For those of you familiar with PROJECT STIGMA, this page has currently been updated to correspond with the PHASE 2 project.

"Day One" is the story of my life so far, from 2000-2004. Utilizing moments from my journal and hard to forget memories, what you are about to read is true. The title "Day One" refers to time, it never moves when you are institionalized, it stays still. Like mental illness when you move, a minute hasn't passed, it's only gone backward.

NOTE TO THE READER: Although the following story does not contain harsh or inappropriate language, its subject matter may be difficult for some sensitive people. I do hope you read it with an open mind and an open heart.

I was diagnosed with mental illness in the summer of 1996 after a severe panic attack. My first attack came while I was sitting in the middle of a crowded movie theatre. Suddenly my heart began to feel as if it were going to jump out of my chest. I began to sweat and later became dizzy, I wanted to grab my friend's leg and hold on to it for dear life, I thought I was going to die.

Soon after this happened I was filling out a job application and I lost control of my right hand. At this point I had enough. I drove myself to the family medical center and was fortunate to have a very kind doctor take care of me. She recommended I go to a special hospital that focused on situations like mine. Little did I know that I had this problem my entire life.

Two days later I went to a "screening." It would take that hospital three weeks to call me back. During those three weeks I went on a vacation with some college friends. I was miserable. I had to hide the torment my body was putting me through. Without exaggeration, I felt as if I was at death's door. I had graduated with a B.F.A that year and decided to take the summer off to "find myself." Instead I found misery. I returned home and recall jumping onto my bed. All I wanted to do was hide from the world and not come out from my bedroom. "What is wrong with me?" I asked myself. "Am I dying?"

The hospital, which considers itself to be "one of the best" (though I beg to differ,) finally called me. They assigned me a psychiatrist and my world began to spin in a complete opposite direction.

As time slowly passed I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder type II, depression, panic anxiety disorder, mild agoraphobia. Towards the end of 1999 I also developed a tremor disorder that no neurologist can figure out. The tremors are not bad at all and medication does help tremendously, you would hardly notice I even have this problem. After the long summer of 96' I decided to jump into graduate school as a Film student. Unfortunately after my first semester the money ran out. I had to get a job fast and landed one as assistant manager of a toy store. I felt as if I had let myself down because I worked so hard to get a college education and I took the first thing that came to me. I enjoyed working at the toy store. My boss became a wonderful friend, and my co-manager also turned out to be a terrific person with a great heart. We eventually formed our own little family. We'd spend time together after work, going to the movies, eating dinner — that sort of thing. I started to feel comfortable again. However I arrogantly felt I was underpaid for someone with my education.

Although I became comfortable at this job, I was slowly sliding into a deep depression. By March of 1997, everything went wrong.

By this time I was an emotional mess, and had developed severe back pain. My doctor at the time had me on a list of anti-depressants that were not working. I told her but at usual she wouldn't listen.

My back finally gave out at work and my parents had to come and pick me up. I went yet again to the family medical center only to discover that it was due to excess weight. I was told to take a few days off, given some over the counter medicine and then I could go back to work.

While on my short leave my depression built up to an all time high, I began experimenting with pot (something I did in college on occasion) with a friend of mine. I simply could not handle the pain inside me.

One night I was invited to a friend's house. However this night in particular was different. I had decided earlier that day that it would be my last night on earth. The emotional pain was unbearable. Friends and family were giving up on me because they didn't understand what was going through my mind. I was self-absorbed and all I did was complain. I had a hole in my heart and a vacancy in my soul. I could see no way out. I smoked a little grass that night and fell asleep on my friend's couch. I woke up and drove home. It was not the marijuana that inspired my suicidal thoughts. This was pre-determined earlier that day.

I walked to my room, wrote a suicide note via e-mail, hit send and swallowed a few anti-anxiety drugs. Luckily my boss was on his computer and he called my parents. My father came into my room. He and my Mother hadn't a clue what to do. ** I had only taken 4 pills along with my nightly medication. Some people say I wanted to live, I honestly don't know. What I do know is that God was watching me. That Sunday morning I spent 6 hours in the kitchen talking to my parents. I told them that "I need help and if I don't get it then I'm going to hurt myself." Of course they did not listen.

