bells I inherited from my grandmother. It's a sunrise alarm.

I stayed up almost all night working on this. When I get hypomanic, I work on things until they are done. My son came home from his night shift. After talking with him (I talk a lot when I'm hypomanic) I realized that this was crazy, stopped the project, and got some sleep instead of finishing it. It will probably stay unfinished, now, because the process was interrupted - and that's a good thing!

Mania makes your brain work in overdrive, until it finally becomes clogged with ideas. Some of the ideas are great (like my home-made aquarium filter that I built out of coffee filters, cheesecloth and charcoal), and many are bizarre (like my idea to create a cat food with things in it that will make a litter box smell nice. I named it "poo-pourri"). It also causes me to post too much on my blog.

So here's hoping I lose my marbles soon, so I can return to the work and a "normal" life. I hope you all lose some marbles, too. :)

My Unintended Weight-Loss Plan

Since there were no snacks on the ward (see How I Stopped a Stalker for details), the only food I got was what came on my tray three times a day, and a small snack at bedtime  (usually a piece of fruit). These portions I carefully guarded - they weren't much. When I looked around the room, everyone else seemed to have more food, and a greater variety of things. But I was sedated, and didn't feel like complaining.

The nurses weighed me after my first three weeks as part of a general check up. I was pleased to see that I had lost ten pounds. I was getting fit! But they were concerned.

"Are you eating all of your meals?"

"Are you kidding?" I replied. "The food is crap, but I'm hungry all the time."

"We're going to make an appointment with a physician and a dietician to find out what's wrong. This shouldn't be happening, even if you are walking a lot"

"I think I'm just not getting enough food," I said. But procedures had to be followed.

First a doctor gave me a physical, and everything looked fine.

It was many days before I was seen by the dietician.

She showed up with a file. "So, Mr. Stainton, what would you like to see me about today?"

I told her about losing weight, being hungry, and the blandness of the food.

She made some notes, and looked in the file.

"Well according to the doctor, you've been diagnosed with a bit of a heart condition. So this is an appropriate diet; and losing a few pounds through exercise will certainly help."

My mind reeled. I felt dizzy. Suddenly I noticed that my heart DID feel funny. Oh my god.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nobody told me that I had a heart condition," I stammered.

The dietician left the room and went to the nursing station. She returned with a different file.

"I'm sorry. Some files got mixed up. We had you on a strict cardiac diet. We'll give you more and better food now."

After that I ate better, although I wondered if the jolt of that news had given me an actual heart condition.

And I still wonder if there is a cardiac patient out there with the last name Stainton who, for three weeks, ate better than anyobody else on his ward.

My "Failures"

So...why do people kill themselves?

I can only speak from personal experience, but I suspect it is only when experiencing great pain - mentally or physically, and that there is no hope for relief of that pain.

After a suicide, one often hears "I don't understand why. They had everything to live for, and no reason to do this."

You never hear anyone say this about someone dying from a terminal illness. They have visibly struggled, and succumbed to an obvious sickness.

Someone who dies from a mental illness has put up a great fight. The will to live is strong. In dying, they have lost only after a long struggle with psychosis or severe depression.

My suicide attempts came after periods of great stress that eroded my resilience. I had initially been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, and Darth Vader was a depression-induced psychosis. I really didn't want to die, but the voice I was hearing and the emotional pain I was feeling drove me to the brink.

I was scared what people would think, and hid it well from everyone. If I had succeeded in killing myself, people would have been baffled.

This is a good example of how stigma can kill.

One thing really bothers me, though. Why do people refer to my incidents as "failed suicide attempts?" I mean - holy crap - I somehow survived! How is that a failure? Talk about kicking someone when they're down. It really makes me feel badly - like I can't even kill myself properly. Wow.

Would we ever call a cancer survivor a "failed cancer victim?" Or someone who survives a car accident a "failed highway fatality?" I don't think so.

The next time you hear about someone committing suicide, or having attempted suicide, please remember these things:

1. Suicide is the end stage of an illness, not a "bad choice."
2. Rather than saying that someone committed suicide, say that they died of mental illness. (Suicide is not a disease, just a mechanism).
3. No matter how unexpected it may be to you, they had a long and difficult fight before succumbing.

Why I Hurt Myself

One of my favourite songs is Johnny Cash's cover of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt." The first two lines go:

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel.
I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real.

When your perception of the world changes and becomes dreamlike, you enter a state called "derealization." I derealize when I'm extremely depressed. I feel a strong urge to do something drastic to see if I am still part of the world or just imagining it. Think of it as "pinching yourself to see if you're dreaming."

The next step after derealization is usually a suicide attempt. So returning to reality is critical. The search to find something to jolt myself usually takes the form of...wait for it...banging my head. (So maybe Darth Vader was trying to help me? This is as confusing as Episode VI! See my earlier post here if that doesn't make sense) For others, it takes the form of making shallow cuts on their arms.

Now I've learned some tricks. When I start to experience derealization, I'll do lots of stuff to stimulate my senses. I'll grab a bunch of ice - hold it in my hands, put it on my arms, on the back of my neck...everywhere so that I feel something. I will bite into a lemon, or I will jump up and down. Anything to fire up my nervous system up so that I de-derealize (I don't think that is a word, but I don't care. I'm using it in Scrabble. If someone challenges me, I'll refer them to my blog).

You can see a date when I experienced extreme derealization - check the July graph in my post on mood tracking here. See the lowest point? That was a rough day. I had to do everything possible to "keep it real." (See the language I used there? Totally Eastside Vancouver.)

I think that people hurting themselves are probably not doing it to get attention, or even as a cry for help (although that's what it becomes, regardless of the intent).

Self harm is a desperate try to feel something, anything, to prove that you are real and not living in a dream.

Don't Be Like Joe!

 

Getting "Support" from Child Protective Services

There are two kinds of social workers in hospitals. One (the majority) works tremendously hard: trying to find housing for homeless patients; counseling;  helping families find resources; and so on. These kind wear comfortable shoes. Usually runners.

The other kind (very rare) does the bare minimum, and looks to avoid responsibility and liability for anything. This kind wears high heels or dress shoes.

So my wife and I were sitting in the ER. After seeing a triage nurse and psych residents, I cringed when I heard a click-click-click of high heels headed towards us.

The social worker looked like she was headed out to a party, and the whole hospital was just an inconvenience. Her lipsticked mouth said, "Hello, my name is Jess. Let's see how we can help you today," but her heavily lined eyes said "I'm bored and couldn't give a shit about you and your problems."

