Friends in Low Places
Part 2 of 3 following the Sierra Tucson Saga from MANIC Mike's Meditations
…Less than a week later I was on a flight with my father on our way to Arizona…
During that time an invigorated fascination in historical literature had sparked my imagination. With my new text in tow, I was happy to share with dad “ The Conquest of Gaul” book I had brought along for the trip. My old friend Taylor had taught me just a few weeks prior that the book was written by the man Julius Caesar himself. And here I was two thousand years later reading his own words. My plan was to read the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius next, but I still haven’t gotten around to it. At that time in my life most of the plans I made with myself never came to fruition. Wise enough to keep my most audacious ideas from abasement. Dreams of cities conquered and colosseums built would have to be forever kept to myself.
Wile ranting on the topic of glorious Caesar, I could tell my excitement on the subject made father uncomfortable. While the value of such knowledge was undeniable, it was strange to him that I partook in such fervent interest. I was no longer the son he knew. In truth I felt I had risen past him, gone to a new plane of existence. Evolved into the man I was always destined to be. A man who knew his path with control of his own destiny. How wrong I was.
My companionship with Julius of course was just a welcomed distraction from my current predicament. Trapped between the world in my mind and reality. Reality apparently being the place my parents dwelt. I didn’t know what to expect in treatment, but I knew it would be an adventure. In this I was correct. Many of the lessons learned at Sierra Tucson I still carry with me today, some include…
Fathers be good to your daughters.
Addiction is real and crippling.
If all possible avoid back surgery.
Agoraphobia is a thing and so is trauma.
Don’t eat in front of anorexics.
Age regression is terrifying.
My specific mental illness in treatment is put in what we call the “mood” category. It is typical for treatment centers to group patients into categories, as to to properly assess specific and similar afflictions. In this, the bipolar forever companion is the schizophrenic. As both are part of the same mood circle. The thought behind this is that we both take the same antipsychotic meds. What works for the schizophrenic often works for the bipolar, the reason for this scientifically remains a mystery. While a doctor can speak on what the drugs can do to one’s brain chemistry, they can’t give an exact answer on why those effects treat our affliction. Sure, there are theories on the subject, but the true answer is an enigma. What I understand now is that my brain has the proclivity to over excite until the point of burnout. Hence the high and the inevitable low. A clashing of the universe into the finite.
Of course, when one hasn’t felt the low it doesn’t yet exist. The high is just you’re new reality. One that is difficult to express when the ground is no longer beneath your feet. Manic or drug induced, like any high it feels great. When I was dropped off and checked into Sierra Tucson, I was a coordinated maniac. Too smart and self-confident for my own good. My previous consciousness existence had finally caught the person I had been striving to be.
“Confidence is key.”
Advice I’ll never forget and always strive to live by (shout out AP). For the first time in my life, I felt what that meant. Unfortunately, confidence often flirts with arrogance which has led to the downfall of better men than me.
First phase, standard issue treatment is detox. Off to the tank with you. This is where you are put in a special wing of the hospital that is specifically designed for observation and instant care. Often times addicts are admitted while still intoxicated by their preferred drug of choice. Most the time being alcohol, but I’ve also seen cocaine, heroin, pain killers, and benzos. When I first met Dan, it was just him and I in a white room full of couches and board games. Dan had major surgery on his back a few years prior which led him to a now crippling addiction to pain killers. At first introduction I knew something was off and I wasn’t naïve enough to believe him sober. Barely able to put together a sentence, I had to be extremely patient with Dan to hear parts of his story. All I knew at the time was that he was an investment banker and his back hurt.
Over the next several hours those who would eventually become my month long companions began shuffling in. I met a drunk woman Meg who also happened to be an investment banker. Person after person that came in was equally interesting. As a finance major who dreamed of landing a Wall Street job, these people so far were living the life I was seeking to live. No one was supposed to be here, and it had all been a mistake. I was the youngest one in the wing by a decade which didn’t bother me, the older the more interesting. As the day dragged on it became more and more evident that we had nothing to do but talk to each other and exchange stories. Mine was that my parents had gone insane and convinced a doctor to diagnose me bipolar. Which was just another explanation on a long list of diagnoses from simple folk who had failed to understand who I had become. It wasn’t LSD or cocaine so logically now I was bipolar. Idiots.
