Accepting the Diagnosis
Personal Essay
I made her stop on the drive down. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in a month, or for however long I had been in the hospital. Time slips away easily when you feel trapped and caged like a rat. I snuck over to the side of the convenience store and pulled a cig from the leftover pack. ‘They will probably be stale by now,’ I thought. As I lit up, I also thought how stupid I was. I wasn’t really craving nicotine, but still I wanted to smoke. Would I ever kick the habit or was this my slow suicide?
I tried to simply take in the pleasant spring day, but my mind couldn’t help but drift towards the past and the future at the same time. Anxiety for what I had been through over the past couple months and fear for what would come next. I stomped the cigarette out and began walking back to my ride.
I can’t remember her name. I’ve never been good with names. And although I could have made up a name for this story; I wish to convey that these memories are difficult to recall, but at the same time so vivid and clear. I do remember that she was the perfect companion for this trip. Our conversation was natural as she spoke of her family and life in general. She didn’t prod me too much with questions, and I was content to listen. She had a kindness to her that refreshed my hope for humanity.
~~~
She had picked me up from a hospital in Petersburg, Virginia, where I was a patient in their psychiatric ward. I had come to Petersburg after wandering around Culpeper, Virginia, homeless and in a state of psychosis and mania. The death of my best friend Lucy startled me from my psychosis. Lucy was a chihuahua and terrier mix. She was my shadow. After spending the night in a park, I began roaming up the sidewalk with Lucy by my side. I didn’t have a leash with me. She bolted into morning traffic as I screamed her name. That night I walked into the hospital in Culpeper, realizing that I had finally reached the bottom of the pit. I told the nurses that I felt suicidal, but that wasn’t really the truth. I simply knew that it would get me a bed in a hospital and would help me towards a road to recovery. Lucy saved my life through her death. I knew I had to go on, or her death would be in vain.
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The conversation died down as we approached my destination near Virginia Beach. A young social worker at the hospital in Petersburg had recommended the place. The Union Mission in Norfolk, Virginia. I had got the impression that they knew I was coming, but in the end, they turned me away. I had no I.D. with me and so there I was on the streets of a bustling city I knew nothing about. I realized that I was on my own, and although my situation was dire, I didn’t feel afraid. When faced with living on the street there is no time to be afraid, although fear was surely there in abundance under the surface. All I knew is that I wanted to survive this ordeal and get off the dangerous path I was heading down. I asked one of the men congregating outside the shelter to use his phone and called my mother.
At the time nearly all my relationships were frayed, and my relationship with my mother was no exception. We had been in contact since I arrived in Petersburg, so she was aware of my current predicament, but was under the impression that I at least had a place to go. And although I knew she wouldn’t bail me out, I still felt obligated to call. Perhaps to let her and my family know I was walking into the realm of God. Everything felt out of my control and safety didn’t seem guaranteed. The only help my family would give me was through their prayers and the only thing I knew to do was walk.
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I was twenty-two years old when I was diagnosed with Bipolar disorder. More specifically Bipolar 1 with psychosis. I was in my senior year of studies at Radford University when I experienced my first bout of psychosis or mental break from reality. In this first episode I felt as though I was going through some kind of spiritual awakening. My perspective on the world was completely skewed and I harbored strange delusions within my mind. There was however a sense that my mind was completely open, and I was seeing the world for what it truly was.
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It felt good to move, helped to clear my mind. I actually felt a sense of adventure build inside me. Although I couldn’t predict how this night would transpire, I found within me faith and hope. I meandered along city roads and soon realized I was in no way alone on the streets of Norfolk. I felt somewhat deserted by my family, but I was being welcomed into a new kind of family. A young black man with a quite peculiar stride crossed my path. He pointed me in the direction of a Starbucks. His simple gesture made me feel at ease. I returned the gesture to an older white man who asked for a cigarette. I didn’t have many to spare, but I was willing to share.
It was getting darker as I found my way through the back streets passing familiar chain restaurants and businesses, finally arriving at Starbucks. I love coffee. No morning seems complete without coffee. But decaffeinated coffee, which is all we could have at the hospital, just doesn’t quite hit the spot. Some may argue that Starbucks isn’t real coffee, but I must admit I’m a fan. A cup of Starbucks and a few cigarettes sounded perfect. I made my way up to the counter fully aware that I had no money for coffee. But I tried my luck, asking if perhaps I could have a complimentary cup since I was new to the city. Not at Starbucks, but they did offer me a cold water and there was free Wi-Fi. I didn’t have a phone and I didn’t have a cent to my name. I did however have an old laptop with me. It was this old laptop that perhaps saved my life. But perhaps I’m also getting ahead of myself.
The folks at Starbucks let me hang out until it was time to close. With the laptop I connected to Facebook where I was able to exchange messages with my mother. It was beginning to become apparent that if anyone in my family was going to help me, it would be my mother. Even as her son was 31 years old, her time as a mother was not yet complete.