She briefly took notes and looked at the chart. "Hmmm...it looks like your family could probably use some support." Then she clicked away.

I think "support" is social worker code for calling child protection. Sure enough, we were informed by a nurse that the Ministry of Children and Family Development (the child protection agency where I live) had been called and had opened a file, and would be investigating to make sure our children were safe from the perils of mental illness.

It is a terrible stereotype that mentally ill people are dangerous. In fact, people with a mental illness are far more likely to be victims of violence than perpetrators. Yet of course in the media we only hear about those rare instances of psychosis becoming severely dangerous. Compared to the number of violent crimes committed by the sane, I would rather hang out with the mentally ill anytime.

The ER doc and psychiatrist both rolled their eyes when they heard that my family had been reported.

This is how the investigation went down:

Ministry Social Worker: "We are pleased to be working with you. I would appreciate you sharing the details with me. We like it better that way. Of course, by law we can just go and get your medical records, but it is so much nicer to have you cooperate. It gives you a feeling of control over your situation. Then we can offer you support."

I tell her the details. She says "That doesn't sound too bad. Your children are safe and well-cared for. That's great."

Me: "So, the file will be closed?"

Social Worker: "No, we will keep it open so we can get you support if you need it."

Me: "What kind of support can I get?"

Social Worker: "We can offer respite care for your children, and programs for them."

Me: "That's fantastic! What do I have to do to get access to that?"

Social Worker: "We have to show that your children are in imminent danger."

Me: "Which they're not."

Social Worker: "No, they're not. So, we will just have to see how it goes."

Turns out, in order to have the file closed, we need a letter from a psychiatrist saying that we will never be a risk to our children.

No pschiatrist will write such a letter, due to liability risks. The file remains open to this day.

So, here I am, a librarian who works with children, being investigated by the MCFD. I informed my manager right away, and she was very understanding.

But I can't help feeling badly for all of the children who are hungry, abused and neglected who aren't getting any help because my family is taking up a spot in the backlog of cases.

Simply because of a stereotype.

The Day I Met the Real Garfield

I don't know what Judy's diagnosis was, but she was certainly living in a different world than me. She would often have long conversations with herself, or wander up and down the hallway staring blankly forward.

Every now and then she would talk to people. I was sitting in the eating area, trying to learn a card trick, when she plunked down beside me.

"I have a cat."

"That's great, Judy. What's your cat's name?"

"He's Garfield."

"Oh...did you name him after the Garfield cartoon?"

Judy jumped up, glaring at me. "He IS the real Garfield! He talks to me and he likes lasagna and he hates Mondays!" she yelled. Then she walked out.

A few days later, Judy's mom came to visit. She was sporting an extra large coat with fur lining, carrying a huge purse, and wearing high heels even though it was February and there was snow on the ground. She was nattering at the nurses, and sounded like she should be a patient (or had been at some point). She was gently being ushered down the hall to the eating area where Judy was.

About fifteen minutes later I was walking past the eating area (getting my pacing exercise in) and Judy called to me. I walked in. Sitting in her mother's purse was a beautiful, long-haired cat.

"This is Garfield," whispered Judy. "Don't tell the nurses my mom brought him, 'kay?"

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Garfield," I said quietly.

"He says hi back," Judy replied. "I told him that you like his cartoons, and that you like lasagna, too."

I sat with them for a minute, petting the real Garfield and talking with him.

Now whenever I see a Garfield comic, I realize that, in the mind of at least one person in the world, I have had the rare priviledge of meeting him in person.

It makes me feel kind of special.

The "I Spy" Game

When I was first taken from the holding area to my bed on the ward, I was really disoriented. It was hard to listen to all of the instructions. I remember somebody telling me rules, somebody showing me where the washroom was, getting told when meals were, being told how to behave, do laundry, do everything. So when I got a turn to speak, I jumped on it.

Dave, my nurse for the day, showed me my bed. It was in half of a room, separated by a curtain. He quietly said, "D'Arcy, do you see anything in here that you could use to hurt yourself?"

Cool! A game! I'm really good at games that use your imagination, like Pictionary.

I started looking around the room, thinking like MacGyver.

"Why do you have a plastic bag in the garbage can? That's a no brainer."

Dave went red. "You're right. We shouldn't have that. I'll take it away."

"And why are there two loose screws on the mesh covering this window? I could just find a dime, take them off, bend the mesh and drop out. You should really have used phillips head screws, at least."

Dave looked up, a bit sheepish. "Okay. We'll have that fixed right away."

I kept going. This was fun!

"That exposed outlet. Does it have Ground Fault Interrupt in the circuit? I bet it doesn't because this is an old building. I could find a paperclip and electrocute myself, no problem. Oh, and with that paperclip I can loosen the fastener on that cabinet so it will fall on me."

...and on and on.

Finally, I stopped. Dave looked extremely nervous, and I was feeling bad for him. "Is that it?" he asked, list in hand.

"For now, I guess," I said.

Dave left. I felt good. Just as if I had won a game of Pictionary.

A Picture of Darth Vader ca 1942

This is an American WWII poster by Glenn Ernest Grohe , ca 1942. It's from www.usmm.org. This gives me the creeps - it's exactly how I pictured Darth Vader in my head.

 

 

 

My Embarrassing Secret

Okay...almost nobody knows this about me. So it feels kind of odd writing about it where several hundred people will see it.

I'm a librarian, and I can't read a book.

I used to love reading, especially teen novels and adult non-fiction. I would usually read a book a day.

About ten years ago, I noticed that I was having some difficulty following narratives. About two years later I found myself having to re-read paragraphs a few times to get the gist of what they were saying. Today, a book is a major challenge for me that I rarely take on.

I forced myself through the Hunger Games trilogy, with great effort and a lot of time. I bring books home from work, but they sit by my bed until I give up and bring them back. I do this regularly, out of habit and a strong hope that one day the curse will be broken and I will return to the library triumphant, having finished the small stack of items.

I love reading. I have since I was six years old. When this started, I assumed that I had become mentally lazy, or burned out.

I had been diagnosed with major depressive disorder in 2000, after being diagnosed with mild depression by my family doctor in 1999. There was no reason for that diagnosis to impair my ability to read.

It just keeps getting worse and worse, and it's embarrassing. I can read small sections of reports, but anything of any length is a huge issue.