Over time I gravitated to Dan simply because I had met him first and we were the closest in age. Due to his current state Dan wasn’t much to talk to at the time, but lucky for both of us I was in a mood to talk. Because of our time together in detox, Dan became one of my closer friends during my stay in treatment. The unwritten rule of “detox buddies” exists at all psyche hospitals. Something about the first people you meet at your most vulnerable time draws a connection. With no TV and only board games and puzzles to keep our minds occupied, I soon challenged my new friend Dan to a game of chess. I was shocked to learn he didn’t know how to play. A thirty something, successful investment banker who didn’t know how to play chess!
“You want to learn?”
“S-sure..”
Just like that we had our distraction. Later that month we laughed about the experience as Dan’s mental capacity while in detox was that of a toddler. Having to tell him the moves multiple times, constantly forgetting what I had just taught him. I don’t remember getting frustrated, I just thought the entire experience was funny.
“Dan, like I just said the knight makes an L shape.”
“Ahhh..”
“Close but not quite, two spaces this way and one the other.”
I was just happy to teach. During my life I have adopted the philosophy that if you teach a man something that he will use again, he will remember you forever. Like that time one beach spring break when I taught a British fellow how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Years later at a wedding, Mark remembered me as the guy who taught him the wonders of the PB&J. Not as the bipolar lad you had to be careful around. Due to my own and inadvertent circumstances, everyone I had befriended before I was twenty-two knew my greatest secret. Many knowing I was bipolar before I did.
Finally released from detox a day later, I was free to roam the unexplored campus of Sierra Tucson. A largely outdoor complex connected by clay walkways, I was just happy to breath fresh air and take in the new sites. After a personal walking tour that ended in my room assignment, it must have been close to dusk as I noticed a large gathering of people crowding the center of campus. A giant pyre had been set ablaze in the center of a circular amphitheater. The burning ceremony had begun. In that moment I didn’t know a soul as my detox buddies had not yet been released. Following the crowd I sat on the outskirts of the rock amphitheater and witnessed.
“This is for my first rapist who discarded me like garbage, and this is for my father who knew all along!”
“This is for my ex who I defended after he put me in the hospital twice.”
“This is for my piece of shit rapist uncle who never let me grow up.”
One by one women lined up throwing long parchments of paper into the fire, each speaking a more horrifying encounter than the previous. Before this night I had never known a woman who had been raped. The trauma girls had made their appearance, welcome to Sierra Tucson.
The next day was the first of what became a long routine. Meals, group therapy, arts and crafts, one on one therapy, Alcohol Anonymous meetings, and downtime. Some days things were switched around, like Narcotics Anonymous took the place of AA and sports activities instead of arts and crafts. I learned that second day that the parchments burnt the night before were the timelines of patients past. Timelines they had been working on for weeks. They were burning their past. A heavy concept to be introduced to. What am I doing here?
Running into Dan who missed the previous night’s festivities, I told him all about it. This conversation effectively took place in a spot that was aptly named the smoking hut. The male designated area where cigarettes could be smoked. I couldn’t help but notice the strong number of beautiful women checked in here with us, so it was disappointing that the sociable smoking spot was segregated along gender lines. Say what you will about the hot to crazy ratio. However, after last night’s burning ceremony the separation seemed necessary. If you don’t go into rehab smoking cigs you almost always come out with the habit. The boys smoking hut gave us a place to congregate, meet and reflect during down time.
The fun part about being the new guy is everyone wants to meet you, and there were a lot of people to meet. While on my walking tour many of the extroverted veterans introduced themselves, but it was in the smoking hut that I found my clique. The practiced greeting amongst those in rehab goes name, then affliction. Like “Hey I’m Sarah, alcoholic.” The candidness of the greetings took me back at first, but I came to understand its significance. Later I found that this form of greeting is an AA practice although not limited to alcoholics. Its forthcoming nature is disarming and begs the recipient to reply in kind. “Hey I’m Mike, and apparently I’m bipolar.”
The failure of Sierra Tucson for me is that I didn’t come out completely believing in my own demise. In order to conquer mental illness, the first step toward recovery is sincere acceptance of it. While the idea was incepted from my later SPEC scan at the Sierra Tucson treatment facility, it wouldn’t be until years later that I finally came to my ultimate truth. Unfortunately, like most bipolars it took me three cycles of high and low to accept that something was very wrong with me. The trick for us is surviving long enough to get to that point. I once heard the inflated statistic that one third of male bipolars will commit suicide by the age of twenty-four. True or not, because of my own personal struggles I choose to believe it.