I went up stairs and left long-winded messages on my psychiatrist's voice mail. Hours later, without warning, a fire truck, police cars and an ambulance came knocking at my door. I stood in the living room with my parents in one corner and these strangers in another. A police officer asked me "do you want to come with us?" I looked at my parents and asked them something. To this day, I cannot remember the question. Finally I said, "Yes."

After hours in the emergency room, I was escorted to one of the mental wards. So began three weeks of one of the worse years of my life. It was about a quarter to midnight as the two large men escorted me into the mental ward. We entered dimly lit, sterile and unusually scented narrow hallway. To the right of me was the nurse's station. It felt like a bus terminal. I walked toward a make shift table with three men and a large woman seated behind it. I was unkempt, dressed in sweat pants and a tee shirt with four cigarettes and a few quarters and dollars on me. I felt as if I stepped into a Salvador Dahli painting. A nurse came out of the station and asked me if I had eaten. "No" I replied softly. "I'll see if I can find you something." She came back with a Styrofoam cup of apple juice. I quenched my dry mouth and placed the cup on the table.

The heavy woman, Mrs. Robertson, yelled at me. "I'm not your mother! I don't pick up after you! You throw that cup away!" At this point I became a bit anxious and confused. I simply placed a cup on a table. I had only been there for three minutes. What had I done wrong?

I picked up the cup and threw it away without saying a word. The nurse led me into the station to ask me some questions:

Do you consider yourself gay, bi-sexual or straight?

Do you know how the AIDS virus is contracted?

Do you know why you are here?

I answered them all and was told I would be on the "red team." I had no idea what this meant. The nurse was kind and escorted me out to find a room for me to stay.

The ward at the time was populated more with men then women, so they stuck me in room 1 and added an extra bed. Two men were sleeping as I was escorted into the room. The smell of body order was impossible to ignore. Luckily the nurse had giving me something to sleep because all I can remember of the rest of that night was looking up at a dark ceiling wondering what was happening to me.

I eventually sank into a deep medicinal sleep. When I awoke that morning there were two bare feet literally in front of my face. Completely unaware of my surroundings I awakened to a man staring at me. He was watching me sleep.

I kindly introduced myself and he glared at me for a moment. He then mumbled something to himself and said, "Are you feeling sorry for me?" I repeated, "Hello, my name is John, what is your name?" The conversation went around in circles for a few moments and somehow ended. The man had no idea how long he had been in the hospital, how old he was, or why he was there. He would sleep all day and never bathe. His smell became so bad you couldn't walk past the room. When I approached a staff member about the situation they said, "Your in a mental institution, what do you expect?" This was coming from "one of the best institutions for mental health."

When I left the room a head staff member was sitting down observing everyone. That's initially their job. I've never been to prison before or convicted of a crime but I would assume this is what the definition of a "warden" or "commissioner" would be. Some of these people have this inexplicable need for power without reason. They'll break the patient bill of rights without considering if the patients in the ward actually have a mind. I asked this warden for breakfast and he asked me "why were you not up when we called you?" I answered "I just got here, I have no idea what's going on". He grabbed this Styrofoam plate with watered down egg's and a bowl of white stuff (I would later discover that these were grits) with some orange juice. I sat in the "day room", looked at the plate, became nauseous and threw the plate away.

In time I would form an unspoken friendship with that warden and would pray that he would work nights because he would be our ("our" being the patients on that ward) symbol of hope. I finally got in touch with my parents and they dropped off some clothing, cigarettes, food and a notebook (I kept a journal while there.) When they would visit me I would beg them to bring me food. In reality when you are committed to a mental institution you gain weight, I somehow did a reversal and lost 27 pounds.

A day later I met with two separate psychiatrists. One, a woman, appeared to shed some light at the end of the tunnel. We sat down for quite sometime discussing medications. She was very kind. However it was the last I would ever see of her.

Next, a doctor in his mid forties was assigned to me. He obviously did not belong in the mental health care profession. We had a fifteen-minute session. He put me on a list of medications that would fill a local pharmacy and left.

After that, my so-called daily "session" would equal thirty seconds every morning, here's how it went: "Hello John, how are you this morning?"

"Well, I..." "Do you feel like hurting yourself?" he asked.

"No" I would reply.

"If you did, would you tell anybody?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Good, I'll see you tomorrow."

Then he'd leave. That was it. Great help huh?