Now, I have a proper diagnosis. It turns out that in 2000 the only time doctors had seen me was when I was depressed. I recently had a full work-up done by a psychiatrist, and to my surprise (but not to my wife or friends), I'm bipolar with an anxiety disorder. (On average, it takes fifteen years to get a proper diagnosis for type II bipolar disorder. I beat that by three. Booyah! Take that, average diagnosis time!).

I managed to find an excerpt of a paper published at psycheducation.org that talks about racing thoughts (which I have with hypomania) and anxiety:

When this is severe, people who enjoy books can find themselves completely unable to read: they just go over and over the same paragraph and it doesn't "sink in."

I told my doctor about this. We think that when I'm depressed, I'm not motivated to read. When I'm hypomanic, my thoughts are racing. Once we get my bipolar and anxiety under control, we both are hoping that my reading will improve.

The silver lining? Now that I've been a non-reader for eight years, I have great respect (and a better understanding) for people with reading difficulties who have the courage to visit the library.

They don't come in the door and see limitless opportunities for learning.

The come for a CD. DVD, newsaper or magazine; or a simply a place to sit, in spite of being surrounded by shelves and shelves of what to many of them are reminders of their failings.

Vintage U.S. Army "Diseased Mind"

Mood Tracking

Even if you don't have a mental illness, mood tracking is a way that can help you find out what makes you happy, and what doesn't. These are called "triggers."

When you are mentally ill, there are several different paper forms available to record your moods. This lets a doctor see how you are doing with medications and your lifestyle (exercise, meditation, diet, mindfullness and more play as big or bigger part in your health than medication).

On your smart phone, there is the T2 mood tracker, developed by the American military. It's okay, but not as good as my favourite.

Online, the tool I like the best is called Moodscope. More and more psychiatrists are recommending it to their patients. It takes about two minutes to use every morning, and is fun. It is also very accurate. Here is my graph from July, when I was very unwell (rapid cycling - going from extremely depressed to hypomanic in short periods of time):

...and here is my graph from August - you can see where I received a new medication on August 1st.

...a lot more stable, even if mostly hypomanic. This shows me that I'm getting better. Yay!

Give it a try here. It's free, and fun to use.

Mental note: Find out what triggers good and bad moods for you.

The Day My Tongue Went Crazier Than Me

I was having a difficult day in hospital - I was hearing Darth Vader again, and having intrusive thoughts of self-harm, so a nurse gave me a powerful antipsychotic called haloperidol (or "haldol").

My friends found me in the lounge, unfocused and drooling a bit. I wanted to work on a puzzle with Tom watching (he was still catatonic at that point, with his silent, annoying security guard), but I couldn't see straight. My head was floating and my arms and legs felt like logs. Janice, a manic and extremely happy patient, was concerned. She gave me a hug and said, "sorry they had to give you that shit."

Then something strange happened. My tongue started to move. Just a little at first, then more and more. I tried to speak, but all that came out were gutteral sounds. Amber the stalker walked by, then quickly left. (This was after the magic trick stunt, so I'm sure that this only confirmed that I was demon spawn).

I staggered to the nursing station. Out of all the nurses, 99.9% were great. The two at the station represented the other 0.1%. Fantastic - what were the odds. I tried to speak, but couldn't at all. My head started pointing up, and my tongue was wagged around, lewdly sticking out of my mouth.

"Oh, stop it," said nurse #1.

"We know you're faking," said nurse #2.

"Faking what?" I thought.

"There's no way you could have tardive dyskinesia, D'Arcy. I'm sure you looked it up. You haven't been on antipsychotics nearly long enough. It takes years. Now go away."

By then I was desperate. I couldn't speak. I couldn't look down. I was having trouble breathing. I had no idea what tardive dyskinesia was, but it sounded scary. So I just stood there.

"Leave, please!"

I held my ground, tongue waggling.

"We're going to call the Head Nurse!"

I couldn't nod yes, because my neck was stuck, so I just stood there, relieved that somebody else was on the way.

The head nurse did show up, and said "it will be okay. We're going to give you a pill called Cogentin, and it will make this stop."

They got a tiny white pill into me, and within ten minutes I could talk and move my head around.

It turns out that in extremely rare cases, "tardive dyskinesia" (which manifests itself in involuntary movements and can be fatal) can occur in a patient after only a few doses of particular antipsychotic medications. (I had won the "tardive dyskinesia lottery.")

It hurt to be accused of faking, especially when I would have done anything to get out and go home.

But on the plus side, I had learned two great new Scrabble words. I will be waiting the rest of my life to have a "dysesia" on my rack, and for someone to play "kin."

Mental note: Once you know you react poorly to a medication, make sure that you let your advocates know so that you never get it again.

Bi-curious

What Depression Feels Like

A lot of people have been messaging me on Facebook with thanks (makes me feel really good!) and questions. A lot of the questions have been around understanding depression.

Here is what depression is like for me. In the early stages, people don't notice it at all. But in my mind there is a feeling of despair. However, I don't talk about it because I don't want to trouble anyone. I am hoping it just goes away.

As the depression grows, I try extra hard not to be a burden. I withdraw from social activities, stop talking with friends, and pretend that everything is alright.

Soon I have to start calling in sick to work, because my brain has stopped functioning at a high enough level to cope with anything. I start to cry for no reason. I don't want to get out of bed.

Finally, I get intrusive thoughts of killing myself. Everything feels hopeless. Doing the simplest task feels impossible. Life is pain. I still don't want to be a burden, but don't know how to end the pain. I contemplate suicide.

The end stage is like a dream. I cry uncontrollably, and the psychic pain is overwhelming. It doesn't matter what anyone says to me, or what reality is - I want to hurt myself. Often, after recovering from an episode like this, I will have little memory of it.

When I am this depressed, I will lie about how I am feeling. I cannot be trusted to see a doctor or to get myself any help. I will overshare personal details (the last time was with my boss - thank God she is a wonderful person whom I can trust!).

Now, I use techniques like CBT (Cognitive Behaviour Therapy) to try and stop the downward spiral. It's hard though - a lot of work. I also have a network of friends who have a list of my symptoms, and will make me get help before things get too bad.

For people I know who repress their feelings of depression, I notice that it often manifests itself as physical pain, irritability or even anger.

In Vancouver, Surrey and several other cities across Canada, you can access a psychiatrist within weeks at a Mood Disorders Association clinic, with a referral from your doctor. Any doctor in Vancouver can also refer you to a CBT class at your local hospital.