Back in the smoking hut I met the most interesting and diverse group of guys I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering. In my current socialite state, I fit right in. Laughing and cutting up was all part of the healing process. We were all broken men passing wisdom from one story to another. Of course, my instant claim to fame was my great Wolverine escape. In any other situation that story would be passed off as unbelievable, but due to the hallowed nature of our smoking circle it was met with astonishment.
The unfortunate truth to friends in rehab is that no matter how close you get, no one keeps up with each other in the outside word. Emails and phone numbers are often exchanged toward the end of one’s stay, but they turn out to be just letters and numbers. The reasoning for this is obvious. First being that on the outside, treatment for most folks fades into a shameful memory. One they wish to not relive by calling up old friends on the other side of the country. The second reason for not keeping up with rehab friends is that most of them relapse. Whether it be drugs, alcohol, depression, or mania the sickness that lies within each of us has the nasty habit of sticking around. Treatment can repress the behaviors that got us there, but ultimate cognitive healing only happens through discipline and self-determination. For me this meant having the discipline to take my meds every day, for the rest of my life. At twenty-two this was a notion I was determined to fight until my last breath.
Of my friends met during my stay at Sierra Tucson the ones that I remember are Dan, Travis, Tex, John, Paulie, and Haliem. Due to Sierra Tucson’s high cost, one either had to have impeccable insurance or deep pockets to afford a month long stay. Myself falling into the former category it turned out that most of my new friends were in the latter. Deep pockets means financial success which for me implies good stories.
Travis was a young guy with a drug problem from Jersey. He had a thick accent and an attitude that matched his home state. The loudest one in the hut, his blunt statements and laugh were recognizable from a mile away. One of the little guy’s greatest contributions to my life is the personal inside joke of singing “Smokin’ In The Boys Room” while in the hut. This coming years before my later obsession with Mötley Crüe. A signature song of the hair band I find myself softly signing to this day if ever I light up a smoke.
Tex was a successful entrepreneur who also had a generic drug problem. Apparently owning a humble recording studio, he was a total metal head who loved to jam. Probably in his late forties, Tex had great stories of investment and downfall. He taught me the fast-paced reality that came with mixing uppers and downers. How few steps lie between a slight cocaine problem and getting arrested purchasing crack at 3AM on the downtown streets in your lambo.
“Nobody came here on a winning streak.” -Tex
One of the great lessons Tex taught me was on oversharing outside the circle. While his crack story was ultimately hilarious, it was not for me to share. When my girlfriend at the time came to visit me, I introduced him by his one sentence cautionary tale. “Not cool man.” Is all he responded with. While I seriously apologized later and we both laughed it off as a dumb mistake, this is one of those missteps that I still feel the sting of ten years later. One of the many disabilities of being manic is oversharing.
Through his stories John introduced me to the outrageously addictive world of benzodiazepines. Benzos such as Xanax, Klonopin, and Valium are prescribed as anti-anxiety medications that doctors today hand out like candy. If society just now caught on to the Opioid Epidemic, in another ten years the news will finally cover the Benzo Epidemic. Often the drug of choice for housewives and college students. Benzos have a tendency to memory hole previous experiences, especially when mixed with other drugs such as alcohol and uppers. I’ve heard college students refer to the trip as time traveling when used at the beginning of a long journey. Take one pill, the mind goes blank and comes back at your desired destination. Highly addictive and easily abused by crushing up and snorting the detox of benzodiazepines is long and arduous. I didn’t really get to know John until later in my stay as he was still detoxing from his previous addiction. Since admittance into treatment his personality finally came out around a month later.
When stories in rehab are being passed around, I find the best way to enjoy the moment is to simply believe them. Ignoring the side of your brain that wants to call bullshit at every fascinating and probably embellished narrative. Paulie had a story. Dividing the entire treatment facility into two camps, those who didn’t believe, and those of us who did. I chose to believe Paulie for one because I wanted to, and two because his allotted visitors appeared to back it up. Paulie’s philosophy was that since no one tells the truth in rehab, and since everyone around us was legally an unreliable witness, rehab was the perfect opportunity to be honest with complete strangers.
