Overcoming My Mental Illness and Its Implications

I am not my just my disease. I am more. I wrote this essay to humanize me and to call attention to the dehumanization of those who are like me.

 I know that my  life matters to me and to the people who love me.  But after having had to ingest so many harrowing tales of state-sanctioned police violence against innocent black men/boys who struggle with mental health issues, with no repercussions for the people who commit these violent acts, I’m inclined to think that there are many people in this country who believe that my life matters much less than theirs. But I know that if black men and women with mental illness are able to live full and productive lives, instead of being reduced to a symbol for a movement or a hashtag, this great country that I love will become a better place for all. I happen to be a black man who has been diagnosed with a chronic mental illness. This is very personal to me.

                I hope that I’ll be able to do my part in bringing about the greater society’s acknowledgment of the importance of lives of people like me.  But before I do that, I want to reflect upon my journey to the place at which I have arrived. The story is of a protracted length, but I hope that you are able to stick with it.

                I was initially diagnosed 14 years ago, while confined in a New York area hospital.  I know that the word “confined” seems like a strong term to describe my stay in a hospital, but if you were to ever visit the psychiatric wing of the hospital where I was stationed you would understand my choice of words.  Much of the ward’s patient population existed on the extreme edge of society, with some having had spent some time in a prison. So there was a need for uniformed police officers to patrol the corridors and man the exits. And because there was always the potential for volatility, there was the expectation of a strict adherence to a schedule and procedures by the staff and the patients. The psychiatric wing was akin to a softer form of a prison in many, many ways.

                I had never seen so many police officers cobbled together in one place. Their constant presence seemed to increase my anxiety.  The officers worked in concert with the members of the clinical staff. They were called in to assist clinical staff when a patient went off the rails, which happened on occasion.   I didn’t blame the hospital then for implementing structures and rules that promoted order and compliance.  A charge was constantly running through the hospital’s atmosphere, and the probability of a patient losing control of their emotions was elevated.  Some patients were strapped to their beds because of the danger that they posed to themselves.  My roommate, who was usually calm, suddenly lost it one night and spit in the face of one of the attending nurse during checks.  An officer had to be called in help diffuse the situation. They were both able to calm the patient down, and without having to exact unnecessary violence on the expectorator. I say again, ‘’without having to exact unnecessary violence on the expectorator.”

                I didn’t think that I belonged in that psychiatric ward with the others.  I was polite to a fault; I had grown up in a lower middle-class family; I’d graduated college, and performed theater before audiences on the New York stage.  There was no way that I was like these people, who were without family, who were uneducated, and who’d spent time in a prison cell. That’s what I knew. But the police had discovered me on the streets of the city, alone and crying for help, the bones of my knee protruding from a hole in my skin after having fallen from a window that was three stories high.  They’d probably come into contact with a lot of people on the fringes who were enmeshed in situations that were similar to mine.

                I could not accept my diagnosis.  I lay awake in my hospital bed at night chewing on the psychiatric condition that they had ascribed to me: bipolar depression.  I chewed on it, and chewed on it, and chewed on it all night, but I was not able to swallow it down.  Bipolar depression! Ugh!! Every time I thought of those words they would conjure up an image of two monster trucks charging towards each other at full speed until they rammed into each other. The doctor was obviously mistaken because there was nothing wrong with me.  It was everyone else in the world that had the problem, not me.

                I was prescribed two psychotropic drugs-Seroquel and Zyprexa. The expectation was that I was going to ingest the Seroquel in the morning and the Zyprexa at night. I did take the Zyprexa the first night that it was offered to me in order to please the nurses.  The next morning, I was unable to raise my head from the pillow, my limbs felt as if the bones had been filleted from beneath my skin, and my mind was covered in a fog. I spent the whole rest of the day in bed, mired in a drug induced stupor.  It wasn’t until nightfall that I was able to feel anything like my normal self again. And it was on that same night that I made the resolution to never ingest another psychotropic drug for as long as I lived.

                For the next two weeks, I was the model citizen. I did anything I could to expedite my release from the psychiatric ward. I pretended to ingest all of my medications, opened up about the issues that might have precipitated this onset of my illness, and finally admitted to them that I was sick, but with my fingers crossed. Having satisfied the doctors with my progress, I was released into the custody of my parents, but of course, I was still unhealthy. I still believed that everyone in the world harbored this irrational hatred towards me.

Chapter 2

                I was referred to an outpatient clinic when I’d arrived home and was given a psychiatrist who prescribed medications that I refused to take. Spending time in my parent’s house was the best medicine for me. During these months I didn’t really leave the house unless it was of an absolute necessity.  Once again, I adhered to a routine, although not as strict as the routine that I had to follow at the hospital. I spent most of my days in the clothes that I slept in the night before.  I worked out in the basement, read books, and watched television to pass the time.  When I did leave the house during those few months after my first episode, it was with my mom or dad.

                After a few months at home, it felt as if the world had stopped being angry with me. And since I’d been forgiven for my transgressions I thought that the time had for me to start rebuilding.  So I began to dip my toes in the water.  It started with outings to the local gym on my own, where I was able to work on exercising my body and reignite atrophied social skills, followed by solo trips to the shopping mall and the movie theaters. My confidence grew with each solitary excursion out into the world.

                I was able to secure a data entry job ten months after leaving the hospital. I found the work to be a bit menial for someone with a college degree, but it felt wonderful to be able to contribute money to my household.