Mental note: Learn mindfullness and practice meditation - both help stop depression.

Hypomania at 2AM

Right now, as I'm writing this, I'm in a state called "hypomania." I have rapid cycling bipolar disorder, so at least every two weeks I hit a patch like this. Today it is particularly bad, because it makes me feel too good.

Hypomania is different than mania - with mania you experience a break with reality called psychosis. I use a mood tracking website which helps me identify what state I am in. It's free, and you don't have to have a mental illness to use it. It's called Moodscope - a lot of psychiatrists are recommending it to their patients to help follow their moods. Give it a try, even if you aren't ill. It's fun!

Anyhow, I've relied on friends and family to tell me when I'm hypomanic. Then I check my Moodscope score. Turns out if it's more than 65%, I'm hypomanic. Tonight it's much higher.

What does being hypomanic mean? You become super energized. Tonight I got out of bed at 2AM (the only way I got any sleep at all was by taking sedatives). I've done the dishes, and am making cinnamon buns for breakfast. I will head out at sunrise to do my physiotherapy exercises.

My wife and I will be leaving the house at 8:30 to take the younger kids to the aquarium. I will probably talk too much about what I know about aquatic creatures. I will feel like I am somewhat of an expert.

My head is clogged with ideas. Tonight I drilled holes in all of my measuring spoons so I could put them on a carabiner - that way I can take them off one at a time to use, rather than having them all on that silly keychain thing. I've built a nightlight for my cat's litter box, so he will have some light at night to see where to go. I'm thinking of the parallels and differences between American and Canadian politics, and the role of religion in each.  I also thought of a new way to play Monopoly that involves building a cardboard racetrack and using toy cars instead of dice. I think it would be fun. Another night I rewrote the rules to Risk, and called it Health Risk. You earned armies by doing excercise. There is more, but I won't go on.

So...what's the problem? People in a hypomanic state think really, really fast (I was thinking in my sleep, too. Sometimes I solve problems while I sleep). You get impatient because most people around you seem to be thinking so slowly and take a while to get things. You start to feel grandiose and smart. Too smart for your own good.

Acting grandiose, condescending, oversharing, taking risks, spending money, talking too quickly and too much - this is a recipe for ruining relationships. I will try very, very hard today to avoid these traps. I may even take medication to slow myself down so I don't drive my family nuts.

It is hard, though, because this state feels very good. Until your brain clogs. That's when you freeze up. There are just so many ideas that you can't make decisions. This is also frustrating for people around you.

So tonight I think I will set aside the ideas I have for changing the electoral system, building shoes out of old tires and duct tape, and turning sequestered carbon into fuel, and do my best to just make cinnamon buns.

Sometimes, the best medicine for hypomania is just focusing on your buns.

A Lesson in Shunning

Marjorie, Builder of the Great Pyramid

A lot of people think they have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). Sometimes they do. If keeping things in order and strictly following routines to the point that it's damaging their relationships and health, then they  should talk to a doctor.

I've met a lot of people, though, who say "I'm totally OCD. I'm obsessed with keeping my refrigerator organized a certain way, and get upset when anyone changes it." That is probably not OCD - it's just a trait. It's like saying, "When's dinner - I'm starving." Being hungry is a trait of starvation, but you're not really starving.

Marjorie was one of my friends in the hospital. She was probably in her late fifties, and really had OCD - badly. When I got my clothing priviledges back, I could have only a couple of changes of things because storage space was limited. There was a washer and dryer in a little room where we could do our laundry.

Marjorie monopolized those machines. Sometimes I would sneak in at night to try and launder my other pair of pants, and she would be there. She would wash the hospital sheets, the curtains, the gowns, anything she might come into contact with.

Every day she would wash her room. Floors, walls, every surface, even under her bed. She would use facecloths and hand soap. And when I say "under the bed," I don't mean the floor. She would lie on her back, working on it like a mechanic on a ferrari. Being so depressed and unmotivated myself, I was astounded by her seemingly endless energy. I wanted to take her home with me for a day and let her clean up my place.

What really bothered her, though, was her ceiling. She told me it was tormenting her - lying on her bed at night, staring up at a place she couldn't reach to clean.

Then one day when I was pacing down the hall she motioned at me to come into her room. "Come in here and help me for a minute! I've figured it out!"

I looked into her room. She had built a precarious looking pyramid out of furniture she had snuck from different parts of the ward.

"I need one more piece of furniture - can you go get one and help me put it on top? I can't reach. Then I can clean my ceiling."

I looked at the wobbly pile of certain injury.

"Sure thing, Marj. I'll find something and be right back."

I walked briskly to the nursing station.

"Excuse me - Marjorie is trying to clean her ceiling."

"She's always trying to clean her ceiling," replied Joy, a nurse I really liked.

"She built a pyramid, and wants my help to finish it," I said.

I've never really seen someone's eyes bulge, but Joy's did. "Shit!" She ran down the hall.

I took Joy's chair and followed her, pushing it in front of me..

"Here's the last piece, Marj - oh, sorry, I'll put this back since you're talking to Joy." I didn't want Marjorie to think that I had betrayed her.

On one hand, I feel good that I helped save her from injury. On the other, I would have loved to help her stabilize that pile of furniture and help her clean the ceiling. That would have been fun.

Sedation and Seclusion

I have tremendous respect for psychiatric nurses.

I would guess that the most stressful aspect of their job is keeping all of their patients safe. That's hard when the patients are working against you, like me and Darth Vader were.

His voice didn't stop once I was admitted to hospital. He kept urging me to bang my head and to find ways to kill myself. I snuck into a bathroom on my ward. That's where a nurse found me, smacking my head against a concrete wall.

He sounded the alarm and grabbed me. I didn't resist (I never really wanted to smash my head against concrete anyways - that was Vader's idea). Several nurses surrounded me. The rest gets fuzzy - I was either injected or given something to swallow. I learned later that this is called a "pharmaceutical restraint." They don't use straitjackets anymore - just drugs.

I was walked to seclusion. My glasses were taken away, so I was pretty much blind. I was locked in a small, white room. There was a mattress on the floor, and I think a bedpan. It was dark, except for a square of light near the top of the door. Every ten minutes the square would blank out as a nurse looked in on me.

It was probably one of the lowest points of my life, but it was also profound. I just had all of my freedoms stripped from me. My tiny environment was silent and dark. I lost track of time, and eventually went to sleep.

