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My Bi-Polar Adventure

Introduction

This is a solo performance piece, a one-person show.

It is a bare stage with a large TV/Monitor.

Section headings are displayed on screen along 

with salient pictures of people, places or things central to the story and images I believe to be evocative.

Introduction:

 

Hello, I'm Scott. For 40 Years I was a professional actor in Atlanta. A member of the Screen Actors Guild and Actors’ Equity Association, I have performed on Every professional stage in Atlanta. During that run I had a recurring role on a syndicated television series, was regional operations manager for a fortune 500 legal tech firm for nine years, and got four academic degrees, all while recovering from alcohol and nicotine addiction.

 

On or around April 24th 2020, at the beginning of the pandemic; my cheese slid off its cracker.

 

My journey into and through psychosis lasted approximately four months.

 

I am Bipolar as you can probably surmise from the title. Bipolar 1 to be exact, the most aggressively affective form of the disorder. This was something I did not know at the beginning of my adventure.

 

Before we begin our sojourn there are some characters that are integral to the narrative:

 

These are my parents.

My father, Victor

a relatively saintly man, he knew only one president from childhood to his entry into the military and that was Franklin Roosevelt. As a result, my father was a knee jerk liberal and yellow dog democrat. He served in Patton's third army, the occupational forces, where he met my mother, whose brother at that time was in a French P.O.W. camp.

It was from him inherited my interest in politics and my political leaning.

My mother Elisabet or “Elli.”

In 1942 the British Royal Air Force began dropping the first of thirty-six thousand tons of bombs on the German city of Essen; the city where my mother and her family lived.

My mother had recently turned sixteen. The bombing did not stop till she was twenty.

My mother lived her life as though death was always in the sky.

This is My Uncle Peter, Peter Spoden.

Uncle Peter

During World War II Uncle Peter was a pilot in the Luftwaffe, the German air-force. He was a bonafide Ace with 22 kills.

Shot down three times he took a .50 caliber slug in the left thigh and walked with a limp.

He was part of a specially trained cadre of pilots; night fighters or Nachtjaegers, literally night hunters, whose job it was to intercept and destroy British bombers coming across the English Channel under cover of darkness.

 

He was 6'4' with a deep sonorous voice. He spoke in a German accent tinged with British because he had foreign teachers. (V.O. Uncle Peter) He was nicknamed Spoden the Indestructible because his seemingly unerring ability to survive. His fighter of choice was the Messerschmidt Bf110  and he's important to this story because I channeled him throughout my psychotic period.

The state of West Virginia.

My home state with whom I have a love-hate relationship. Blue when I was growing up, it is now a red state with the highest poverty and illiteracy rates in the country, but it's a great place to fish and shoot Bambi.

My older brother Michael;

estranged from me after years of witnessing my mood swings and the trouble they caused and with, like everyone else, no idea what caused my sometimes-aberrant behavior. He came on board just in time, convinced by Therra of my disability.

Then there is Therra;

former girlfriend 35 years ago; now muse, and one of the few people who picked up the phone and called me when it was clear I was losing my shit.

 

But Therra had a different bent. She recognized that I was manic and played to that. We were on the phone together nearly every day for the four months I was mentally unhinged and she guided me through some of the most perilous parts of my journey and stayed with me through it's aftermath. She was truly Air Traffic Control, and the reason I'm still here today.

And, gods bless her, saved more than a dozen voice mails for posterity.

Last but not least, this is Beckett;

my newly rescued black lab (Beckett film on screen). Whip-smart and able to learn commands in a single day, he was my co-pilot and companion for this ride. And he thought our adventure was the greatest thing since sliced American cheese.

 

Ultimately this is a story of mental illness.

 

To be diagnosed with bipolar I disorder, a person needs to have had a manic episode for at least 7 days. Or they must have shown symptoms of mania that are severe enough to require immediate medical intervention. These periods of mania punctuated by depressive states of equal length can sometimes last for a few years allowing for periods intense productivity.

Around mid-march I Began one of my manic episodes and this is what it looked like:

 

 (Onscreen) Prologue

I scrubbed down the kitchen and living room walls, repainted them, dug a new garden, hung a blue screen in the den and made a small movie studio, cleaned out and reorganized the basement, built a work bench, registered my own Online School, worked out two hours a day, practiced yoga, polished the floors, began building a home system for growing shrooms, fasted for fifteen days on a diet of Kombucha and honey and began the process of researching how to get on the presidential ballots in all 50 states, while reading five books on the history of West Virginia.

Those were the tasks I completed between March twentieth and April twenty fourth, when I was simply manic.

 

I figured it was a good beginning.

On Thursday April 24th, 2020: Donald Trump, during his daily briefing, suggested the possibility of an "injection" of disinfectant into a person infected with the coronavirus as a deterrent to the virus. (V.O. If possible) "I see the disinfectant that knocks it out in a minute, one minute. And is there a way we can do something like that by injection inside or almost a cleaning? As you see, it gets in the lungs, it does a tremendous number on the lungs, so it would be interesting to check that."

 

This is the last pre-psychosis event which I remember clearly enough to begin anchoring a timeline.

It was then I started fucking around with Facebook; a social media platform which I very seldom visited and kind of hold in contempt. I don't personally give a rat's ass what you had for dinner, or pics of your recent trip to San Cabo.

The Beginning:

The Beginning

If you experience psychosis during a mood episode you may experience the belief, that you can accomplish goals that are well beyond your abilities and means.

My manic rage began with Hillary Clinton;

former first lady, Senator and Secretary of State, the most uniquely qualified candidate who had ever run for President.

 

You see, one of my degrees was in communication studies where I specialized in media history. I have been watching the rise of the right-wing media machine since Lee Atwater, former advisor to Presidents Reagan and Bush Sr. began crafting the Republican talking points and metaphor system that continue to govern their ideology and eventually led to Donald Trump and our current polarization.

I thought, “If Donald Trump can be elected president, then surely, I can;

 

Right?

 

I wanted to know the procedure and cost for an average American to get on a state presidential ballot. It's expensive and arcane.

 

And, above all, I hated Sean Hannity with a white, hot fervor.

I would like to introduce you to Jurgen Habermas and the theory of the public sphere.

Thanks, back to the narrative.

I found, to my delight, that Facebook allows a change in font sizes. So, I jacked everything up to 16 points.

 

I felt certain Mr. Hannity would meet me for a showdown in the public sphere if I called him out, in huge letters, so I proceeded to do so; on Facebook, between 40 and 50 times.

 

I had been watching the comedy specials of a very talented comic, Iliza Schlesinger,

so I created a commercial for Ms. Schlesinger and spit it out on Facebook

about 30 times in a row.

 

People on Face book misunderstood my motives.

 

Some folks took it personally and posted about my gumming up the Facebook feed—ridiculous of course since Facebook is infinite.

 

It was this early, that people began expressing their concern; and instead of my empathy, it aroused my ire.

 

I began lashing out right and left at all who were either concerned or dismayed, it mattered not.

 

Close friends of forty years were not immune from my now very public posts.

 

People had begun messaging others of what was taking place. It seemed like wildfire.

 

I denigrated the relative of a former friend in a scathing four paragraph post, I created a video revealing personal secrets of a past lover, believing I was making a left-wing PSA.

 

The acting community in Atlanta is comprised of probably about two hundred people and I personally sent the video to most of them including the artistic directors of various local theaters.

 

Attacking folks got good to me, so I continued.

 

I began writing out stories with wizards and elves and little people. The characters represented friends of mine. All the characters were drinking themselves silly and having a generally good time.

 

I believed this story telling would placate everyone, getting them off my back.

 

I spit out this horseshit nearly six or seven paragraphs at a time. Labeling myself as “The Story Teller.”

 

This kept me up all night and still I wouldn't stop.

 

Day two a friend called; I told him to mind his own business.

Another friend called and I told him to “fuck off.”