Paulie was allegedly a mob boss who ran a casino on the island nation of Trinidad. Originally from New York, he was in a foot cast and wheelchair after a recent surgery getting his foot fixed. Something about making the court feel sorry for him. He was here because he had gotten busted in one of his schemes and was angling to plead insanity. Doped up from his surgery, he liked to play brain dead when he found a story uninteresting or was generally bored. We loved Paulie and amongst the few of us that believed him, he quickly became our Tony Soprano. Dishing out advise on how to make money and avoid the law, he described Trinidad as the wild west. Often describing his loyal henchmen, he talked about one woman in particular who was his right hand in the operation. A strong, tall, black woman who went by Candy that ran the muscle in Trinidad and was not to be trifled with. While checked in to Sierra Tucson one can have visitors as long as they’re willing to make the trip. When Paulie had visitors one day, we were all approached at the smoking hut by a group of large humans with New York accents and gangster mannerisms. In center front by Paulie’s side was Candy. A tall black woman with a thick Caribbean accent who looked like a stronger version of that chick with the sword from “The Walking Dead”. I never doubted Paulie’s story again.
Impressed by my Wolverine experience, Paulie offered me and Haliem a job once we got out. Of course I never took him up on this, but the prospect was enticing. The money offer alone was more than I’ll make for years and the lifestyle at the time seemed to suit me. The last I heard about Paulie was from Haliem the one time we spoke on the outside over the phone. He said Paulie had gone to jail for tax evasion. He’s probably out now doing God knows what and where. I wish him all the best because at the end of the day Paulie was a good guy who’s company I greatly enjoyed, and I definitely changed his name.
Haliem turned out to be my best friend during my stay in treatment. Bonding by playing basketball and chess, we both enjoyed each other’s competitive nature. He came from a broken home and had been living on the streets for quite some time. His dad was a competitive poker player in Vegas and for one reason or another he couldn’t live with his mother. What he lacked in formal education he made up for with sheer aptitude and charisma. Often referring to me as “college boy” we had our share of jabs. An absolute lady killer he could often be found sitting one on one with a trauma girl swapping stories and tears. A great empathetic listener he taught me the value of being on the other side of the conversation. I went into Sierra Tucson knowing how to talk and came out knowing how to listen. This was largely due to watching him interact with others. Getting people to open up was his specialty as he became the de facto secret keeper of the compound.
All around a great guy, Haliem became famously popular within the community and by the end of my stay I found myself secretly jealous of him. I knew this feeling was just hate in my heart, so I did my best to practice being happy for him. Knowing where he came from and the uncertainty of where he was going, I had no right to feel any ill will toward my best friend. This man did not deserve to be homeless in California. Haliem was a charity case as he was awarded some grant to afford coming to treatment. With nothing apparently wrong with him, the reason for his stay to many was a mystery. In his own words he just one day thought he’d had enough and walked into oncoming traffic. A terrible way to commit suicide. Homelessness had got the better of him and he just didn’t see a way out, luckily for myself and many others that car swerved. I believe he learned his value to society though the Sierra Tucson community. I looked him up a while back and he was working at a halfway house for at risk young adults. He found a passion being there for other people and I’m sure he is changing lives to this day. I really should find a way to call him.
Unlike my life in the outside world, I do well when locked into community. Going to rehab is like going to summer camp, planned activities with the same faces every day. Its easy to make friends. Guys mingled with girls without sexual tension due to the dire consequences of breaking protocol. It should be known by all that no woman checked into a rehab facility has the capacity to give consent. It doesn’t matter if she completely initiated the hook up, dude is going to jail a rapist. It’s just the law. With this knowledge and the fact that my girlfriend was on her way to come see me, it was easy to make friends of the opposite sex. I figured if I talked about my girlfriend with other girls they would get the memo that I wasn’t a threat, and it worked. It made things easier that I was truly in love at the time. If only I had accepted my bipolar sooner, she could have been my happily ever after. Unfortunately, due to my stubbornness only pain and heartbreak laid before me.
Ivana had been my girlfriend for the better part of two years before my first episode. She would say she knew something was wrong when she caught me up at 2AM practicing Mui Thai in the living room. Due to my rapid weight loss, I just figured I didn’t need as much sleep anymore. Sleep when your dead right? Feeling better than I ever had in my life, I felt I had finally found myself. I was now the person who deserved to be with such a wonderful woman.
The nature of our relationship lead Ivana to become close with my parents. Attending my football games together everyone enjoyed each other’s company. This was good news for me until I got sick. When my mind entered that upward spiral my loved ones began to rightfully worry about me. I knew something was wrong when she began to take their side of things. My parents were making moves to get me help and Ivana was involved with them. What then felt like a betrayal, I’d later admit was out of love.
