I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
-Edgar Allan Poe
When you (1) stop taking your prescribed antidepressants; (2) start abusing drugs for multiple years; and (3) isolate yourself from society, severing any type of meaningful relationship, you become susceptible to psychosis. At least, I was. Something I find interesting is that, during this period of my life, I knew I was a bit imbalanced. Mentally stable people don’t typically run around the aisles of a Best Buy shouting “I’m insane with anger” to anyone who will listen.
The problem was I didn’t appreciate the depth of my mental instability. I knew I was addicted to amphetamines. I knew this meant I was prone to hallucinations. But I still thought I was smart enough to differentiate delusion from reality. Yes, illuminati lizard people were preparing for Armageddon. Yes, interdimensional aliens were reading my mind. But that shadow person spying on me from the bushes? That’s obviously a hallucination.
Clearly, my mind had no more need for common sense. The crazy world felt safer than the real one.
So it tried to keep me there, but fortunately or unfortunately, the delusions were never all encompassing. Reality struck like flashes of lightning—unexpected and without warning—and the blinding exposure would temporarily wake me with my nightmares still imprinted in my mind. I needed help. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t completely lie to myself or hide from the world.
In one instance, before my mind could drag me back into the realm of insanity, my body took over. We need to get to a hospital, it said. Start walking.
The University’s Medical Center was a short bus ride from my apartment—less than the time it took for an Adderall IR to kick in—but I didn’t take the bus. Maybe, it was an unconscious desire to remain independent from anyone else, despite my crumbling life. Or more likely, I was too paranoid. Whatever the case, I strode past the rusted metro marker and towards campus.
The boundary that separates the grid of city streets from the winding sidewalks that tie lecture halls and libraries together is 15th Avenue. The last time I crossed this line I was hauling textbooks. Today, I could hardly carry myself. My teeth clicked together as I walked out into the cracked street, and my fingers jittered in dance. The Adderall was kicking in. As it did, my mind retreated further into the safe fog of delusion. An attempt to give up. A self-defense mechanism. My only hope was that my legs remembered how to get to the hospital without the help of my brain.
Stepping onto campus was like walking through a veil. I had stopped going to classes last year. What was I doing here? My mind was no help as my body fell into a locked groove step. Muscle memory. I was heading in the direction of the Physics Department. As if I were still a student. As if I had just been there yesterday.
Someone gasped. The sound thundered me awake—ripping the veil that covered my mind. I noticed how I looked. My pale gray skin shone translucent in the dim sun, like some kind of sick ghost. Maybe, I was. Was I haunting this place?
The gasper sped away, and my legs forced me to stop. This sudden flash of clarity offered me a realization: the Physics Department was in the complete opposite direction of the Health Center. I had been going the wrong way. With my body back at the helm, I pivoted. Northeast. Onward, once again.
Cognizance didn’t last long. My mind wrapped itself back up in the clouded veil of delusion, and the landscape disappeared. Lecture halls transformed into castles. Courtyards became jungles. Grass and dead leaves shifted into a royal tapestry and back again. Nothing was permanent.
Someone laughed. The world snapped back into view. I was in a library, my forehead pressed against a shelf of James Joyce novels. The mind-body struggle began again. I went downstairs. Up an elevator. I went through a maze of shelves and into an M.C. Escher painting of hallways. Finally a glass door. Trees. Sidewalk. By the time I made it outside, my joints ached, and my teeth felt like sandpaper. The Adderall was wearing off.
A dormitory rose in the distance, the sun sinking behind it. Maybe, if I made it there I could find an empty room to sleep this off. But just as I was about to resign myself, a faint glowing sign caught my eye: University Health Center.
“I think I need help.”
This is what I said to the lone receptionist, sitting in the darkening office area of floor two. According to the wall map, these were the Mental Health offices. A floor lamp illuminated the space.
“Student card,” she commanded, stacking several pieces of paper together. I didn’t have it, not that it would have mattered.