I don't know how long I was in there. At least 12 hours, maybe 24. I remember being let out, being blinded by the brightness of the hallway, and hearing a nurse exclaim "D'Arcy! You are the last person I thought I'd find in seclusion."

It wasn't traumatic, like you might think. It felt like I had been on a long trip in a space capsule.

It also felt like I had changed somehow, turned a corner, and during my space trip had escaped Vader. At least for a little while.

Hypergraphia - Goodyear Tire

Here is some more correspondence, from a long night of writing strange things while hypomanic.

Dear Goodyear Tire,

I have some ideas that I think would be greeat for your company. I am a big fan of your work with tires (my first tire swing was a Goodyear!). I would be honored if you wrote me back to collaborate on my ideas!

My first idea is to fill things that normally fill with air with SOMETHING ELSE. I think that tires could be filled with FOAM (like shaving cream, only harder). This way they would never go flat! I think there would be a good market for bicycles, balloons, and maybe even the army. I have started experiments with shaving cream mixed with crazy glue. I would be pleased to send you my results!

My second idea is to save energy! I see that the Goodyear blimp is propelled by a propeller. What about filling the balloon that holds the advertising with helium? This would make it LIGHTER THAN AIR - much like a balloon! I have drawn plans and made calculations and would also be pleased to send them to you!

Let me know if you would like to collaborate. I would be proud to work with Goodyear!!!

Yours truly,

Mr. D. Stainton
Scientist

 



Re: "Tire Idea and Ideas to Save Energy"

Dear Mr. Stainton:

Thank you for your correspondence regarding the above subject.

Your first idea relates to filling a tire with foam. there currently exist a number of variations this idea. I suggest you visit USPTO.gov and perhaps search your idea.

Goodyear blimps are currently filled with helium.

We wish you luck in your scientific endeavors and thank you for your interest in Goodyear.

Sincerely,

Bruce J. Hendricks
Associate General Counsel
Intellectual Property Law

Certified

So, say you're a person who's name shall remain anonymous (but between you and I, it's me), and you've just attempted suicide but have been saved and taken to a hospital. What's next?

First off, you are guarded. I was flanked by two security guards and told to remain sitting. I also had been searched, and was behind a locked door.

Then comes a parade of staff. First, it's a receptionist, who wants my Care Card number and puts an ID wristband on me. Next it's a triage nurse, who takes down some basic information and checks my vitals. Then, in no particular order, come an ER physician; a social worker; and a couple of psych residents. A psychiatrist comes last.

The ER physician checks me for physical damage and is angry because I tried to kill myself (he saves lives, you see - I'm working against him); The social worker checks to ensure that me and my family have support; and the residents take my history to save the psychiatrist time.

The psychiatrist finally shows up with the residents in tow, and asks me for the pieces of history that they forgot. At that point, he determines that I am a danger to myself, and will be held involuntarily until I am deemed safe.

So, I was stripped of most of my civil rights and certified. I remember how surreal it all felt. And despite being in absolute pain and despair, thinking that how once I was decertified, I would be one of the only people I knew to have official, government proof of my sanity.

Which probably means that I can never work in government. ;)

Mental note: The Canadian Bar Association has a great explanation about what rights you DO have when you are involuntarily hospitalized here.

Medication Made Me a Thief

All medications have side effects - they will deal with a thing you want fixed, but affect things that you might not want to mess around with.

Today, a good psychiatrist can minimize complications due to the wide variety of medications available. When I was hospitalized in 2000, options were fewer. The medications I took had harsh side effects - two of which were extreme drowsiness and reduced short term memory.

At that time I was living in the suburbs. One of the things I enjoyed was taking the West Coast Express (a fancy commuter train) into Vancouver. It allowed me time to buy a latte from the coffee car and enjoy the scenery of Burrard Inlet. Compared to the chaos at home, it was pure bliss.

Because of my medication, I started dozing off on the train in the morning. Since my stop was at the end of the line and I couldn't miss it, I didn't worry too much about it.

This particular morning we pulled up to the last stop. I lurched awake, grabbed my latte, and ran off the train to catch my bus.

Some scary guy started chasing me, yelling and screaming.

I ran faster.

He was swearing and yelling at people to stop me.

That's when it hit me.

Today I hadn't bought a latte.

I stopped and apologized profusely. The next day I brought my own coffee from home.

Mental note: When experiencing short-term memory loss, label things with post-its.

Me and "T-Crew"

In 2007, I remember watching Tom Cruise on TV ranting at Matt Lauer about the evils of psychiatric drugs, and the lies about mental health.

I was so upset I had to take an Ativan.

Before that, Tom and I were buddies. I would call him "T-Crew," and he would call me "Restraining Order."

So after the TV rant, I sat down and wrote him a fan letter:

Dear Mr. Cruise,

I admire you very much! I hope one day to be a great Scientist like you!!!

If it is not a big deal I would love to have a picture of you. I will put it on my wall and every day I will look at it and say to myself - YOU CAN DO IT!!! TOM CRUISE DID!!!

Thanks every so much!!!

Your biggest Canadian,

Mr. D. Stainton

This is what I received in the mail:

 

If somebody's life is threatened by an illness, they have the right to use any means necessary to stay alive. Including taking medication prescribed by a specialist.

So thank you Tom Cruise and others like you for perpetuating the myth that mental illness is a weakness that should be fixed by improving one's character, and not by taking medicine.

You, sir, have guaranteed that the mentally ill people amongst your family and friends (and statistically there have to be some), will either not seek treatment; will avoid you; or will be filled with shame. It could even be one of your kids.

 Sorry, T-Crew, the happy times are over. I will not watch any more of your movies.

(Except maybe Top Gun - that has a cool soundtrack.)

When Suicide Prevention Hung Up On Me

I firmly believe that very few people truly want to kill themselves. With mental illness, the urge to commit suicide builds through steps - first, there is a depression. The depression becomes significantly worse, and is followed by intrusive thoughts - images about death that come into your mind out of your control. Then for me it is like a switch goes off in my head, and I make a plan to end the pain. My plans are usually very dangerous - not like taking pills, where someone can find you and save you. The plans are usually for instantaneous death - like stepping in front of a bus. It's very scary, because inside I really, really want to live - but outside, I am determined to die (sort of like those jawbreakers with the sweet centre that take an hour to get to through the yucky, hard exterior).