She couldn’t have been more supportive when I was first committed. The thinking being that this was just a bump in the road we were about to nip in the bud. Romantically writing me every day, I still have the notecards she used. Sending a few days’ worth of cards at a time she updated me on life and reminded me how much she loved me. Even though I planned to, I never wrote her back. I read all her letters in earnest, but the thought of writing her back was just too painful for me to bear. As if putting pen to paper would be some admission of my guilt.
Her co-op at Delta as an engineer had the benefit of free flights and she was able to book a round trip out to Phoenix to come see me. Driving to Tucson in her rented green Kia Soul, I couldn’t have been more excited to see her. Under strict surveillance, I was ready to enact my master plan to give us some much-needed alone time.
Outside at the designated pick up/drop of location, I patiently waited for her arrival. With no cell phones in rehab, it was difficult to coordinate when exactly she would be here. I knew what kind of car she was in so my heart fluttered when I first saw it pull up. As she got out, I ran up and embraced her. It felt like we hadn’t seen each other in forever when in reality it had only been a few weeks. They were long weeks for both of us. As we kissed and caught up, I began preparing her for what she was about to see.
I gave her a grand tour of the facility while showing her off to everyone we came across, most notably my screw up with Tex. There was only one building she wasn’t allowed in, the dorm rooms. It was while eating lunch that I told her my plan to get her alone. Strategy wise, the talk amongst inmates was to simply walk out into the desert to conjugate. Ivana being the classy gal she was, I knew she wouldn’t go for laying down in the dirt. Instead, what I would do is sneak her into my dorm room past the security counter. I had been planning this for a while and had found a side door that could be opened past security. All I would then have to do then is sneak her though the long hallway to my room. I got Halim involved and had him distract the guard while I took her down the hallway. Protesting the whole time Ivana was reluctant to follow me, but my plan worked. Alone at last. There were no doors to our bedrooms except to the shared bathroom, so we had to be as quiet as possible. Romantically laying down some pillows and towels we made love there on bathroom floor. No matter how our relationship ended I’ll always appreciate Ivana for moments like this.
Sneaking her back out proved easy, soon after the climax of her trip the day was over. She would have to get going soon. After a long goodbye filled with love and compassion she was once again gone, and I was alone. Our relationship wouldn’t last much longer after getting home from Sierra Tucson. Every patient (especially the grandmas) that we talked to that day reacted in the same way, it was obvious to them Ivana was the one for me. I tended to agree with them, but life had other plans.
I’ve never had the habit of making best friends out of girls and although there were a few notable appearances, my time in treatment was no different. One girl Molly was hilariously Californian as she was from Malabo and ridiculously wealthy. Her crime had been that she was a party animal and liked to go out and drink most days of the week. The daily abuse shown on her young face as she was aged beyond her years. Obviously looking to escape and worrying her family, Molly’s mother invited her on a Yoga retreat that took place in Tucson Arizona. The ploy had worked, and Molly was now checked into rehab with the rest of us.
Jennifer was just like one of the guys. Sneaking over to our smoking hut most days she didn’t care for any rules. Lighting up cigs and sharing stories, Jennifer was the first person I ever met who was a heroin addict. This made her incredibly interesting to me and I learned a lot by her story. Her boyfriend had gotten her hooked and they just became junkies for the stuff. She said getting high made all her problems go away and melt into nothing. An enticing incentive that has sense helped me rationalize the opioid epidemic. Due to propaganda, I’ve always been terrified of heroin, and I’ll never forget saying to her “Haven’t you seen Requiem for a Dream?” Surprisingly she had seen it, and that trainwreck of a film wasn’t enough to steer her away from her pleasure. Heroin users typically don’t have the best childhood. As an escape from both past and present there is a lot of pain they are looking to melt down.
Sue was one of the youngest girls checked into Sierra Tucson and had a quiet meek demeanor. She came from an American Indian tribe in upstate New York and her jet-black straight hair was evidence of that heritage. During a meeting one day Joe, an alcoholic large man who was also of American Indian descent, broke down sharing the details regarding the death of his son. Apparently in that moment, Sue walked up and put her hands on him and Joe was healed. He swore by it. “She’s a healer” Joe had told me once. That touch became a hug that stilled the room. I don’t try to comprehend what happened in the moment; I just accept it for what it was, a miracle. After that meeting I steered clear of Sue. Something about Native American voodoo gave me the creeps. Not that I thought she was a witch or anything, I just didn’t want to know for sure. Sue was in for trauma and something really bad had happened to her. I’ve learned its best not to ask and I wasn’t looking to talk to her anyway.
That is until she found me…