 

Meanwhile, another friend called the police and asked that I be given a wellness check.

A policeman appeared at my door and I calmly assured him that things were well and that my friend was simply overly concerned about some Facebook posts that were misunderstood and the policeman thanked me and went merrily on his way.

 

I was incensed and went back to my computer to continue lashing out at people.

Towards the end of day two I had not eaten and was hungry so I posted my desire to have a specific type of pizza; pepperoni, shrimp and smoked bacon, from a local pizzeria, along with some ginger ale. After posting that a dozen times I got back to the business at hand as the second day became the third.

 

Morning of day three and a knock at the door.

 

I went, and someone had ordered me a pizza and ginger ale, they were left on my porch.

I was very happy and thanked the anonymous figure in a posting.

 

Then it was back in the trenches to fight off the evil-doers who wanted me to stop.

 

For the life of me I could not fathom how people failed to see my genius at work.

 

It felt as though I held the entire community in thrall for three days and, I've got to admit, the power was intoxicating.

 

My roommate was a 35-year-old man whose habit it was, to come home from his restaurant job, get quietly, affably drunk on Fireball, sitting in his recliner, watching The Masked Singer. Often, he would pass out in the recliner and stay there till morning. The perfect roommate.

 

Later, on the third day, my psychiatrist called me. He had been made aware of my postings. I still have no idea how.

 

He suggested that I might have become paranoid delusional and I should take myself to a psychiatric facility and check myself in.

 

I suggested that he leave me alone as I was doing important research and could not be bothered with such horseshit.

 

I hung up.

 

I didn't hear from my psychiatrist again for almost two months.

 

Then, in the middle of everything, an amazing thing happened,

 

I had an epiphany.

 

If you experience psychosis during a mood episode you may experience the belief that the television, newspaper or internet is sending you special messages.

 

 

It was simple. I had discovered the way the Russia had used Facebook to thwart Ms. Clinton's political plans. And all of it was located on my 24” iMac. I was sure of it.

 

I had to get this computer to a research facility post-haste.

And I knew just the place.

 

The communication department at West Virginia University where I had attended classes three years earlier.

They’re bulldog researchers and this was just the stuff they would love to dig into.

 

I laid down with Beckett and caught about three hours of shut-eye. Then it was up and running in preparation for the next part of the journey; my date with destiny.

 

I was a pilot, this was the mission.

The Trip

 

I began packing stuff in my Honda Fit. I knew the computer was the grail so took it first. I bounded back up the stairs and grabbed some clothes in a gym bag and grabbed a plastic file box with around 1000 family pics, many of my uncle. I bounded up the stairs grabbed another file box full of photos and carried them down then I ran back for cables. I then ran back for a camera. I needed a tripod so, back up the stairs I went. Also, more cables, never can have enough, up and down. How long am I going to be there, more clothes . . . and on it went. In the middle of this frenzy, it occurred to me how funny this will be in my memoirs and I laughed.

 

My roommate was in his recliner—anesthetized, so I asked him for some cash. I had a few hundred in cash plus a limited amount in my account. He pulled out his wallet and, in his haze, gave me everything he had, around $350.00 enough for the Fit to make West Virginia.

 

I figured once the Dept. head heard me out, he would not only be thankful, he would finance my trip home.

Finally, Beckett, the remaining pizza, a can of Blue Diamond -- and off we went. North on I-85 to West Virginia University's Communication dept. 500 miles away.

 

                                                                                          I loved that Fit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Box Truck

 

 

 

 

 

For the first 100 miles there was absolutely no one the road. It was eerie. Apocalyptic.

In the left lane, I was doing 65, the speed limit. Out of the blue an old white box truck,

is now behind me in the left lane.

Mind you; we're the only two vehicles on the road for a hundred miles. 

 

With no one else on the road the driver of the box truck begins laying on the horn. Not just beeping; he's laying on the horn for ten to fifteen seconds.

For the life of me I can't figure out why in the world he's doing this. He has the entire right lane available to pass me on.

Then it occurred to me; he's fucking with me!

 

                                                                             Now, I'm not switching lanes.

 

                                                                             He laid on the horn again, non-stop for about fifteen seconds.  I looked in the rear view and

                                                                             saw two big guys with ZZ-top beards.                            

                                                                             I noticed the license plate; Florida, and quickly made an assessment;

                                                                             Florida rednecks, some of the vilest on the planet.

 

     

 

 

 

so I held him with my right arm and jammed on the brakes of my Messerschmidt. 

ZZ-top had just enough time to stop before plowing into my back end.

I got out of the car and shouted; “By God! That's enough!” like George C. Scott in “Patton.” 

 

The two were now eyeing me with a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

 

I looked in the car for something I could use as a weapon. I chose my camera and tripod.

 

                                                                     I reached in, grabbed it and stood calmly, bouncing it in my hand a few times to judge the weight,

                                                                     like Tommy Lee Jones in “Lonesome Dove,”all the while keeping an eye on my antagonists.

 

                                                                     They sat there in stunned silence.

 

                                                         The driver's side window was open and I walked up to it, grabbed the mirror, swung up onto the running board.

The driver was mystified. I popped him right in the face with the camera end of my tripod.

 

He grabbed the camera, pulled it off the tripod and threw it into the median. I jumped off the running board and walked over to pick up the camera.

 

ZZ-top then threw his truck into reverse, backed up a few feet and jammed on the gas in an effort to get as far from this madman as he could.

 

He was moving with as much speed as an old box truck can muster.

 

But what chance did it stand.

 

The box truck looked to have a top speed of about 80.

 

My uncle's Messerschmidt Bf110 was classified as a Fighter escort.

 

It had 2 Daimler-Benz fuel injected engines. Its max speed was 349 mph,

and it was armed with two MG FF cannons and two 7.92 mm MG17 machine guns.


 

 

 

And it was armed...with me.

 

 

 

I caught up to the truck, now in the left lane.

Moved in front of it and slowed down. He was trapped.

He would never pick up enough speed to out maneuver the Fit.

I pulled back into the left lane, fell back and maneuvered behind him getting as close to his tail as I could and began a honk fest.

 

This went on a few rounds until I was bored and the Truck sped up a ramp to nowhere.

But I had the License number and when I was president, I would find and have him punished.

The Trip

Now I was loaded for bear!

Beckett was in the passengers seat

My Honda Fit was the ultimate urban assault vehicle and had a 1.5 Liter direct injection engine, front wheel drive, a maximum horsepower of 130, a max speed of 118 mph and could jet from 0 to 60 in 8 seconds.

I got into my Messerschmidt and the chase began.

Box Truck
00:00 / 04:40

Mini-Mart

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was late in the day and I was tiring after three hours of sleep in three days so I pulled off somewhere in Western North Carolina and began the search for a hotel.

 

I was in for a rude surprise.

 

I had GPS but refused to use it,

So confident was I in my directional co-ordination and so

wrapped up in channeling my pilot fantasy.

 

If only my co-pilot had opposable thumbs.

 

I searched for a hotel for hours and saw nary a one. Turns out I had been driving in circles the whole time.

 

It was now two o'clock in the morning and I was dangerously tired.

 

                                                                                                                                         

                                                                                              I passed through a small town where I found an all-night quick-mart.

                                                                                              If I go in and ask for a hotel they'll know. They didn't.

 

                                                                                                                   

                                                                                              I thought it was possible to ask the police if I could sleep in jail                                                                                                                                                   overnight, just like Mayberry.

                                                                                               

                                                                                             

 

 

So, I asked the cashier if she would kindly call the police.                                                                                                                                                          She agreed and I went to the parking lot to wait.

                        

 

 

 

In the parking lot were five teenage kids just hanging out late, smoking cigarettes and talking. I introduced myself and began talking with them. They were perfectly charming.

 

 

Two policemen drove up and asked the matter.

I assured them that nothing was wrong and explained my situation to them.

 

They told me, quite pleasantly that it was impossible.