Anyhow, I had been released from hospital and was at work when Darth Vader came back and started talking into my ear. I sat at my desk, trying to ignore him, but the Force was strong with him (damn you, Yoda, for not giving me better training! Lifting boxes with my mind? What the hell!) I told my boss that I wasn't feeling well, and left to walk to the bus.

It didn't take long for Darth to take me through the steps towards suicide. I recognized it early (it's part of what you learn in hospital), and took my new cell phone out to call the suicide prevention number I had been given.

"Suicide prevention, how can we help you today?"

(Now that I think about it, do they really need to ask that? Do they do something else, too, like deliver pizzas?)

"My name is D'Arcy. I think I'm going to kill myself."

"Um, this is actually a bad time for us. Are you feeling pretty bad, or just a little bit bad?"

"Pretty bad. I think I'm going to kill myself."

"Okay, I heard that. The thing is, we're all on lunch."

"Can I please talk to someone? To you? I really think I'm going to kill myself."

"Just hang in there. Call back in say, a half hour, and we'll be able to help you. Or go to your doctor, okay?"

"Click."

My first thought was "Suicide prevention probably DID put Rodney Dangerfield on hold!"

I couldn't think of any other  numbers to call. My brain was too overwhelmed to think of  911, and Darth Vader was laughing too loudly. As I walked toward a bus stop and certain death, I called my sister-in-law - the first contact saved on my cell.

I am so grateful to so many people for the many kindnesses they have shown me. My poor sister-in-law was first shocked when I told her what was happening, but then calmly talked to me for the next half hour until I got to safety.

Sometimes the best suicide prevention comes from someone who loves you. Thanks, Rhonda, for saving my life. :)

"Seriously? A lunch break? I gets no respect, I tells ya. No respect."

Mental note: Keep some suicide prevention numbers stored in your phone. You never know when you or someone else might need one.

If you live in Canada, here is a suicide prevention number that ALWAYS works: 1-800-SUICIDE (1-800-784-2433) Call it even if you don't feel suicidal but are depressed - catch it early!

If you live in British Columbia, there is the 24 hour Mental Health Distress Line: 310-6789 (no area code) Again, call it even if you only feel depressed - that's why it's called a "distress line."

If you live in Vancouver, here are two important numbers:

- The Vancouver Crisis Centre: 604-874-7307
- VPD Car 87 (A police car with specially trained officers and a psychiatric nurse): 604-874-7307

The Rules for Escape

Breaking out of a psychiatric ward is never a good idea. You are eventually caught by the police, brought back, then kept in seclusion or guarded 24/7.

Several repeat patients and I had become friends. I was the only one in the group that was a "first timer." After many weeks, they became concerned that I still had not earned clothing priviledges. (When you are admitted, all of your belongings are taken away. You can only wear hospital gowns and socks until you earn your clothing back by demonstrating compliance and progress).

"I don't understand," I said. "I keep telling them that I feel fine, and want to go home."

"You idiot," my friend Marie said. "How can you be so stupid? That's what they expect someone who isn't well to say. And stop smiling so much. Can't you look more sad?"

For the next half hour, my friends coached me on how to behave in front of nurses and doctors. It was like practicing for a job interview. There were tidbits like:

"Never say you are feeling well. Only say that you feel a bit better than yesterday."
"Say that you think the antipsychotics must be working, because you aren't hearing voices as much."
"Say that you felt an impulse yesterday to bang your head against the floor, but went to the nursing station instead."
"Don't ever say that you want to leave. Say that you feel safe here, and scared of being outside. That way they'll let you out for breaks because they know you'll come back, and they'll believe they need to "reacclimatize" you to the outside. They will also give you your clothes, because they know that you won't run."

They grilled me relentlessly, until they were satisfied I was prepared.

The next day I faced my psychiatrist and nurse for my daily checkup. I looked oh so sad. I said that I had been trying to put a bright face on things because I wanted to go so badly, but now I realized that I was scared to leave because of what I might do to myself. Oh, and the medications seem to have started to work, because I feel a little better than I did yesterday, and I slept through the night.

The doctor and nurse made notes, nodding seriously.

That afternoon, I got my clothes back.

The next day, I got to go outside for fifteen minutes, under the watch of a nurse. It was cold and rainy, but it was my first fresh air in a month.

What a difference experience makes.

Mental note: Listen to people who have been through before what you are going through now.

Hypergraphia - When I Applied to Volunteer at the Olympics

During preparation for the Winter Olympics in 2010, I decided to apply to become a volunteer. Here is the ensuing correspondence:

Here is the art I created (I thought it was pretty good):

...and here is the lovely reply I received from the organizing committee:

I have written the IOC to see if they will create a new sport called "Biathabob" - where bobsledders race down the course, while the person in the rear shoots at targets. Fingers crossed!

Mental Note: Ideas are healthy. Not all are good. Esecially when you are manic.

How To Make Yourself Invisible

Okay, here's a hypothesis:

1. Everyone has feelings and moods.
2. Most people can control their feelings and moods.
3. People fear those who are out of control (drunk, angry, violent, on drugs).
4. Mental illness is a loss of control of feelings, moods and perception.
5. Therefore, people fear those with a mental illness, as they believe they are out of control.

They show this fear by:

• Pretending the illness does not exist.
• Assuming that the illness is contrived.
• Telling the ill person to change their behaviour.
• Minimizing the symptoms.
• Shunning them.

It's not all bad - it's a way you can actually make yourself invisible! Try it! Go out on the street and start talking to yourself. Watch - people will make a wide path for you and look away. (This is how I jog on the seawall on a sunny weekend). Wave your arms for added effect (it's good cardio, too). No one will say hello or bother you or get in your way. It's fantastic! Better than the cloak of invisibility!

Which brings me to another, sadder point about invisibility. According to Stats Canada and the World Health Organization, suicide is the second leading cause of death in Canada for people under 45: ahead of cancer, heart disease, stroke, diabetes, pneumonia, and everything else. Accidents are the only cause greater than suicide.

But why do they say suicide? Every other morbidity category that WHO and StatsCan use describes the disease that caused the death. Suicide is not a disease - it's a behaviour. That's like saying eating too much sugar is a disease, or smoking too much is a disease. Nobody I know with a mental illness (myself included) attempted suicide wanting to die - we were very sick, and happy to be saved. (Besides, it wasn't my fault - Darth Vader made me do it).