“Do you do therapy here? I think I need to talk to someone.”
“I’ll still need your student card,” the receptionist stuffed the sheets she was handling into her backpack, “or your ID if you know it.”
“Oh, ok.” My mind forced my legs to come unplanted, despite their resistance. “I’ll go get that,” I lied. It was my mind’s last ditch effort to escape.
It worked.
I walked back out the door towards the stairs. The receptionist zipped up her backing pack. She didn’t bother to stop me or ask any follow up questions. My mind pulled on the warm veil as my body stepped outside into the brisk evening air. Time to go back home.
Being sober for several years helped get my mind and body back in sync.
Working the steps, in particular, helped rewire my brain. It helped a lot. Going to meetings, forging actual relationships with other people, being a first-class sober individual; it all took me further down the road towards fulfillment than I could ever have gotten alone. I could appreciate the good when it came and not resent the times when it didn’t. Reality wasn’t something to shy away from. In fact, it was something worth embracing.
However, sobriety alone wasn’t the magic bullet. Not for me.
I experienced a nervous breakdown. Two years abstinent. Clean as a whistle. Calling three alcoholics a day. A sponsor. A sponsee. Buying everyone in my family Christmas gifts. Back in college. Straight A’s. Working at a treatment center. Gratitude lists. The textbook definition of sober. I experienced a nervous breakdown.
It must have been my body’s turn to revolt. It spasmed and raged and fought and collapsed from all these new and foreign pressures. All the while, my mind unhelpfully watched from afar, concluding: hmmm, I’m not sure what to do here. This shouldn’t logically be happening...you probably need help.
Fortunately, it was much easier to get help this time around. I had many more resources than I did back when I was using. In fact, I was so damn sober I had a primary care doctor.
My blood pulsed through the cuff strangling my bicep. 120 over 80. How often do you drink? Never. Allergies? None. Have you had any recent surgeries? Not one. There was nothing to indicate I was anything but a picture of perfect health.
Once the nurse left, the doctor came in. She was all smiles, nodding along as I spoke. Nothing but understanding and helpful. A far cry from where I had been all those years ago. She tapped a pen against her clipboard as she rattled off different therapists and therapy programs.
“G.A.P. is probably the best fit for you,” she recommended. “It’s short for the mental health gap action program. I’ll have the nurse get you the number.”
Great. Easy.
I returned home with a sticky-note folded in my hand—the number neatly etched into it. Sweat dulled the corners of the note. Admitting you need help to anyone, especially complete strangers, is not easy. I went over my planned script in my head before dialing the number.
“Thanks for calling GAP, this is Amanda speaking.”
“Hi, Amanda. I’ve been trying to get in touch with a therapist for the past couple weeks,” I started. “Just to give you a quick background, I’ve been sober for two years, but had a really bad depressive episode earlier this month. My doctor put me back on antidepressants and recommended this place for a therapist.”
Amanda didn’t answer.
“So…I guess, do you have any therapists that specialize with addiction?”
Silence.
“Hello?” I ask.
“Uhh, sir…this is GAP. The clothing store.”1
It’s not easy to ask for help. It’s not easy to know how to help. And even when you do know how to help—even when you have the best intentions—mistakes will happen. It’s like a game of Chutes and Ladders. No matter how close you get to the finish line, no matter how in tune your mind and body are with each other, you can always slide back. It’s not a moral failure on anyone’s part. Because it doesn’t matter who you are, how many hours you meditate, or how many therapists you have. The Chutes aren’t going anywhere. They’re a prerequisite of being human.
So, while we can’t get rid of the Chutes, perhaps we can build more Ladders. Whether you’re the director of a Mayo Clinic or just someone with a story, we all have skin in the game.
Don’t worry, I did eventually find a therapist. However, that’s an entirely different story.
We are on the same wavelength this week! I wish I had read this before publishing this morning. I was thinking of following up Wednesday with a discussion, so I may link to your post here. Very good stuff. Thank you for sharing this.