Consumer Stories: Amabel Narvaez
Four days, sixteen hours, and two minutes had passed since I’d been in the nut house, and I still didn’t know how I wound up there. It was an alternate universe, called “One South West (1SW),” which reeked of mustiness and old cheese, mixed with body odor and Clorox. I hadn’t been taking to the nurses very well. Like busy worker bees, they intruded in and out of our rooms at all hours of the day, “time for vitals,” “time for morning meds,” “when was your last B.M.?”
Bipolar disorder turned my life upside down. I had my first manic episode at age 19. The following spring I was hospitalized. They described bipolar disorder as a psychiatric illness caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. The illness consists of moods shifting between two poles: mania (highs) and depression (lows). I had been flying off the mania pole before I landed in this joint. I learned that as much as I tried, will power alone cannot cure me. I vowed not to let bipolar disorder defeat me, nor define me.
My flashbacks are fragmented visitors that appear in my mind’s eye when I least expect them. I think of these visions as memories belonging to someone else. It’s hard to believe that was me, experiencing delusions and racing thoughts.
The year was 1997. I wanted to make a difference in the world. I wanted to be the heroine of my hometown. I aspired to protect and serve. Did I hear the governor’s new baby daughter was in trouble? Sign me up! Is there a shortage of intelligence in the CIA? I’m your woman. Scribbling unintelligible words and characters into my journal, I converted my room into “command central.”
Mom said I was acting weird after noticing me up at all hours of the night and behaving abnormally. Weird? I was never better. It was spring and the weather was getting nicer. I had never felt so excited and full of purpose.
Gradually, I became bombarded with bizarre thoughts. While listening to the radio one night I thought the messages were intended directly for me. I was compelled to answer aloud to advertisements as if only I could send messages received from a one-way radio. Some thoughts panicked me, as I thought I was being watched, or that something or someone was out to harm me.
So I got in my beat-up, sky-blue 1986 Buick Century, whom I called “Granny.” I took off, not knowing where I was headed. There were enough stars to illuminate the road. Granny’s wheels hugged the pavement ahead. I let my faith in angels guide the car’s path and closed my eyes. After a few seconds I opened my eyes and saw the road had brought me close to the marina. I parked and walked toward the small Laundromat. The door was open. I didn’t want to face the demons in my bedroom, so I stayed there that night, curled up inside of an industrial-sized clothes dryer.
When I awoke I drove Granny home. My parents didn’t ask where I had been. During that time they just let me work it out- whatever “it” was. They gave me room to figure things out, and as long as I was safe, they supplied understanding.
Eventually my shenanigans caught up to me and I found myself at the doorstep of my friend, Natalie’s house. She seemed worried about me, and said I was talking in circles. Her parents called an ambulance. At the hospital I spoke with a social worker, and was prescribed an anti-psychotic medication.
Weeks, then months passed and the drugs were working. No more voices or racing thoughts. I just felt slow, and gained some weight. Otherwise, I felt great. I felt so well that I took myself off the haldol and launched into my second bout of mania, and a trip back to the hospital.
This time, I was voluntarily checked into 1SW. I would look out of my window at the view of Bay Bowl and Dyes Inlet. I watched the cars crossing the bridge, part of many routes I ran during high school track practices. So much for being voted “Most Likely to Succeed,” I thought.
Sulking in my sterile suite, I wondered what everyone else was doing. Did they know I was out of the mix? I wondered if I’d lose my friends, or my student government position. Would everyone think I was crazy?
Concerned with my reputation and social life, I was determined to get out of 1SW pronto. That meant going through my shrink. Dr. V was a petite woman with sunken cheeks, frizzy blonde hair, wearing bright red lipstick. She struck me as a deflated, less-attractive version of Farrah Fawcett. After some forced small talk she told me why I was there and what it would take for me to get well.
In a daze from assorted anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers and anti-depressants, it took a while to get my bearings. Despite drooling and staring off, my sense of hearing was sharper than usual. The crisp sound of the latch on the main door caused me to look up every time someone entered or exited the unit, a sort of Pavlovian response, making me want to escape 1SW.
When my parents came to visit me at 1SW, I saw that it had aged them quite a bit. I felt guilty for their heartache. My brothers and sisters came, their usual jovial personalities muted by the somber circumstances. They made me feel bad for being such a drag, having to spend a lovely spring day visiting me in a psychiatric ward.
After ten days of hospitalization I was told I was being released. It was a combination of relief and fear, because I was just getting accustomed to life “inside.” Dr. V encouraged me to pursue a counseling career. At that point, I wasn’t sure if I’d even complete my college studies.
It took a while to acclimate back to life at home. I took lots of naps, made errands to the supermarket, religiously taking my meds morning and night. As time passed, I added more to my routine. By summer of 1998 I returned to school, and eventually earned my Bachelors degree.
Looking back eleven years later, there are times when a place or conversation evokes a memory, transporting me back to when I was just learning about my illness. The voices have died down, and I’m no longer trying to save the world. Instead I fight to maintain my own sense of self.
Coming out of the fire, I am tending to my wounds and learning from others who also cope with mental illness. I experience a healing that brings a sense of peace when I speak to kids in high school, and people who are in psychiatric wards like 1SW. Each time I can provide some hope to a person, I feel my own emotional wounds close.
Most times people raise their eyebrows and cock their heads to the side when I tell them I have bipolar disorder. They are surprised that someone like me, a 30-year-old-woman who walks and talks like a “normal” person, could possibly have a mental illness. I suppose that’s part of what keeps me talking about it. It’s an invisible disease, and so many silently suffer. My diagnosis hasn’t kept me from living my life. It has made me stronger.
