A Little Help from My Friends: Support & Mental Health

There was a time when my moods swung like the wiper blades on a windshield; no one including myself knew what to expect. Then came the heavy medication that kept me virtually comatose for twelve years. They definitely dulled my emotions; someone could tell me they were dying of cancer and all I could give them was a lost stare. The problem was everything else felt numbed too. I couldn’t think very clearly and when I moved it felt like I was moving through Jell-o. This was the state I was in when my friends simultaneously decided that they didn’t want me being part of their lives anymore. They figured I’d been sick nearly two years and I hadn’t done anything to help myself. They’d lost faith in me. And *poof* they were gone. Christ on a stick! I could hardly bring myself to eat or wash or even get out of bed some days. I tried to tell them but my words fell on deaf ears. When I needed someone around the most they go and dump me. Those ill-conceived bastards!


Five good friends, two of which I’d grown up with, had abandoned me. Yes, I use the word “abandoned” correctly. My doctor at the time thought it was a terrible thing for them to do and my psychiatric nurse actually seemed shocked. In the end, it was every man for himself. If any one of them had taken the time to consider the outcome of their actions or taken responsibility for them, I might not have ended up in my present state. I may have been less likely to fill out all those forms after a couple of suicide attempts. Hey, just saying.

I saw one of them on the street about a week ago. I smiled and waved. He turned his head and walked away. That’s what brought all of this to the surface again. I’m not the only one, either. I’ve met a lot of psychiatric patients that had lost both friends and family because they were sick. So many people don’t “believe” that psychiatric illness even exists and that doctors and psychiatrists are nothing more than witch doctors. They tell us to “get over it” because it’s all in our heads. Ha! Yeah, well chosen words. One of the few things I remember from the 90s (because of the meds) was that I underwent a battery of tests including an MRI. They told me I had had a chemical imbalance in my brain since I was born and that it was probably a genetic trait. Born bipolar… Ain’t that a kick in the teeth? My difficulty sleeping – insomnia and “night terrors” – may be because of some neurological problem. There’s a hospital here in Montreal that has a clinic especially for sleep disorders. I’ve been trying to get an appointment for nearly ten years, they’re that back logged.

But from 1991 to 2004 sleep wasn’t an issue. I was so doped up I have next to no memory of those years. I vaguely remember going to a concert I’d been dying to see, those brain tests and, of course, my father’s death. There’s one event from that time, however, that stands out above all my other memories of all time. I stayed in my usual psychiatric hospital for two months. I met a really sweet girl there. We saw each other outside the hospital for a little over a month when she committed suicide. I lost a big piece of myself that day and finally understood what loneliness was. That’s all I really have to say about that.

At the start of that weird, stoned period I tried different things to try to get myself out of that situation. I took courses by mail and online but was ultimately disappointed. They gave me the bare basics, got me interested but demanded more money for anything more advanced. I was part of an art therapy program and I was the only “normal” person there. The rest was a group of mentally retarded adults. That didn’t work out well. Through a government program I took part in a job re-training program for nine months. I thought I was doing well, or so I thought. I did have some trouble in groups. At my evaluation at the end I was told I had improved but that I was not suitable to work. I was also told that this would go on my permanent government record. Unless I worked illegally I’d never get a real job again. That was a big blow. In order to get rid of that terrible black mark I would have to be re-evaluated by a doctor then get an evaluation from a government doctor then show I’m capable of taking on a job. After that I kind of slid into a depressed state.

After twelve years I really wanted to get out of that awful state. I asserted myself and insisted that my new doctor changed my meds. He did but a couple of the drugs I had decided to quit cold turkey. The next few weeks were hard and the withdrawal symptoms were sometimes overwhelming. Then, one October day, I experienced what I jokingly call “The Great Awakening”. I was walking home from the market, trying to avoid people at all costs, when I looked up and saw the colourful leaves. It was as if I was seeing autumn leaves for the first time. There was a smokey smell in the air and the breeze was cool. It all happened as if someone threw a switch and my senses turned on. I was great for a couple of days but soon everything was normal. But at least I wasn’t in a walking coma anymore.

The passing years had taking a toll on my life. Being numb for so long had left me feeling like I had awakened in the future. New technology, new attitudes… I’m still having trouble fitting in. No friends, no job and poor physical health made it so that my apartment was the limit of my world. And it was an awful mess from years of neglect. Strangely, when I broke my ankle a while back, the med-tech said he’d try to find help for me and he did get the ball rolling. And so began a frustrating series of phone conversations with social services. In the end, they told me they didn’t have enough people to make home visits. The same happened when my doctor insisted I call them again so they could help me out. Yep, same shit. With help I hired a professional cleaner and he did a top job. My opinion of government services definitely took a turn for the worse, though.

I still have to deal with the ups and downs of depression and I’m trying to figure out how to fix everything. It seems like such a big job. One thing I’m having trouble understanding is all this anger seething just under the surface. Not occasionally – all the time. I need help to accomplish change but help just isn’t there professionally or otherwise. My agoraphobia is still like a heavy chain around me, keeping me from things I know I should be doing. I still write and draw but it seems that whenever I make progress I trip or hit a wall. I wonder if because of my hateful illness I will ever have a real friend again. I should say there is one person who has been with me all along that has been much more than a friend, my mother. As she often says she’s no “Spring chicken” and even though she doesn’t understand my craziness she’s always there. I sometimes go into rants where I say things that might hurt her but she weathers my storms. She is a blessing with a heart of gold.

I am certain that things would have turned out differently if I’d had a friend or companion at my side all this time. I believe in first causes; had those friends been more understanding and compassionate all those years ago there could have been some damage control. I hate to see how other mentally ill people are treated; they’re mistreated, laughed at and ignored when they need attention. They have to bear the weight of labels and when one human being snaps the mentally ill are given his sins. How can we possibly heal and grow in such an environment? Once we were chained to walls in cold, wet dungeons, people paid to see the “crazies” yanking on their chains. Things may have change but not only marginally. My own personal plight is next to nothing compared to the suffering and hardship many of the mentally ill experience. Some receive good care and lead almost normal lives. Others sit forgotten in hospitals or homeless on the streets. I’m afraid that when I am finally, completely alone that I will end up like one of those discarded ones. Just because I was born this way.

Be nice to the mentally ill. You might be surprised at the things they’re actually capable of. Hell, would it hurt to be nice to everyone?

-LAF