Starbucks was closed. The night was illuminated by passing headlights, overhead streetlights, and the still lit signs of countless businesses. But it felt dark. I walked among the shadows of the night, looking for a place to hideout and perhaps sleep. I came across a section of pine trees scattered to the right of the road. It was much darker underneath the trees, but I felt at ease as I walked beneath them. There was a ditch as well, and long grass grew down the sloping earth. I continued to walk on but made note of the tall grass. I could lay down a blanket from my bag and hide amongst the growing weeds.
I came out from under the shade of trees and continued along the sidewalk. I realized that I had made a circle of sorts during my evening stroll. I was now heading back in the direction of the Union Mission. I could see the sign for Royal Farms; a 24-hour gas station that serves food. The Union mission was just a bit further along the road. As I walked, I began to put together a plan for the night. I would spend a few hours at Royal Farms, and when sleep began to take hold, I would make my way back to the ditch with the long grass. Tomorrow I would try my luck at the Union Mission once more.
~~~
Accepting the reality of my homelessness was much easier than accepting the reality of my mental health. Finding myself alone in an unfamiliar city with nowhere to stay had a way of simplifying things for me. The only thing that really mattered at this point was making it through the night. When I was first diagnosed with Bipolar disorder, I couldn’t truly grasp the severity of the diagnosis let alone accept the diagnosis. To be honest, I hadn’t given my mental health much thought before Bipolar. I was a successful student-athlete, but there were visible signs that all was not well.
The experts are still not sure what the cause of Bipolar disorder is. Perhaps the easiest way to understand it is as a chemical imbalance in the brain. Medication is available, which is said to help restore balance to brain chemistry and prevent the highs and lows of mania and depression. It is not impossible to live a normal life with Bipolar, but it should also be noted that it is considered a potentially life threatening illness. One out of five people with Bipolar disorder commits suicide.
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I pushed down the cool damp grass and laid the blanket from my bag on the ground. I had spent time outside the Royal Farms and then 7-11, talking with other men on the streets and bumming cigarettes. The conversation passed the time and left me feeling like things would be alright in the end. I was still new to the area, but the people I had the chance to meet were friendly. As I pulled the blanket around my body, I poked my head above the tall grass. Although I felt at ease, there was still the fear that comes with spending the night on the street. I knew I wouldn’t have the best sleep of my life, but if I did doze off, I wanted to be sure that no one could see me. I finally laid my head down and listened to the passing cars until I drifted into a light sleep, ears wide open for the slightest hint of trouble.
~~~
Looking back at my first night spent in Norfolk, Virginia I’m grateful that I was able to keep my wits. Grateful that my mind hadn’t slipped back into a state of psychosis. I get the feeling that Bipolar is a different experience for each individual afflicted. For roughly the first 10 years of living with Bipolar I was able to work and earn a living as well as maintain a relationship. However, I was poor with medication compliance and often missed therapy appointments. I found it difficult to juggle my everyday life and keep my mental health a priority, but overall, I was happy. It is hard not to look back with regret at my inability to grasp the seriousness of the disorder. I quit jobs on a whim when psychosis would veer its ugly head again and would inevitably end up back in the hospital. All of this turned into a life of chaos and instability for me and the people I cared about. Finally, my psychosis had literally driven me into a ditch on the side of the road. Yet, as I lay there, I know I still felt grateful to be alive.
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The night drifted slowly by, and I felt relief when the sun began to rise. I rose and packed up my dew-soaked blanket, then made my way back towards the Union Mission. I explained my situation again to the gentlemen behind the desk. This time they had a bed for me. It could have been a phone call from the young social worker at Petersburg that helped me land a bed, but regardless of the reason, I was grateful to have a place to stay.
Three meals would be served each day, but I would have to leave the building in search of work during the day. There was a curfew, and I would have to be back to attend a church service each night except for Sunday, when the service took place in the morning. I would also be assigned a case manager. As I took a seat in the lobby to wait for orientation I was greeted by a familiar face. An older man named Tim Anderson. Tim was my roommate for a few days in Petersburg’s psychiatric ward and now we would be roommates of sorts again here in Norfolk.
The place was packed full. There didn’t seem to be an open bed. Each room contained as many bunk beds as space would allow. There was a large locker room with showers, as well as a storage area to safely stash our belongings. There were men of all ages and races, the great American melting pot.
Things settled down, and for a few weeks I fell into a kind of routine. I spent most of my days walking around Norfolk with Tim. We made great friends, and we would pass the days sharing our stories with one another. Unlike me, Tim actually had a bit of money to his name, as well as a cell phone. He would treat me to coffee, buy me tobacco, and sometimes we would share some cheese tots at Hooters. I would play music from my laptop and helped him set up a Facebook page. Just two guys enjoying a summer in Norfolk, Virginia. Tim claimed he could do this for the rest of his life, and I think he was right. Sometimes a friend is all you need.