But they didn't leave.

They stayed and began talking with me and the kids.

 

I told them I was an actor and, of course they asked if I had been in anything

they might have seen. I said yes and told them I had a recurring role on a television show.

 

That show, wrapped several years by this time, happened to have been popular in the area so one of the cops used his computer to look me up on Imdb and found my film and T.V. Credits.

 

They were very impressed and we spoke for around a half an hour, me, the cops, and the kids.

 

It was one of the most pleasant experiences I've ever had.

 

I felt such kinship with these folks I decided to break the news right there and then.

 

It was the first time I declared my candidacy for President of the United Sates.

 

They never blinked an eye.

 

The police eventually left after wishing me good luck on my quest.

 

I called Therra and left this message. (Voice Mail 1 plays) After which, I started on my way again. I drove in circles for hours and it was becoming daybreak. Still no sleep. Fuck it. Unnecessary. I circled a section of the Pisgah National Forest three times at approximately two hours each circle, getting gas in one of the little towns with 100 inhabitants—maybe less.

Mini-Mart
00:00 / 02:59
Voice Mail 01

(Onscreen) Chapter V: Gas station

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I finally got free of the Pisgah loop and was spat out on I-40 West towards Greensboro, a town where I once lived.

 

I was again dangerously tired and I called Therra. She asked me where I was and I told her. She asked about the next mile marker and I told her. We hung up and she went to work.

She got online and looked at that section of I-40 and found a Motel Six 20 miles ahead, she called back and said “Go there, I've called the receptionist and he's waiting.”

 

I got there. After a spirited discussion he booked me and I went around back to sneak Beckett in.

 

We both collapsed for 6 hours. Beckett in bed beside me.

 

I had a can of blue diamond and fed my co-pilot, after which I had a whole night to kill watching Forensic Files.

 

In the morning, I snuck Beckett back in the car and we prepared to leave.

 

My tank was nearly empty. There was an Exxon minimart across the street.

 

My cash reserves were dwindling from all the driving. I had to be careful in case I needed a hotel along the way. I drove over to the minimart and pulled to the gas pump.

 

I pumped the gas, put on my anti-covid mask, and went into the Mini-Mart to pay. I went back to the car.

 

And the battery was dead.

 

I needed a jump. Into the mini-mart to ask about jumper Cables. Surely. But--No. They didn't.

I approached people at the pumps for help. Surely. But no.

People were terrified of me. I knew not why.

 

It dawned on me. Covid--everyone here watches Fox News and Hannity has scared the bejesus out of them—some of the folks that drove up, as I approached would drive away to get gas somewhere else.

 

I was becoming concerned now.

 

There was a McDonalds across the street. So, I went. The people inside appeared zombified. Masks, not talking, six feet from one another. Although in Atlanta, people were looser, these folks were following the Orwellian rules their masters had imposed on them.

 

Incensed, I went to the manager and asked about cables and whether someone on the staff might have some. None. Pickle.

 

Back to the car.

 

By now my phone was dangerously low on power as was my laptop. I had to conserve batteries. This was a job for air traffic control. I called Therra. Not Home. Of course. She has a life.

 

I decided I would look through the pictures, categorize them, take the undamaged camera, and make a documentary about my adventures for posterity, all in the back of the fit, my co-pilot quietly munching on a chew toy in the passenger seat.

 

Good dog.

 

After a bit I realized Beckett needed a drink. I went into the mini-mart and furtively stole a bottle of water. I was cognizant of my financial position and now every dollar mattered. Besides, it was for posterity and the dog. John Steinbeck; “My Travels with Charlie.” I would include it in the documentary.

 

Back to the car. It was growing dark and I was getting hungry. Suddenly it was like Beckett and I discovered the pizza at the same time. We dove for it, and I won. Two pieces left; I shared one with co-pilot.

 

I was absorbed with my documentary and lost track of time. By the time I looked up it was midnight. Had to walk Beckett.

 

We went behind the mini-mart to do business. I discovered five homeless people behind the mart near the dumpster. We were close to the airport with a lot of exits. I steered away from them, trepidatious about these folks and Beckett's reaction, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

 

Back in the car I realized we were stuck here overnight. I began thinking about my next steps and I came up with a new plan, a better plan. After I gained notoriety and acknowledgment my of third-party presidential aspirations, I would locate to a remote area of West Virginia where there is no shortage of remote places. I would find a way to get a message to that paragon of liberal virtues, George Clooney. I would quietly meet, in my mountain hideaway, with Mr. Clooney who I'm certain will want to hear what I have to say.

 

With him on board the campaign will gain urgency, notoriety and a cadre of big Hollywood names glad to participate.

 

I figured people, for instance Brad Pitt and Kevin Bacon, would gladly arrive in West Virginia in dark blue Honda Fits, innocuous and not easily discernible at night.

 

There, we would scout the country side for small towns and invite young people, voting age, to go camping. Who wouldn't want to camp with George Clooney and Brad Pitt.

 

We would sit around a campfire and share with them what we smuggled in, what the young people in West Virginia want and need.

 

Weed.

 

No state needs it more.

 

Beats the shit out of meth, alcohol and oxycontin; the only recreation choices these kids have.

 

I worked all night while Beckett slept. All of the sudden it was morning.

 

I took my laptop to the McDonalds quietly avoiding the zombies and got online to email Therra with the little battery life I had left. Then I crossed the street to the car where I called Therra and left a voice mail (Voicemail plays).

 

Suddenly three North Carolina State Troopers drive up; lights flashing. They get out of their car and approach mine; I get out and greet them. It seems the people who owned the gas station were upset that I was squatting and called the constabulary. But why State Troopers?

It so happens they had a psychologist, also an officer, with them who asked to speak with me. I assured her I was fine. That I had ADHD and explained my situation.

 

People in my state can still seem perfectly lucid and calm while their mind is racing. It's baffling.

 

And, I thought the state police in North Carolina now took trained cop psychologists with them which I thought was very progressive.

 

I was told later that my former wife knew I was in North Carolina and called the State Police, asked them to keep an eye out for the Fit. That I might be in trouble, but I was not trouble.

 

Both true.

 

They were satisfied with my explanation and the dead battery, but they, the troopers are not allowed to lend that kind of assistance.

 

WTF?

 

After a brief, vigorous discussion, one of two black officers spoke up and said, “We need to get him out of here, I'm going to jump him so he can leave.” He did and off I went, The Messerschmidt full of fuel.

 

Now that I had come up with the George Clooney plan, It was time for a re-assessment. I had enough cash for one or two nights at a hotel, gas and food.

 

I ended up touring Greensboro. Visiting old haunts. Minor league baseball stadium. Restaurants I had frequented.

 

We were out of co-pilot food so I stopped at a boutique grocery store outside of Greensboro, went in and surreptitiously walked out with a can of blue diamond. Problem solved.

 

Day became night.

 

I needed to prepare for the upcoming Clooney event. I would combine our meet with my visit to the University. Perhaps George would like to come.

 

I needed more clothes and money. I decided that returning to Atlanta was the best course of action.

 

There was a lot to be done.

Gas Station
00:00 / 08:36

The Way Back/Graveyard (35:00 minutes)

 

As night fell, I found my way back to I-85, this time South. Tired again.

I'll stop at a hotel; I'm driving through Charlotte after all.

 

Need sleep.

 

I stop at a Wyndham.

The young masked man behind the glass tells me they have available rooms.

He sees me pulling out bills and says, “I'm sorry we don't take cash.”

 

What The Fuck?

 

That's crazy, right?

 

Right on the bill it says “for all debts public and private” and now I'm being denied a room.

 

I was pretty damn irritated and had no trouble making it known.

 

When I knew I had been defeated I left.

 

It's important to note here that, through this whole manic episode, according to my perspective, in every situation, I was in the right.

 

I drove to the next hotel, a Marriott Suites, same thing.

Hampton Inn, same. No one was accepting my filthy covid-riven lucre.

