Experiencing a psychotic episode was not on my list of to-dos for the year 2017. Yet, there I was, driving recklessly through the streets of Atlanta on a cold January night. By the time law enforcement caught up with me, I had abandoned my vehicle and found my way to the middle of oncoming traffic trying to make the cars stop. I was handcuffed. I probably would have been taken into custody had it not been for a mental health technician at the nearby hospital. He saw me in the middle of the street, and, fortunately for me, the ambulance was on its way.

The EMTs strapped me to the stretcher and rolled me into the back of the ambulance. I was resisting and trying to break free all the while. They must have given me some sort of a sedative because I quickly calmed down and felt rather on the loopy side. I remember singing a song that had been stuck in my head around that time, but the stranger part is, everyone in the back of the ambulance was singing along with me. They sang with me even after we entered the emergency department. It was great; I was in a state of euphoria. (I now know that what that’s actually called is mania).

After I was stabilized, they quickly moved me to a room.

I remember sitting up in the bed, confused. Confused about where I was and who I was. A doctor and nurses came in to ask me my name, but I was so paranoid about giving them my real name that I gave them a fake one instead. It was all a part of the movie that I thought I was starring in.

They were supposed to follow the script and go along with it as if nothing was wrong. If I had been in my right mind at the time, I would have known by the puzzled look on their faces – and by the wristband around my arm – that something was in fact wrong.

Soon after their visit, I was taken to the psychiatric floor. The space was filled with hard, plastic, cube-like chairs and footrests. There were also several other people in hospital gowns, each minding his or her own business. It looked like that’s where I’d be sleeping that night.

I spoke with another nurse, who again asked me my name and if there was a person she could contact for me. I actually wrote down my real name (and my mom’s number!), but in retrospect, I don’t think she believed me. I’d probably given so many different names by that point. She gave me my medicine and invited me to have some dinner. I sat by myself at a rectangular table with rounded corners. I made sure to sit so as to enjoy the view of the city from the big window. As I looked out into that dark night, I saw a building that I had passed by earlier that night, and I remember thinking that I had no idea what day it was or whether any of what had happened was real.

Signed,
Bipolar I