I learned to take each day as it came and tried to find joy in each passing moment. However, in the back of my mind I knew I was still a long way from safety. How much longer could I stay here at the Union Mission? I dreaded the daily church services, and many of the preachers left me feeling guilty concerning my homelessness. I knew I had to find work but had real doubts that I could pull myself out of this place.
All of my bouts with mania and psychosis have felt like spiritual or religious experiences. To write them off as nothing more than a chemical imbalance doesn’t do justice to the effect that they have had on my spiritual life. I consider myself a spiritual person. I am someone who often considers the divine and even prays for my loved ones. But I am not religious. For me there is certainly a God, if only deep inside my own being. However, listening to people talk about the God of the bible gets me all worked up in the wrong way. It’s just not how I see or have experienced the divine.
One night, while doing my laundry, I decided I was leaving. It was certainly a manic decision, but at the time I longed for the quiet of the streets again. I had heard the preacher’s message enough and I would walk back out into the realm of God.
Nothing really changed except I was sleeping in the weeds again and I didn’t have to be at church each night. I could still get a shower at the mission, as well as meals. I spent time at the beach and met new friends along the way. I was just surviving each day and night. This lasted a few days until I decided to write a Facebook post.
I wanted to try to make my way back to Culpeper, Virginia. The city was much smaller, and I knew some people in the area that I thought might be able to help. But I needed money to fund my travels back north. On June 4, 2019, while sitting at Starbucks, typing on my laptop, I posted this to my Facebook page:
The Life of a Goalkeeper
Over the last few days, it feels as if I’ve finally got some alone time to look at my life and the ups and downs that have come over the years and even hour to hour. It is difficult at times to think that the guy who had it all on the soccer field and classroom is now struggling to find a place to live, but no more difficult than the bipolar diagnosis I have been dealing with for almost ten years. I want to develop a way to save myself from this medical curse, but not unlike a rocket to the far corner, I know I’m beaten. I have dived, flailed my arms, reached for the top corner to tip the problem over my bar, but no more. Caught flat footed I just wait for the sound of the net to ripple as the ball sails beautifully into the goal, it’s impossible to save your own shot. Impossible to be the goalkeeper and the striker. However, picking the ball out of your net doesn’t have to be the end of the world.
I haven’t heard it said on television lately, but goalkeepers have always been labeled as crazy. I was never really sure which part of being a goalkeeper was so crazy to the rest of the players, coaches, commentators, and fans. Perhaps it is just the willingness to do what the job entails that they find insane. I do find it somewhat ironic that I have been officially diagnosed with a mental illness. Bipolar disorder was once referred to as manic depression, which I think describes things a bit better. Bipolar sounds like a nice nickname though. Manic depression could also be used to describe the life of a goalkeeper during a match. The depressed state being most of the time when you’re not called upon and the manic side that moment of pure brilliance like a shooting star as you fly across your goal to preserve your team’s clean sheet.
I have bipolar 1 with psychotic features and episodes. A simple Google search shows that, “Bipolar psychosis happens when a person experiences an episode of severe mania or depression, along with psychotic symptoms and hallucinations. The symptoms tend to match a person’s mood. During a manic phase, they may believe they have special powers. This type of psychosis can lead to reckless or dangerous behavior.” I can’t say I fit perfectly into this definition, but medical doctors still don’t quite understand the brain, let alone the mind. So, defining the experiences of people such as myself can be extremely difficult. For instance, I have never truly felt as if I have special powers, however I know most people would agree that we are all unique and gifted in our own ways. But can we allow one’s self to be one’s self? Can I relax in the worst moments of mania and depression and simply be one with it all? Can I relax and position myself properly as the star striker bears down towards my goal? Or will my thoughts take over and confuse my ability and training?
I received kind messages from old friends, and even got one donation. But what I had inadvertently done was put my family on blast. I’m not sure if my mother received any messages due to this post, but it was only after posting this that my family stepped back in to help me. The next day my sister picked me up at that same Starbucks and I moved into a small room in the basement of my mother’s house in Winchester, Virginia.
It’s now been nearly 3 years since the Union Mission and the streets of Norfolk and Virginia Beach. With the support of my family, a deeper focus on my mental health, and probably a bit of luck, I have been able to avoid mania and the psychosis that comes with it. I receive disability benefits due to my Bipolar disorder which has helped me to get back on my feet. I have my own small apartment in Winchester these days.
I often wonder how Tim and all the friends I made that summer are holding up. How many of the men at the Union Mission, and streets all over America suffer from mental illness? Numerous studies have reported that mental illness is more prevalent among the homeless, with Bipolar disorder being one of the most common psychiatric disorders. Some studies have shown that Bipolar affects over 40% of the homeless population. Will they be as lucky as me and receive the help and support they need? For most, I fear the answer is no.
You're welcome Peter - it is rare for a person with or without mental illness to be so open about their struggle. It is that openness which should invite a wider readership. I was initially reluctant to read a longer post but you kept my attention - you write well. A subsequent shorter post to draw folks in, with a link to this post is something you might want to consider.
This is so beautifully written and really resonated with me. I read it weeks ago and am still thinking about it.