The summer before my third year of college, I was living alone, experimenting with drugs, and not eating or sleeping consistently at all.  During a stressful trip out of town, my thoughts began to race.  At first this was fun.  I had an unending supply of ideas for books and screenplays I wanted to write.  I was making staggering realizations about the secrets of life.  But I was also having more and more problems getting my point across to other people or carrying on any type of logical conversation at all.  When no one understood my ideas and revelations I became suspicious and paranoid.

After a couple weeks of this, at the end of another completely sleepless night, I called my father and asked him to take me to the hospital.  Once there, I had the same problem I’d been having with everyone else – I couldn’t communicate, I was suspicious of everyone’s motives and I was very scared.  I screamed at them that I didn’t want to be committed.  One nurse tried to explain that I was being admitted, not committed, but I was convinced that I’d be locked up and never come out.

When I refused to check into the first hospital we went to, my father took me home, where my thoughts raced even faster.  In less than an hour, I was again asking for something – anything that would help slow my thoughts down. We went to another hospital where, after what seemed like a million questions, I was admitted to the inpatient psychiatric unit.  I refused the first couple doses of medication and for the first 12 hours, I wasn’t even completely sure where I was. 

I had to get worse before I got better.  It turned out I was extremely sensitive to medication and with the help of the psychiatric nurse on the unit, we were able to adjust my dosage and add other medications so my side effects weren’t so severe. 

I got the best support from other patients on the unit.  I had something in common with most of them, and with long stretches of time between groups and educational sessions, we learned a lot about each other.  My roommate was especially kind, considering it took me several more nights to actually sleep.

In retrospect, my first hospitalization was absolutely necessary.  Had I not gotten help, I might have put myself into danger or hurt someone else.  After the initial 10-day inpatient stay, I began day hospitalization, or “partial,” where I was on a 9am-5pm schedule of support groups, therapy, education about my illness and medication management.  Needing more medication adjustments, I crashed into a depression and was re-admitted to the hospital, where I again tried new medications, and this time they worked.

I stayed out of the hospital for a year and a half and returned to school and work.  But I hadn’t really learned the coping skills I needed.  In response to additional stress in my life, I stopped sleeping again, and my thoughts started racing again. 

I checked into the hospital again.  This time, I thought I knew everything about myself and my illness and made myself very difficult to get along with.  I attempted to check out, but by the time I’d had the evaluations and filled out the forms, it was time for me to be released anyway.

The third hospitalization was a wake-up call for me.  Until that time, I hadn’t been taking care of my mind, like running on a sprained ankle.  I realized that if I wanted to have the chance to live my life uninterrupted, I would need to take some responsibility for my treatment and life.

I had a lot of learning to do.  In the years that followed, I went on and off of various medications and had a lot of therapy.  I learned to recognize racing thoughts, irritability and other symptoms, and most importantly, I learned how to keep my sleep regular with medication and self-discipline.