Now I had trouble. I desperately needed sleep.

 

Then it occurred to me, “Graveyard!” I find a church with a graveyard. I head to the back, where there might be a copse of trees. Park. Crawl in the back of the Fit and sleep for a little while.

 

There are approximately 800,000 police officers in this country. That means during the pandemic there were 800,000 men and women, bored shitless; many of whom were roaming the countryside hoping against hope for something to do.

 

With guns.

 

I saw a big church, I know not what denomination, but it looked to have a graveyard and, voila.' I looked to the back. Lo and behold, trees.

 

I make my way to the back of the graveyard to settle in and, out of the blue, it's Johnny law. He drives into the church parking lot.

 

I'm holding my breath.

 

He slowly and methodically begins driving through the graveyard.

(whispering) Because he has nothing else to fucking do!

 

I'm caught and I know it as he pulls up behind me, lights flashing.

 

I get out of the car.

 

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

 

He gets slowly out of his car. With about 15' between us he reaches down with his right hand and unhooks the loop on his .38. I'm deathly tired, irritable and unbalanced. But . . . not entirely dim-witted.

 

I quickly and simply tell him about the hotels, etc.

 

Eventually the loop goes back to its original position and he tells me to get back in my car while he checks my license and registration. That complete, he lets me know, in no uncertain terms, that I am to leave and not come back, a sentiment I could not agree with more.

 

I would have to talk with Therra later about getting a gun. A pilot needs a sidearm and a good dog. I had one, I wanted both. (35:00 Minutes)

Graveyard

Ninja

 

I made it home and called Therra's number convinced she would not answer. I was heartily thankful when she answered. I caught her up on recent events including her untimely death. Then Beckett and I crashed for three hours of restful shuteye.

 

When I got up to use the bathroom, I happened to notice that one of my passive aggressive roommate's end tables had made its way into my brand-new film studio. It was a clear attempt to regain some of the property I had previously conquered.

 

That set me off.

 

I knew there were laws regarding non-usage of apartment space, if not there should be and that space was up for grabs.

 

Fuck sleep, this was war.

 

First, I took his beloved recliner, turned it sideways, and shoved it into his room. I took the thirty liquor bottles that decorated the living room and put all of them in his room along with just about everything in the living room that was his.

 

I was gratified and I had gained more property.

 

His room looked like a tempest had hit it. So, I cleaned it. I hung up all the clothes that littered his closet, the myriad plastic toys on the closet floor, all the liquor bottles, and arranged them neatly all over the room until it was exquisite.

 

It was daylight.

 

Beckett for a walk and back, I was making some breakfast in the kitchen when I heard the front door open, it was him. I was excited to see what he thought of the new arrangements. I was very proud. It had been work.

 

Then it occurred to me that it would be funny to scare the be-Jesus out of him. 

 

This was not new. I had played pranks on him before; this would be hilarious.

 

I imagined Shanice Goodwin's Ninja character from Saturday Night Live and Chris Farley from Beverly Hills Ninja. I looked around to find props and I saw the knife block.

 

Perfect.

 

I grabbed two of the largest and jumped out of the kitchen into the living room in a classic ninja pose, to find my roommate and his father standing there.

 

I did scare the Be-Jesus out of them.

 

So much that they slithered to the front door and out. I watched them drive away and the thought crossed my mind:

 

This is un-good.

 

Oh, well. Time to get on with the day.

 

Police

 

Later that day the when the police came.

 

You knew it was inevitable.

 

Five police cars, lights flashing, drove up to the house. I put Beckett in my room and welcomed five police men in.

 

A bit overwhelmed, I told them about attempting to scare my roommate. They were very unsure what to do next. They sat me on the couch and spoke amongst themselves. They decided to stay and observe for a while.

 

Me and five members of the Fulton County police force were sitting.

Well, I was sitting, they were not.

 

It was uncomfortable.

 

I noticed that four of the five were African American so I did what came naturally to me and began teaching. I began with early civil rights and Emmett Till, blah, blah, Andrew Young, blah.

 

I went on like that for some time, believing they were actually interested.

 

They Weren't.

 

Finally, they decided it would be a good idea to take me to the hospital for observation.

 

I asked them if I could grab my shoes because I was in my stocking feet.

 

No.

 

I begged them to take care of Beckett. They assured me he would be cared for. I knew what that meant and was deeply saddened.

 

They handcuffed me, which I thought was a bit over the top but was told it was standard procedure for anyone sitting in the rear of a police car, which sounded like bullshit to me and my 1960s cops are bad mentality kicked in.

 

I no longer trusted them.

 

They didn't care.

 

It was a perp walk and all my neighbors were outside on their porches and in their yards with their dogs, watching.

 

Even in my current state it was humiliating.

 

I kept asking throughout this ordeal if the body-cams were on.

I wanted everything recorded for posterity.

 

I doubled down on the civil rights history gambit. All the way to the hospital and all through this, the officer driving me to the hospital said only two words.

 

“Keep talking.”

Ninja

Grady Emergency Room

 

Grady hospital is ranked as the tenth largest public hospital in the United States and is a level 1 trauma center. Its emergency room is almost constant bedlam.

 

That's where we went.

 

It was a Friday night and the place was jumping.

 

I was strapped to a gurney, my guard seated close by. I kept asking if his body cam was on so this would all be recorded, again for posterity.

 

There were others in the emergency room manacled to their gurneys. There were a few people screaming and shouting; some in pain, others protest.

 

Admittedly, I was personally being a pain in the ass about the body cam and general ill treatment, to the annoyance of both guard and nurses. I continuously asked them to call my psychiatrist and gave them his number and name.

 

To no avail.

 

I had not eaten since noon and was ravenous. I asked for something to eat and, half an hour later I was handed a baloney sandwich. Under the circumstances it was one of the best baloney sandwiches ever.

 

A psychiatrist came to question me. I asked her if she was knowledgeable regarding ADHD Then gave her the name and number of my psychiatrist.

 

She left and I spent another hour strapped to the gurney.

 

I had been brought to the hospital around 5:00 and it was now going on 11.

 

Out of the blue the nurse and policeman decided I should be sedated.

 

I did not want to be sedated.

 

I wanted to have my wits about me when dealing with the police and told them so.

I then begged them not to sedate me. To no avail. They unstrapped my arms. I patiently waited for the nurse to insert an IV needle. After she did, I gently pulled it out and, in the process, some of the liquid dripped on the nurse’s arm.

 

I was arrested for misdemeanor assault which meant at least a couple of days in jail.

 

Off we went to the Fulton County lock-up, the pen, the big house, the stir.

 

Once I'm exonerated, as surely I will, this will all be fodder for historians.

Grady

Jail 47:00

 

it was the time of the plague and inmates had to stay overnight in a holding pen, a small cell with no bed, a bench and a toilet at the back of the cell.

 

I laid down on the floor and tried to get some rest.

 

Around 5:00 AM one of the guards looked in to check on me and I begged him for food. He brought me a baloney sandwich. Not quite as good as the first one but delicious nonetheless.

Early in the morning me and several other prisoners were escorted to a window to pick up a net bag with a pillow, blanket, some towels and shirt with Fulton County Jail on the back.

 

Then it was off to the big house with the general population. There was a television so we had something to do while waited for bedtime when we would be locked in our cells overnight.

 

Another day of T.V.,  and napping in my now open cell.

 

On the third day most of the inmates on my cell block were called into a small room to speak with a judge on zoom. When it became my turn, I wanted to explain to her what had happened. She was not there for that but to simply release me with the admonition that I would have to face a court date later in the year.

 

I was released with five others.

 

It was cold and I had no shoes.

 

I wanted to keep my Fulton County jersey as a memento, to wear at rallies and the convention, a reminder of my political imprisonment. Not to be. I had to surrender it in favor of my own shirt.