Why are suicides never reported on the news? Broadcasters say it's because of a fear of copycats. But they cover murders, robberies and serieal killings. It's not like mental illness is contagious. Again, I thinkg that broadcast execs fear that reporting on mental illness might give their stations poor ratings - people fear the mentally ill, and less reporting gives us the perception that suicides and mentally ill people are extremely rare. So nobody has anything to fear.

Here are some things I think we should do:

1. Never minimize anyone's symptoms. Anxiety, bipolar, depression, schizophrenia, and all of the rest are debilitating diseases worthy of the same compassion as diabetes, MS, alzheimers, and all of the rest.

2. Rather than say that someone committed suicide, say "they died of mental illness."

3. Talk with friends and family with mental illness the same way you would talk to them about other health issues.

4. Use the mental health "cloak of invisibility" for good, not evil.

Thanks!

Mental Note: The best way to get compassion is first to show it. Acknowledge other people's problems before expecting them to acknowledge yours.

Basketball for Crazy People

In every hospital there are OTs - Occupational Therapists. They are wonderful people, whose job it is to prepare you for integration in the outside world and to help you gain the skills you need to function effectively.

My OT was an odd duck, to say the least. She would hold group meetings with patients who were well enough to attend. Eventually, I met that criteria. My meeting went something like this:

OT - I will be doing the talking today.

Me - Excuse me, I hope this is okay to ask - but isn't this a group session? Aren't we supposed to be helping each other?

OT - No, because Idon't want you sharing ideas about how to kill yourselves.

Okay. Anyhow, the sessions were mostly her talking about:

a) How to behave so that nobody would suspect we had been treated for a mental illness (we had been at home with a really bad cold).

b) What to tell an employer so that we wouldn't be discriminated against (we had been on a holiday).

c) How to cope with housework and other pressures (we needed to hire a maid or a personal assistant - if we couldn't afford one full-time, then even a few days would help).

Looking around the room, I knew that I was one of the few people who had a job. It is very difficult for people with bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or other forms of mental illness to maintain employment. I was working, and there was NO way I could afford a maid, or go on a long holiday. This woman was a little out of touch.

Then there was the day I finally got some physical activity other than pacing the hall. In our hospital gowns me, my buddy Tom, and two other guys were taken by the OT to a little gym we hadn't known existed. It was on the bottom floor of the building, and had a basketball court.

I LOVE basketball! We were so excited just to get the chance to move around!!! We were going to play two on two. We started, then the OT blew a whistle.

"What are you doing?" she yelled. "There is absolutely NO running! We do not want you getting injured."

Seriously? No running? For twenty minutes we glumly walked around the court. I would take a shot, miss, then had to slowly walk to get the rebound. We couldn't block out or check closely - if we touched each other at all, the whistle went off. We had to keep a metre apart.

Most OTs are amazing people, but all I learned from this one was that I needed to hire a maid and play basketball in slow motion.

If you ever play me in a game of one-on-one, THAT's the reason I am moving slowly. It's not that I'm getting old. ;)

How I Stopped a Stalker

There's one in every hospital psych ward. It's the person crazier than you who drives everyone else nuts.

In my case it was Amber. She was very unstable and experiencing a lot of psychosis. She would eat any food she could find, so at meals we had to guard what we had very carefully. The ward fridge, which would normally hold light snacks for the patients, was empty - staff couldn't stock it because Amber would just eat it all. She was also bigger than me and mean, like a menacing rottweiler. And she fixated on me.

She would follow me up and down the hallway (walking up and down is the only way to get exercise when you are locked in a ward - they don't let you outside). At meals she would stare at me. When I went to the TV room, she would come - and change the channel I was watching.

The nurses would try to intervene, but didn't have a lot of time to help. I had to think of something - something I could do that would solve the problem, but wouldn't get me put into seclusion.

I found out that she was religious. Extremely religious.

There is a magic trick I learned a long time ago. You take an empty styrofoam cup (we drank out of them at mealtimes at the hospital), and discretely punch your thumb through the back, like this:

Then you pretend to drink out of it. I waited until Amber sat down and started staring at me, like I was her meal. I pretended to take a couple of sips. Then I waved to her, and made the cup levitate, like this:

She screamed, "You are doing the work of the devil!!! You are evil!!!" and ran out of the room.

After that, she avoided me.

And I finally got to watch the TV shows that I wanted.

Mental note: Learn magic tricks. You never know when you will need one.

Hypergraphia - Middlewalks

Since the medication still hasn't kicked in this morning and I am very hypomanic, here is a second post. It's a letter I wrote to the Premier of British Columbia with an idea for our roads:

Dear Mr. Campbell,

I have an idea! I live in vancouver with Mr. Sullivan our mayor. I have been thinging about his Eco Dense City ideas, and I have an idea that the WHOLE PROVENCE should think about!!!

I was walking today and I looked down and guess what? I was walking on a sidewalk! I started thinkin. There are 2 SIDES to everything. This means two SIDEwalks for every road! But you know what there is only 1 of??? A MIDDLE!!!

Can you please change our roads so that they have a MIDDLEwalk only? If people just walked in a special lane in the middle of our roads then there would be no more need for SIDEwalks! Cement and space would be saved!!!

It is up to you now!!! Please write me back and let me know if I can send you my plans!!! I will help in any way that I can to save space and make things more dense!!!

I will look forward every day to your letter!!!

Your friend,

Mr. D. Stainton

My Hypomanic Morning

Okay...this morning I am extremely hypomanic. Here is what has happened so far:

3:00 AM - got up half asleep and ran full speed into a wall. (Thanks, Kool-Aid guy, for putting that in my head in the 1970's. Bastard.)
3:30 AM - woke right up and realized I need to go shopping for groceries.
3:45 AM - walked to the SuperValu at 1st and Commercial. It's open 24 hours. Did a week's worth of grocery shopping.
4:45 AM - arrived home by cab and unloaded the groceries. I decided that dinner should be made while the weather is cool.
5:00 AM - preheated the oven and make enchiladas, while ripping CDs from the library on my computer.
5:30 AM - made pancakes for the family for when they get up, and boiled a dozen eggs for potato salad.
6:00 AM - cleaned the cat's litter box, and put out the recycling.
6:15 AM - first kid got up and ate pancakes.
6:30 AM - I took my daily medication and ate breakfast.
7:00 AM - my wife got up and I started talking to her really, really fast.
7:15 AM - I took a half milligram of Clonazepam (a sedative) which will hopefully slow me down today.
7:30 AM - I blogged about it.

