I've said all I wanted to say about my schizophrenia in the "Tree Outside the Window. " That was enough. I also have bipolar disorder, another major mental illness, a substance abuse disorder, anxiety, depression, insomnia, and OCD. I guess I have an insatiable appetite when it comes to psychiatric illnesses. My inheritance.

I'll tell you about bipolar disorder. In the beginning stages, I knew what was going on. I understood what it was very well. I would relate my thoughts and feelings in regard to my manic-depression, and people would be entertained. I never expected it to escalate to a whole new stage.

I was going up the stairs and down the stairs. Then up and down and up and down again. I considered this good exercise though others saw it as weird. My mother would yell at me since she had no idea how to react. Some people who were initially entertained when I spoke of my condition were now crusaders of justice, like my mom and my husband. My mother treated me like I was shit, making things more difficult for me. Enough said about that.

I constantly retreated to my basement. It was my sanctuary. My Batcave. I began shouting out my basement window, every bit of craziness that was so critical to me. The onslaught of thoughts and delusions and their importance was never-ending. But ramble and yell all that I did was what I had to do. It was a terrible compulsion. There was only one occasion when this train of thought was interrupted: I saw a police car come to a sudden halt, flash its lights, then slowly wind away. 

Instead of shouting, I started writing long emails. After I sent them, I'd go back and forward them to more and more people, so that there were infinite paths in this chain of insanity. People were understanding. Many were receptive. But mostly my emails were ignored, and all of these responses encouraged me to send more. I don't know why no one complained. I did send some emails to some very accomplished people and I still feel bad about that.

My son was too small to comprehend what was going on. I know that many things I did and said scared him. The content of my thoughts was clearly off the wall and I had little insight. I had delusions of grandeur and persecution. I was sad for the boy and knew I was responsible. He felt, throughout his years growing up, that he had to take care of his mom. I never wanted that to happen but maybe it was inevitable. Fortunately, he inherited his dad's equanimity. I don't think he'll ever experience bipolar disorder or schizophrenia himself.

I remember generating long notes and drawings about any fleeting thoughts I might have had and putting them in car windshield wipers. Once, Jimmy caught me lifting a wiper blade, and said, "No, Mom. Mom, no." I assured him that it would be okay but he was not convinced.

I signed myself voluntarily into Bry-Lin hospital. I don't know how long I was there. Maybe a month. I don't know why I have so little memory for the events that took place in this humane hospital. Did I consent to ECT (electroshock therapy) and forgot? I do remember that when I left the place, I believed that I was back to normal, as did the staff. Two more times I was hospitalized, in the unsavory ECMC, and it wasn't until they put me on Lithium, the medication of last resort, that I was well enough to go home.

It's funny how bipolar disorder is so like schizophrenia. The delusions come. The anxiety, paranoia, anger, and the altered sense of reality all appear. Still, I perceived that it was something different. I was confused. Manic depression is considered "better" than schizophrenia. But it's much more than just mood swings. I can say that after the mania subsided, the ensuing depression was intense. I sunk into a very deep depression. I wouldn't have felt better if I was dead. I played music from morning till the next morning and it didn't help as it would have under conditions of "normal depression." Only one song actually had an effect, which was, "Verdi Cries." And it only helped in the very slightest. But the littlest bit was something, so I played it over and over again every day. 

It took about five months to really begin to recover, to stabilize between the mania and depression. At ECMC I was put on Lithium, the measure of last resort since a lethal dose is so close to a therapeutic dose. But it was the only thing that helped. That series of hospitalizations was my last to date. It was April-May 2007. I am determined never to go back but a person cannot become too complacent.