 

There was no escort home. Me and my new friends were on our own. We walked several blocks to a nearby train station and waited, me in my in my stocking feet and all of us in our shirtsleeves, all arrested in the garb we had on.

 

It was about ten o'clock and cold. We waited an hour for the train, shivering. It finally came and off we went to Atlanta proper.

 

I said goodbye to my friends and got off at the station closest to my house, still about two miles away.

 

I went into a restaurant close to the train station to use the bathroom and walked to the bar to ask the bartender where it was.

 

By some bewildering coincidence, one of the inmates I had been watching T.V.  with was sitting at the bar, clearly friendly with the bartender. He had been released a day before me. I sidled up and said hello. He was as surprised to see me as I him.

 

I told him of my plight and he asked the bartender for help. She offered to buy me an Uber home. I promised her a bottle of Remy and went outside to wait for my ride. It came and I went home.

 

I had no keys as the cops would not let me take anything with me. I went to the rear of the house where I knew the window to my room was unlocked and climbed in.

 

I was home. By God I needed rest. Beckett was a prisoner too and tomorrow I would spring him.

 

The night passed without incident and in the morning, I went to free Beckett from captivity.

Afterwards, I spent the day cleaning, working on my on-line school, re-reading my Uncle Peter's autobiography. I felt better than I ever had. I was rested and calmly manic.

 

I had a good day with my co-pilot. Night came.

 

Suddenly there were flashing red lights outside. I went to the window and peeked out. I saw five more police cars and, on the sidewalk, my roommate and his father.

 

I knew the jig was up.

 

I surmised that he had taken out a restraining order.

 

I took Beckett and went to the Basement.

 

My plan was not to answer the door and remain hidden in the basement.

I called Therra who suggested it would be my best interest to surrender.

 

I acquiesced and went to the door. Two policemen were standing there. One of them handed me the restraining order and asked that I sign it after which I was given ten minutes to grab what I could and clear out.

 

My electronic equipment was already in the car so I grabbed what clothes I could and said goodbye to everything I owned.

 

I was homeless. (47:00)

Jail

Therra the Gun and the Dog

 

We needed a new place to bed down so I headed north to Atlanta and beyond to Stone Mountain, Georgia. I found another church. 

 

The parking lot curled around the back of the church, away from police eyes so we bedded down for the night. Me and my intrepid co-pilot.

 

 

In the morning, I called Therra. She knew something I hadn’t thought of; that without a home I had no place for Beckett to live.

 

She had already called an adoption center and made arrangements for Beckett.

Now it was a question of convincing me.

 

It was hard.

 

It meant saying goodbye to Beckett forever, but I had no choice. Where would we live?

 

Eventually I acquiesced. I comforted myself with the thought that a pilot should have a border collie. With amazing foresight Therra had located a friend who was still talking to me and made arrangements for me to meet him at a coffee shop and surrender Beckett.

 

I met him, said a final goodbye to my faithful companion and was quickly on my way, no time to lose and no time for mourning.

 

It was at this point I suggested it would a good idea for me to have a sidearm.

As a pilot I should have one. Therra talked me down by promising me her 9mm Ruger.

 

Ruger? Alright! Perfect.

 

A pilot's pistol.

Therra

Athens

 

I was beginning to get weary from the constant driving and keeping away from the seemingly ubiquitous police.

 

I decided to head to Athens, Georgia where I had attended graduate school. My former advisor lived there.

 

When I was in school, I helped him through a contentious divorce and he owed me big.

 

Half way to Athens I stopped for a moment behind a big storage unit and called my friend who answered. I asked if I could rest on his couch and he hesitated, then sheepishly declined telling me he had been made aware of the Facebook posts and did not think it a good idea.

 

I was bitch-slapped.

 

How could he, after the myriad things I had done for him.

 

I told him he was a coward, hung up and decided to get a little rest, maybe a half hour.

 

After a bit I called Therra.

 

She warned me to stay away from Athens, that a friend had told her that she called the professor to warn him I might be coming; that my friend and my former advisor had called the campus police who in turn shut down an entire section of the campus and were waiting for  me.

 

It might have ended there. I was deeply disappointed.

Athens

Extended Stay Motel

 

I had to find a place to stay and drove to an industrial area north of the city where I found an extended stay motel that housed the local construction workers for 175.00 a week.

So I booked and found my room; a dingy place with cigarette burns on the comforter, a non-working T.V. And a small kitchenette with little brown creatures scurrying when the light was turned on.

 

I unloaded all the electronics and set up a command station in the motel room.

 

My mission now was to find some code that would allow me to extract the information I needed from Facebook without knowing what that information might be.

 

Lo and behold I found some code for retrieving analytics from Facebook on-line and proceeded to butcher it to the point of insensibility.

 

Therra and I spoke a long time that night about listening to the psychiatrist and admitting, rather surrendering myself, to the hospital for observation.

 

When my psychiatrist first wanted me to check myself in he suggested Emory Hospital. I assumed it was the main Emory hospital that was on campus next to the Center for Disease Control. So that is where I went.

 

What I did not know was Joe Biden was visiting the CDC to get the skinny on covid. There were helicopters and state police everywhere along with news trucks.

 

I was a bit overwhelmed and thought of turning back but I held out and found a parking space. I went inside. I explained that my psychiatrist had sent me there for observation.

 

They took all the pertinent information including insurance and bade me sit down.

 

I did.

 

About a half an hour later an intern shows up with my discharge papers.

He says so long, I say thank you, and head back to the hotel where I phoned my psychiatrist and left a voice mail saying, rather curtly, that I would meet him at his office at eight in the morning.

 

I got up at six, put all the electronics in the car and headed for the psychiatrist’s office.

 

He was not there when I arrived so I called him again and he answered.

 

When I told him what had happened, he told me, very curtly, that he meant Decatur Emory Hospital.

 

And so, off to Decatur Emory Hospital I went.

 

When I got there finding a parking place was quite difficult and orange cones closed off all of the entrances save the emergency room.

 

By the time I got there I was winded, harried and manic. I checked myself in and they told me to sit in a small room. As soon as I was in they locked the door behind me.

 

I was both frightened and livid. I was a citizen being held against his will.

Like a German prisoner of war I was locked in a glass booth.

 

I had no recourse. I was trapped.

 

I knew the journey was over.

 

Life would be much different moving forward.

Extended Stay

Psych Ward

 

Three orderlies came to get me and take me in a wheelchair to the psych ward.

 

The facility was squared away. The orderlies mostly pleasant. The meals were basic and fine. There was nothing to bitch about except the incarceration.

 

And bitch I did.

 

I let everyone know I had been wrongfully convicted and wanted out.

 

In the common room was a T.V. And several oversize chairs made of something that felt like and resembled a fusion of plastic and rubber. I would meet these chairs again.

 

Off to the side was a smaller common area where the newspaper was brought in every morning. It was here I began to plan my escape. Attempt number one was trying to use reason.

 

I would simply convince them that nothing was wrong. Surely they would see that and turn me loose.

 

When that didn't work, I asked the director why I was there. I had no idea. I had not been told and would not be. She told me bluntly she did not know for what and how long.

 

Nurse Ratched.

 

It had to be the psychiatrist. Well, it was the hospital he practiced in besides his private practice surely, he would have to show up in the psych ward at some point.

 

I would confront him.

 

In the meanwhile, I cultivated a relationship with one of the social workers who came in every morning. He was British and somewhat pliable so I enlisted him as an advocate for my release.

 

He gave it his best shot.

 

He failed me.

 

But he did tell me something valuable; back to nurse Ratched. I demanded that she call the proper authority to find out once and for all how long. I was told she was obliged to refer to higher authority if asked.

 

She got on the phone and called someone who told her they did not know for what and how long.

 

Was it incompetence or conspiracy?  The latter I was certain.

 

I was trapped and it could be forever. We had access to a phone.  There were four nurses behind a glass enclosure from which they dispensed such things as board games, pencils paper and our nightly medication.