During all of this I think of inventions. Like - why don't they put transducers under concrete pavement at airports and bus stops so that they will generate electricity when vehicles are on them? Why do we use peg boards in shops to stay organized, but not in kitchens? Why don't they make bags with silica dessicant inside so that you can dry wet things while camping? Why don't they make tents that are also backpacks, so that you don't have to carry a tent when backpacking - you just unfold the backpack?

Anyhow, I am rambling - I also do that when I am hypomanic. I hope you all have a fabulous day - I promise my next post will be more thought out and less manic.

Tip: If you are bipolar, learn to recognize the signs of impending hypomania, so you can reduce the impact on friends and family.

Statue Friend

I've always found it funny that every psych ward has boxes of puzzles. And of course, they are usually missing one or two pieces. What a great metaphor.

Puzzles, though, are often a helpful tool to focus and "stay in the present." They don't work for everyone, but they help me. And they give hospitalized people a reason to be social.

When I started working on my first puzzle I was very new on the ward, and very nervous. A gigantic man came and sat beside me. Beside him was a security guard.Tom was always shadowed by a security guard. The guards ignored me when I tried to talk to them. Probably because I was "crazy."
Tom never said a word, or showed any emotion. But he watched me do puzzles. He was a statue, shadowed by security statues. So, I began having one-sided conversations with Tom. Soon he started sitting by me at meals (with his security guard), and walking with me up and down the hall (with his security guard).

I learned from other patients that Tom wasn't being guarded because he was dangerous, but because he was one of the few patients to have successfully escaped. In only a hospital gown and bare feet, he made it almost ten kilometres through ice and snow along the Fraser River before the cops got him. To me, he became a kind of hero - I started looking up to my statue friend.

I would talk to him for hours. I told him about my family, my hobbies, my work. He was great to have around - my giant, silent buddy. I couldn't tell if I was bugging him. But he stayed close, so I assumed not.

Then one day they took Tom away for Electro Convulsive Therapy (ECT).

I didn't see Tom for a day.

The next morning I was eating my breakfast, and I heard a booming voice say "D'Arc! How you doing, buddy?"

The statue had come to life. Tom was gesturing and smiling, and he knew everything about me. Over the next weeks we became best friends, and I learned things about him, too.

I guess I'm a great judge of character, even when a person is catatonic.

Mental Note: Make an effort to stay in touch with friends, even when you feel at your worst.

Darth Vader

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away...I thought I was normal. Then one day I heard Darth Vader. Seriously.

I am a huge Star Wars fan (at least of Episodes IV and V - not the new crap), so you might think this was a dream come true. But when you look around and James Earl Jones is not there (I think he was busy with his gig on CNN or making Field of Dreams or something), it's a bit unsettling.

Darth never told me anything bad at first, but I was worried. As I said, I am a fan of episodes IV and V - the ones where he is evil, and unredeemed by the act of saving Luke Skywalker. So I was on guard. He would say things like, "This seems like a good day for a walk," Or, "Go ahead, order the cheesecake. You look fabulous and could afford to put on a few pounds." Things he probably said on his off days while ruling the Imperial Forces.

Then the comments started to get negative. (He is a Sith Lord, after all). Remember the scene where he berates a commander for not building the Death Star quickly enough? (He should have checked the plans for that exhaust port the size of a womp rat, too). And also the scene where he chokes that annoying guy just by gesturing with his hand? I was ten when I first saw that (newly released, I might add - sort of like saying I was at Woodstock), and I went around secretly trying to choke strangers by making a crab claw out of my hand and pointing at them.

The Empire was all about taking over worlds. Vader started out slowly, telling me to bang my head against walls. It was compelling, so I did it. Every time I did it, I felt better, but less in control.

Things got worse, and I lost touch more and more with my world as Darth Vader took it away from me.

Of course, I was eventually saved. The plan involved a garbage compactor and some inept rescuers. I'll save that story for another time.

"Come to the Dark Side. I've got candy."

 Mental Note: Don't try to tough stuff out. Ask for help.

Hypergraphia and Sara Lee Cakes

If you are unfamiliar with hypergraphia, here's a good definition from About.com:

Hypergraphia is a condition in which a person feels an overwhelming compulsion to write. People with bipolar disorder, especially during mania or hypomania, may find themselves writing for hours at a time, not necessarily realizing that this is unusual. It may take the form of journalling, creative writing, or copying page after page of a book.

Long before I knew I was bipolar I had an overwhelming compulsion to write letters. Stupid letters, mostly to companies. My two rules were: the letters had to be polite; and they could not be sent to charitable organizations.

In 2008 my hypergraphia became a Christmas gift to friends and family - I had copies of the letters and responses printed for everyone.

Is hypergraphia a bad thing? The good thing is you get a lot of writing done. The bad thing is sometimes you stay up all night to do it. Anyhow, here is an example:

Dear Sara Lee,

I am writing you with what some may consider a rather odd request. As a child living in America, I was regularly served Sara Lee Cheesecake in the late 1950's and early 1960's.

Unfortunately, I became "caught up" in the "hippie" movement of the 1960's. For many years I refused to eat any meat or dairy, and dabbled in several other "hippie" pastimes.

Now, many years later, I find that the Sara Lee cakes taste much different than I remember. I still enjoy them very much, but I cannot stop wondering if the taste has changed, or if my 1960's lifestyle did something to my sense of taste.

Do you, by any chance, have a cake or a sample in your freezer from the late 1950's or very early 1960's that you would be willing to sell to me? I would, of course, pay all shipping and handling costs. I am dying to resolve this mystery!

Many thanks for your help. Continue the great work with cake!

This is the lovely response I received:

Dear Mr. Stainton:

Thanks you for contacting Sara Lee with your questions. We truly value you as a customer and as always, we will continue to produce superior quality products that meet your expectations.

With regards to your inquiry about our Cheesecake, we do not have one available from the late 50's to early 60's era. Our dessert products have a maximum shelf life of two years if frozen.

We have enclosed complimentary coupons to be used on your next Sara Lee purchase. If you have further comments, questions, or suggestions feel free to contact us again in the future.

I am saving the coupons to use in 2038, at which time  I will demand to be sold a 30 year-old cake.

"It took most of my life, all my savings, and 1.21 gigawatts, but now I will finally know the answer!"

Mental Note: Journaling is a great way to track your moods, and is a fabulous outlet for frustrations.