                Everything began to unravel at the job after only two months, though. One afternoon I left the building in which I worked for a scheduled thirty minute lunch period and returned to work after thirty-five minutes had passed.  I looked towards the building’s entrance as I drove into the parking lot. The door was held open by a female employee who I did not particularly care for. She looked as if she was waiting for something or someone. When she saw me pulling into the parking spot that still remained, she retreated behind the door.  My heart was beating in my ears by the time I turned off my car’s engine.  I thought that someone had dispatched her to spy on me.

                My response to that incident was to never to leave my desk area except for bathroom breaks. After a few days of this behavior, my supervisor, a mousy-voiced woman, became worried. She stopped over at my cubicle during lunch one day.

                “Hi,” she said, smiling. “I hope you’re day is going well.”

                I returned the pleasantry.

                “It’s lunch time. Why don’t you take a break?”

                “I’m fine right here,” I replied. “In fact, there is some work that I need to do. But, thank you.”

                “Okay,” she replied.

                I felt the hostility from my co-workers almost immediately after that conversation.  It began with furtive stares from a few people, and then like a virus the need to fix me with a subtle hostile stare spread to everyone in the office. Soon, every face became twisted with hate for me every time I walked past them, making me perspire. And when not presented with the opportunity to stare me down, then they were speaking ill of me covertly, plotting my demise. I was starting to feel like I did during my last days in New York City-paranoid, depressed, hopeless, and unsafe. I left that job two days after that conversation with my supervisor had ended.

                There would be more fits and starts like the one I’d just described. Whenever it seemed that I was on the path to regaining my sanity and my health, I’d acquire an enemy, real or perceived enemy, and then I’d revert back to insanity. I was trapped in this recurring loop for almost twelve years.

                There were several encounters with the police during those twelve years. I’ve been arrested multiple times, shocked into oblivion, and have had guns pointed at me by police officers.  I didn’t know how lucky I was to have been able to escape those encounters with breath still left in my lungs until just recently. 

Chapter 3

                I searched my soul for answers on how I was going to overcome the illness.  An after much deliberation, the best and only answer that I could come up with was ‘acceptance’. I’d already rummaged through the other four stages after being diagnosed, but it took twelve years before I was actually able to accept that I was ill.

                Acceptance meant more than the simple acknowledgment of the disease. If I was going to accept that I had a disease then I was going to have to conform to a treatment plan; which meant that I was going to have to visit my psychiatrist and therapist regularly, and actually heed their advice. And if their advice was to ingest those dreaded psychotropic medications- at lower doses- I would not contradict the advice by not downing the pills.

                Ever since I’ve resolved to accept that I have this illness, I’ve been able to make a slow and steady ascent on the path that leads to the life that I eventually want to have.  I know that the disease will forever be with me, like one of those small stains that you can’t wash out of your jeans. My mental illness has left a stain on my soul, one that cannot be wiped away.  And this stain is a permanent part of me now, for better or for worse.

                Whether you were a friend or stranger, you wouldn’t know that I am currently managing a mental illness, for it is not reflected through my speech or through my actions.  Unless I was to point it out, my stain is hidden in a place that only I could see. And for a long time I wanted to keep it hidden from everyone.   The larger society held people with mental health issues in a very low regard, with many people responding to mental illness with fear, hatred, and violence. I knew that those who reacted to mental illness in a negative way were absolutely wrong.  Studies have shown that people who struggle with mental illness are the least violent among us. Still, the politicians and news media relentlessly used a broad brush to paint us all as uncontrollably violent and destructive, and as dangers to the general public.  I didn’t want to be swept up into these broad generalizations that would act as impediments to my being accepted as a full human being.  The hurdles were already high enough because I was a black man. Those hurdles were almost impossible to leap if you were a black man with a mental illness.

                Recently, though, I’ve become aware of some changes.  Society slowly seems to be coming around to the fact that mental illness is not a disease for boogie men who skulk about in dark corners.  Consequently, more people who struggle with mental health issues are coming out with their stories to millions of people through various mediums. Celebrities are beginning to come out with their stories, attaching famous names and faces on illnesses, which make the concept of mental illness more palatable for the general public. Politicians are beginning to speak of mental illness as a problem that requires medical interventions and solutions. The same type of waking up seems to be happening with questions concerning racial inequality.

                But I’m still fearful.  I’m over 6 feet tall, black and bald-headed, and I weigh over 240 lbs.  If I were white, I’m thinking that my size and strength would generally equate with stability, stature, and security.  But as a black man my physicality makes me vulnerable to attack. I’m feeling fragile instead of secure. I’m afraid of being involved in a routine traffic stop with police, some of whom harbor an irrational psychological fear and animosity towards people who like me.  God forbid that I have another psychological breakdown while in the presence of police, the possibility for regression always exist. My chances for surviving a confrontation with police will be greatly decreased.

                I applaud Demi Lovato, Britney Spears, Jim Carrey, and others for bringing about  more public awareness  and understanding of mental illness by coming out. It was a brave thing for them to make public their stories of suffering and redemption.  But they are celebrities, who’ve been placed on pedestals, and in many cases, are white.  People who look like me desperately need more representation so that we can bring attention to our plight, because black people with these illnesses also have names and faces.  We are much more than our diseases.  We are people who are living lives that matter to others. And may I also say that de-escalation training be made mandatory for all police around the country.