 

My nightly regimen, which we had to take in front of the nurses, had a blood pressure component to it. I begged them not to make me take it as I naturally run slightly elevated blood pressure and lowering too much will result in me passing out.

 

They didn't listen.

 

Once a week the psychiatrist on duty would come in to the psych ward and meet with each of the patients. They were mostly condescending and no better at providing answers.

 

Two and a half weeks into my imprisonment another psychiatrist came. A woman. Younger than the others. Perhaps she would get it.

 

She did!

 

She arranged for my release the next morning. At eight O'clock I was at the door, excited to be sprung. Just as the head orderly told me goodbye, I collapsed to the floor. Low blood pressure. I was taken to the hospital proper and secured in a private room with an orderly guarding me through the night.

 

Flight risk I guess, or standard policy. After two days I was considered stable enough to leave the hospital proper. The head orderly from the psych ward came with a wheel chair and took me back.

 

I assumed to get the four books on West Virginia I had been allowed.

 

When we got to the ward the orderly closed the door, which locked automatically, and walked away.

 

I was confused, surely, I was getting out.

 

Back to nurse Ratched who told me my release had been rescinded.

 

In my fear that this captivity was forever I called Therra (Voice Over).

 

Finally, Ratched had some information. A transfer was planned from Decatur Emory to the Georgia Regional Mental Hospital.

 

I called Therra who did some research on Georgia Regional and told me I would have computer access and access to a swimming pool and a gym, replete with workout equipment and a pool.

 

I was somewhat mollified and Therra had assured me I would get out soon.

 

I didn't.

 

The next night, while using the bathroom I passed out again.

 

This time my head got stuck between the wall and the toilet. Luckily, one of the orderlies happened to be passing by and heard the noise. He lifted me up and back to the hospital proper I went for another night of observation then back to the ward.

It was two and a half weeks later and the decision was finally settled for my move.

 

A policeman was required to transfer me in the back of his car. He apologized for the handcuffs but it was standard procedure and the journey to the big house was under way.

 

I never heard from or saw my psychiatrist again. He had divorced me.

 

Pussy.

Psych Ward
Bury Me Not

Georgia Regional Mental Facility

 

I arrived at Georgia Regional and the officer escorted me inside.

 

Just as with the first ward I had to surrender my phone and laptop on entering. All was tagged and I was checked in.

 

There were about eight of us newly minted residents and we were placed in a large television room with the same oversized chairs that we sat in at the Decatur Emory Hospital.

 

Because of covid restrictions we were required to remain in that room and sleep in those chairs for the next three days until we proved non-contagious.

 

That piece over, we were moved into the general population into a pod that housed about 20.

The vibe here was different. More locked down.

 

The inmates more active and vocal.

 

Between every few pods was a common dining area. Food became the most prized commodity.

 

By mealtime everyone was famished and we would gather, almost one and all, near the windowed door to the break-room waiting for the attendants to open up and serve, like cattle patiently waiting for feed.

 

My roomie was Tony, a homeless alcoholic suffering from exposure of the feet. Each morning a nurse would come in and rub his feet with Vaseline.

 

Tony and I got along well and he would describe to me his experiences and his fervent wish that he would drink no more. I knew better. I felt great compassion for him.

 

The T.V. was on one channel that showed reruns of Andy Griffith, Perry Mason and Adam 12.

 

Tony and I would grab our lunches and sit in front of the tube through the afternoon.

At times the boredom was overwhelming and I would crawl into my cube and sleep.

 

Therra was right. There were several amenities that would normally be open to the inmates under supervision but, due to covid restrictions these were all closed.

 

Suddenly, Georgia Regional was worse and the feeling of being trapped more intense.

A week in I had my first interview with a psychiatrist. I tried for sympathy but none came. I was locked in.

 

Two weeks in I was finally able to speak with the head psychiatrist who told me, non-nonchalantly, words I had never heard before; “You are Bi-polar one and you've had a psychotic break.”

 

I nodded and said, "ah, well."

 

The truth of that diagnosis would take some time to land.

Georgia Regional

Social Worker/Half Way House

Meanwhile I had been assigned a social worker to help with integration back into the community.

 

I was now homeless save for Georgia Regional.

 

She gave me numbers for a couple of places that might be able to take me in. I called both and only one picked up.

 

I chose that one. It seemed easy.

 

They just said, stop in and we'll take care of you.

 

I had no idea what I was in for.

 

 

I was transported to a 1970s Apt. Complex that had been reclaimed and turned into a halfway house for addicts and ex-cons.

 

This was my new home.

 

I was asked all the pertinent questions; former address, social, closest relative, etc. and I was checked in.

 

The bedrooms were approximately 12' by 12' with three twin beds in each and barely enough room to stand.

 

Important stuff went under the bed. Food went in the closet to hide from theft what people gathered from a food bank or the dollar general store depending on what you could afford.

 

I had twenty dollars in cash left and a bank account that was now $185.00 overdrawn.

 

Perishable items went in the refrigerator where they were constantly being pilfered by other inmates.

 

The campus apartments had not been painted or cleaned in several years. Cobwebs haunted the corners and cockroaches infested the kitchens.

 

One of my very first roomies challenged me over whether the window should be open or shut.

 

I determined to keep my mouth shut for whatever the duration of this predicament. As an older, quiet man, I disappeared into the background as much as possible and was largely overlooked, so much that I had not figured out how to navigate or what exactly was going on here.

 

I was there for two weeks when, out of the blue, they asked me to leave for non-payment of rent. I was terrified and homeless again. I had no idea that rent was involved. How was it possible? I had no job.

 

I called my estranged brother for help. He just happened to answer, unusual for him, and between the two of us figured out what to do and he paid for the two weeks I had been there.

 

The administrator, a former inmate, informed me of two choices I had for employment. Management had an agreement with a couple of food plants where the men could work.

One was a plant that created salad-based meals and the other was a place called John Soules. The first paid $12.00/hr. and the latter 14.

 

I chose the latter for the extra $2.00 an hour.

 

It turned out that John Soules was a chicken processing plant one and a half hours north of Atlanta in the city of Gainesville, the self-proclaimed “Poultry Capitol of the World.”

John Soules

Each day at 1:00, a cargo van with 3 bench seats would pick us up at the main campus and drive us to Gainesville.

 

John Soules is a sprawling industrial complex on the outskirts of Gainesville with several steel framed aluminum sided buildings each the size of the average warehouse.

 

There were two shifts; one starting at 3:00 and mine which started at 4:30. We got there-just in time for the first shift. The rest had to wait the hour and a half till the second shift began, usually outside at a picnic table smoking or listening to headphones.

 

It was mid-summer in semi-rural Georgia. Nuff-said.

 

We had lockers where we kept the rubber thigh high wading boots we were issued.

 

These we donned at the beginning of each shift along with plastic hairnets. No phones, headphones or other electronics.

 

To enter the cold room where product was packaged, we waded through an ankle deep series of jets spraying cleaner and disinfectant under and on top of the boots.

 

Next, hand sanitizer and surgical gloves with cloth gloves to cover if you wanted to keep your hands warm.

 

There were two loading stations with waist high rolling conveyors. The conveyers brought the packers, us, newly packaged frozen chicken products; patties, tenders and the like, from the refrigerator room.

 

Everyone had to do time in the refrigerator room where packages had to be placed face up on the conveyor; up and right, up and right, up and right and where the temp was a cool 38 degrees.

 

The chicken packages made their way along the conveyor to the people who put the packages into boxes for shipping. The boxes went through a tape machine to be sealed and on to two men who arranged the boxes on a pallet for delivery to the loading docks.

 

My first night there I was one of these and was paired with one of the hardest looking individuals I had seen in some time. He looked as though you might strike a match on the palm of his hand, and he had a spirit to match.

 

He took an instant dis-like to me and was not shy about it. He told me to place boxes one way and claimed he had shown me another.

 

He undid my work several times under that pretense.

 

As we were getting on the van to go home at 1:30 in the morning the only seat available was next to him. He refused to sit next to me. We had to re-seat and I went to the back bench. Thankfully the next day I was put on the packing line.

 

The work was more tedious than you're imagining. To get through it I began picking out a couple of tunes I liked and played them over and over in my head till the shift was done.

 

With the exception of the altercation between me and my new buddy, the one-and-a-half-hour drive home was usually uneventful.

 

Too tired to be contentious.

 

I had no money for meds or food and Therra went to my remaining friends and shook them down for some money to help me out. This translated itself to a 500-dollar Kroger gift card for which I was imminently grateful.

 

When I got home from John Soules, sometimes around 4:00 in the morning, I would check the refrigerator to see what items had been stolen and was sometimes gratefully surprised that my eggs, cheese and ginger ale were untouched. 

 

It was at this point I believe that my brother Mike understood the precariousness of my position and helped me get a used car from Carvana. Instead of buying the later model Honda Fit that was available I bought a newer Nissan Versa with less mileage believing the car would need to last me at least twenty years. I could now drive to and from the campus to John Soules.

The relief was nothing less than life-changing. I had the first tool of many I would need as a means of possibly digging my way out of this mess.

 

Very few of my cohort had cars which made me a valuable commodity for taking people to and from the store.

 

I had new friends.

Jason

One night at John Soules I met someone named Jason; an affable, barrel-chested man, about my height with over long arms. A self-described knuckle dragger, he was about 30 years old and happened to live on another campus of the same organization that ran mine.

 

A former meth addict he was quite gregarious; he too had managed to get a used car by working at a Chili's, a bus ride away from his campus, then a two-mile walk.

 

It was a late model car, I can't remember the make, but it made it to and fro.

 

We got to know each other and it so happened that he had recently left his compound and got a two-bedroom house in Buford, twelve miles away, and he needed a roommate.

 

I was paying 850.00 a month at the compound and rent with Jason would be 500.00, the drive would be 12 instead of 90 miles from John Soules. I had begun to accept that I would be working at the Chicken plant for some time to come so I agreed.

 

Tool two.

 

I didn't know it at the time but I was cycling down from mania to its polar opposite.

New Home

Everything I owned fit in the back of my Nissan Versa—a not so good aircraft. More bi-plane than jet.

 

I loaded up, bid farewell to the half-way compound and drove ninety miles to a new home I had never before seen.

 

When I arrived, I found a decent but clap-board looking house exactly like all the others in this Cul-de-sac. In the front yard was some detritus but it was mainly squared away.

 

What I found inside was vastly different. Dishes were piled in the sink. There was an iron skillet and a large dented steel pot, both with food and mold hair.

 

In the kitchen was a laundry closet with a washer and dryer and it looked as though the dryer had thrown up. There were clothes in piles all over the kitchen floor and the roaches were too bold and numerous to bother and hide.

 

I love all dogs save one breed that I disdain; dachshunds.

 

He had two toy dachshunds, the really small ones. They had no names. One was black and the other brown. The brown was the more intrepid of the two.

 

Neither had been trained save for going on a couple of puppy training mats on the floor which they constantly missed. As a result, there was a regular population of dachshund size turds all over the entrance hall and living room that Jason might clean up every few days.

 

In my small room where I thought a bed would be was an air mattress. I was beat and laid down on the air mattress. I slept for several hours.

 

The place was little better than a hunting cabin and filthy but it was better than the half-way compound by far, and it was now my home. I was mollified for the moment.

 

By now I had saved some money from John Soules and got a plastic folding table, a full-size mattress for $300.00, an 8x10 office rug from Walmart and set-up my bedroom and command center. I had at last acquired some grounding. Tool four.

 

I told Jason we had to eradicate the roaches and he agreed. We went to an exterminator and explained how bad things were. They gave him a couple of packets of extra-strength pesticide, some roach-killing paste and a sprayer.

 

We both sprayed over the next few days and laid down the paste and, by god, the roaches disappeared. A small victory.

 

The drop from mania to depression is swift and my waking hours apart from working were mainly spent in bed.

 

Unfortunately, I now had time to reflect on the events of the past few months and the devastation I had caused as well as the predicament I was in.

 

My friends were all gone now save Therra. Every one, never to speak to me again. The suicidal ideation began to set in. It would remain strong for several months.

 

When I walked through the grocery store, I could not look as I walked past the pet food aisle and kept my head down when I would pass certain items that reminded me of my past.

 

To save money I ate bologna and cheese sandwiches and two-dollar Hormel mini-meals occasionally splurging for pizza. When I was not in bed, I was at work 15 minutes away.

Jasmine

Then, a woman dropped into our midst. Her name was Jasmine and she was Jason's part time lover and house cleaner.

 

Apparently, she would disappear for weeks at a time only to return for a few days. She would clean, eat, bonk Jason and go to another person's home with whom she would sleep for a place to stay.

She was a homeless vagabond who believed herself to be a cosmic warrior, the arch-angel Michael. She could go on for hours about her relationship to God and the cosmos, identifying her various powers one of which was the ability to raise from the dead.

 

The two fought constantly and Jason would say the most denigrating, harmful things, impugning her woman-hood. He wanted a real girlfriend in the worst possible way but he had not the tools.

 

It was hard to listen.

 

When it got bad, I would call Therra.

 

The next thing to deal with was the chicken plant. I could not work there and remain alive. I had to get out. I went on-line and tried to get a position anywhere; Kroger's, Starbuck's, CVS, Wal-Mart; any place I could think of and didn't get a nibble.

 

Jason got his work through an app called insta-work that hired for food service and industrial jobs. He regularly spoke on the phone with some of the people who ran it. He turned me on to a woman who worked for them and she told me she could help me find work. I just needed to download the app to get started.

 

I did.

 

I put in all my information and hit enter. A message came back which said they could not work with me and beneath that in bold red letters was the word; Assault.

 

I had forgotten.

 

I was a criminal now in the eyes of the law and, apparently, the corporate world. I was really afraid now that I was locked into John Soules forever.

 

Meanwhile Jason had found work bartending with an events venue in downtown Atlanta that was looking for people and he got me an interview. It was just after covid and people were hiring, and this venue needed people immediately and badly.

 

My interview lasted all of five minutes and I was hired. I could make enough money, with social security to pay rent and buy food.

 

I never went back to John Soules. Tool five.

 

I knew that I had to deal with court proceedings so I called Fulton County to find out how to deal with things and they gave a court date in October. It was now August so I had some time to think.

 

Jason got a phone call from Jasmine who had disappeared again for a few days. She was in jail. She had been wandering around the woods for a few days and had been picked up for vagrancy, she got testy with the policemen and they took her to jail. Not her first visit.

 

Jason bailed her out and brought her home where she continued her ranting and their fighting. Jason let her know, in no uncertain terms, that he provided her bail. She was to return to court for a hearing. A no-show and she was back in jail. She would be a no-show.

First Judgement

October rolled around and my first on-line court date was coming up. I began searching for pro-bono lawyers or public defenders with no results. With nowhere else to turn I called my brother to ask his advice.

 

He told me he would lend me the money for a lawyer and I got one for 4,500.00.

 

I pleaded not-guilty and the results were these; a next court date in December, 30 hours of community service and 12 hours of anger management

Jasmine and the Dog

One rainy night at dusk Jasmine took the two dogs walking, leash-less, down the street where the smaller of the two, the black one and favorite, was run over by a car.

 

When Jason got home, he was very upset and asked where the body was. Jasmine told him she had placed the body in a small suitcase and was going to resurrect him in the morning.

He yelled at her, got the dogs body, and buried him in the back yard.

 

An argument ensued regarding Jasmine's fervent wish to bring the dog back to life.

It lasted through the night.

 

The next morning, after a walk, Jasmine brought home small terrier she claimed was the re-incarnated dachshund.

Anger Management

Anger management classes were online and were in half hour increments at 25 dollars per. The counselor was a very odd man who was quite fond of telling the class participants about the details of his son's suicide sometimes going on for fifteen minutes at a time.

 

Between raving on about his son and his former wife's infidelities, he would read some lines from an anger management course book.

 

It was entirely surreal. He was nuts.

 

Anger management classes cost me $300.00. I found out that he told my lawyer he believed I had no anger issues.

 

Ah well.

Community Service

I discovered I was responsible for finding a place to do community service. I could choose from a long statewide list of parks, campgrounds, dog shelters and municipal buildings to choose from.

 

I chose a park near Buford. I called and got scheduled for the following day at dawn. On my way I stopped at a McDonalds. The way out of the drive-thru was curved with a very high berm which I did not see.

 

I side swiped the berm and, since it was so tall, I ran up on the curb and tore holes in my front and back tires. I was becoming disconsolate.

 

Tow Truck, New tires, $450.00. What next?

 

Bring it on bitches.

Jasmine Fin

Jasmine had disappeared for a few days, not unusual for her but Jason assumed it was another man.

 

Whether it was or not I do not know. Jason was furious and determined to display his ascendancy. Jasmine called and said she was coming back. She had missed her court date.

Jason called a bounty hunter who was there when she returned. When the man cuffed her, she began wailing, no, keening.

 

It was very sad.

 

I stayed in my room.

Exonerated

December brought my court case. It was done via zoom. The lawyer explained everything to the judge regarding the IV drip, the needle and that I had been brought there for observation only.

 

The other mitigating factor was my bi-polarity which never crossed the mind of the Grady Psychiatrist, nor my own.

 

The judge castigated the prosecution for bringing a case at all and she ordered that the entire debacle be expunged from my record.

 

Victory!

 

Now to try and find a way out of Buford and back to Atlanta.

 

I began to check Craigslist every day for something I could afford that was geographically strategic.

 

In mid-January Jason's car broke down and we rode together in my car 26 miles to a train station. From the train station it was 45 minutes to work. We did that daily whenever there was work.

 

Despite all his foibles and darkness, Jason and I bonded like soldiers in a foxhole, living our precarious week to week existence, driving to work and listening to the Traveling Wilburys. As a result, I had an odd affection for him.

 

I knew that when I left, he would be profoundly affected and I was reticent to tell him I was looking.

 

When I did, he took it very well and seemed confident in his ability to take care of himself.

 

Finally, after months of searching for a suitable place to live I got a hit in April.

 

I would hear from Jason one more time, after he had been fired and ended up homeless again.

Stone Mountain

I found a room in a house in Stone Mountain, Georgia 20 miles from Atlanta and two miles from a train station.

 

The room was a hundred dollars more than I was currently paying and was in the home of a Miss Frances.

 

Miss Frances was an affable woman in her mid-forties with a furry big black dog named Bella.

 

The house was a 1980s split level. Miss Frances had three rooms upstairs for let while she lived in the basement.

 

It was here in Stone Mountain that the bottom dropped out.

 

The depression was overwhelming and the suicidal ideation the strongest.

 

60% of people with bipolar disorder attempt suicide, 15% succeed.

 

The train passed through two neighborhoods that my old friends had lived in. I could not look up while passing through. There was a dog park where I used to take Beckett. I had to turn away each time I traveled to work lest I cry.

 

Daily I thought about what I would do for the rest of my life.

 

I knew that people over sixty-two can go to school in Georgia at any state university for free. Georgia State University was easily accessible on the rail line but my record had not yet been expunged and a background check would reveal the assault. Besides I felt and looked too old to seriously consider it.

 

I found something that might be just the thing, coding for medical billing. There was an on-line course and the expected income was fifty to sixty thousand. I have two graduate degrees; I should certainly be able to ace the course. And, I had a year to complete. I spent three thousand dollars on it only to fail one of the later modules and, after a month and a half, was forced to give up.

 

On days I did not work, and those were many, I would drive mindlessly for hours always careful to avoid even the slightest possibility of seeing someone I might know.

 

Sometimes I would ride the train to the end of the line and back listening to an audiobook, the one thing I had to look forward to.

 

After I had been there a few months Bella disappeared and I asked Miss Frances about it.

 

She had taken the dog to the pound because it had been peeing on the floor. Red flag number one, disloyalty to one's dog.

 

Miss Frances had another border named Leon and Leon washed the dishes, mowed the lawn and did odd jobs to pay his rent.

 

One night Miss Frances and Leon had a row which ended in Leon leaving the house. Leon began throwing rocks breaking the basement windows. He then cut his hand trying to get into the basement and an ambulance had to be called. I stayed in my room and never asked Miss Frances about it. It was the last I saw of Leon.

 

Red flag number two.

 

Miss Frances had an app on her phone that allowed her to monitor internet usage. One evening the internet went down while I was taking a class and I asked Miss Frances about it.

 

She told me she thought I had been using too much internet and she cut me off. I was speechless. I tried to explain that internet usage was unlimited but she was having none of it.

She told me AT&T had called inquiring about the internet usage.

 

I was at this woman's mercy and she was a nut job.

 

After a while she relented and turned it back on, after she decided to raise my rent by a hundred dollars a month.

 

Red flag number three. Time for a new home.

New Home

I began the search and got a hit the very first day.

 

I went to meet the landlord for coffee and he seemed kind, intelligent, very down to earth and genuine so I went to see the property.

 

It was all new and squared away and I knew this was the place.

 

I moved out of Miss Frances' post-haste and into my new abode ten miles closer to work and just outside the city of Decatur.

 

I no longer had to ride the train.

 

I had unlimited access to a brand-new kitchen along with a washer and dryer something I did not have at Miss Frances'.

 

I was finally living in a place where I felt at ease and safe. I was taking my meds again, something I had not done over the last two years.

 

The healing process could begin and, over the course of the next year, it did.

 

It began to occur to me I was being castigated because of a mental disorder. My friends were not dim-witted, surely they were aware that the fault lay with the condition and not the man.

 

Without a trial or a means of redress I was convicted of the most heinous crimes. Yes, they were afraid, but I meant none harm and did none harm throughout.

 

It also occurred to me that my two closest friends never even called when they became aware of the face-book posts. I know myself and, under the same circumstances, were roles reversed, I would have been at the house of my friend, covid or no, convincing them to get help.

 

I began to feel righteous anger towards these so-called friends and the thought of facing them was no longer as daunting or frightening.

 

I began to go places I would never have dreamed of even 6 months earlier; Starbuck's, Whole Foods, shops in downtown Decatur where I had once lived and where the man I considered my closest friend still resides.

 

As much as I liked my new landlord there were certain privileges I still did not have and determined to move yet again. I had the luxury to take my time in what was now a healthy environment. Within a few weeks I was able to find the place I now live, 15 minutes from downtown Atlanta, for which I am grateful. It has allowed me to complete this narrative and get back into relatively decent shape, facilitating my visit with you today.

The Present

Medical science has no brain scans or blood tests that can conclusively make a diagnosis of bipolar disorder.

 

An equal number of men and women develop bipolar illness and it is found in all ages, races, ethnic groups and social classes.

 

According to the National Institute of Mental Health, bipolar disorder affects approximately 5.7 million adult Americans, or about 2.6% of the U.S. population age 18 and older every year.

 

Worldwide, bipolar disorder is considered to be the sixth leading cause of disability.

 

At one point I believed that I would work at the chicken processing plant for the rest of my life and would gladly have accepted a job as greeter at Wal-Mart.

 

At one point I believed that I would never have friends again, I don't have many, but I will.

 

At one point I believed I would never hold or love anyone again, I haven't, but the possibility is there.

 

Never have a dog again, never camp again or smell the smoke from a friendly bonfire, see a baseball game, see theater or act, ever again. I haven't yet done most of these things but I'm working on it.

 

Good night and thank you. (79:00).

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