Eventually I was switched around to different rooms in the institution. In one room there was a man who stole my money and cigarettes. I could understand this. The man was seriously ill. On the other hand, he did not belong in this particular ward. This was one of the problems. They would mix the rational, with the irrational and we'd all be stigmatized equally.

We all know there are many types and degrees of mental illness. Each case presents it's own unique issues and each patient needs to be treated uniquely. People aren't packages. We don't have "FRAGILE" or "HANDLE WITH CARE" marked on the tops of our heads. But if it's obvious that if a specific patient needs a particular type of treatment, then why is he or she mixed up in a crowd whose needs are different?

The excuse of "overpopulation" in mental hospitals is a dangerous one. People with mental illness simply should not be treated like animals. If you are a person of wealth then obviously you will have access to a private facility. But if you're just an average middle or lower class individual who relies on public assistance (like myself) you're screwed. What makes it even more painful is the hospitals know this and they don't do anything about it.

Time progresses in a mental institution, but you're unaware of what day or time it is. You yearn for that cigarette break because it's your only chance to step outside. They have this sacred "gift" called status that they give to certain patients. It allows them to leave the institution and walk the facility for a certain amount of time. Some are even lucky enough to leave the grounds. I assume I would have been granted the privilege but I didn't care. My existence was neutral.

On the days Mrs. Robertson was assigned to warden the institution the patients would become angry. The woman was frail and had an ill-mannered temper. At 3:30 in the afternoon her shift would begin. Fifteen minutes later she would scream through the sterile walls "Quiet time everybody! It's quiet time! Into your rooms!" Obviously this was a violation of our rights. She'd force us into our rooms and take all the patient phones off the hook. We had two public telephones, our only access to friends and family.

I was fortunate enough to have a room (for a short time) across from one of the phones. I was rooming with a man my father's age who had a son my age. He was a beautiful human being and every part of me wanted to reach out to him. He thought the devil was following him every where he went. He finally decided to have electric shock therapy. I'll never forget the day he returned. His memory was gone. He couldn't recall his son's name. His family was also very sweet, they'd come to visit him often and also offer to leave the room if I was in there. I also left. It was the only place they could have to themselves.

As time would progress Mrs. Robertson's bitterness began to agitate me. I am not the type to show anger and I do not believe anger resolves any issue. When she had the staff take the phones off the hook, I'd simply walk out of my room and put them back on the hook.

One time I needed to use the bathroom and she asked "why are you out of your room?" I responded politely "I am an educated human being and expect to be treated as you would be. I needed to use the bathroom and do not appreciate the way you are speaking to me. Do you realize that taking the phone off the hook at this time is violating our rights?" She was cleaning a table in the day room when this incident occurred. "Go back to your room John. I continued to state my case in a calm, rational manner. I was ignored.

The institution also had a room they called "the music room." It was literally across from the nurse's station. The stereo was falling apart but it was a place where we could listen to music. I remember back in the days of college learning about music therapy. I love music and asked my best friend to make a tape for me.

Apparently there was an incident where a patient had sexual intercourse with either another patient or a nurse (it was not rape.) They rarely let us in that room after that and when they did, a staff member would sit outside the door while one person would try to listen to music.

I made some very special friends on that ward and we had formed a group. We called ourselves "The Breakfast Club." At night we would get together and talk about our problems. It was wonderful and the only form of therapy we could get. Some times our conversations were so pure one of use would end up crying. One of the staff caught on and they tried to break us apart. A nurse even said "you're not aloud to talk about your problems. Keep them to yourselves. That's what your doctor's are here for." She said this in an angry tone. She was the most hated nurse on the ward.

The administration of the hospital would have these insipid group therapy meetings that never worked. Because the institution was mixed with people of all diagnosis, the women who tried to run the groups had an impossible time of getting anything accomplished. When they did do something, the only thing we wanted to do was let out our feelings about the ward. Needless to say, the women were shocked to hear about what was done to us. The patients knew that the people who attempted to run the so-called therapy groups meant well because we could see they genuinely cared. But because of obvious circumstance, there was nothing that could be done.

In due time myself and other male patients began to have horrible reactions to the medications. There would literally be lines standing in front of the urinals. We couldn't urinate. I became so ill that I began discharging from my penis. They have only one physician that runs around the entire facility and I had to wait days for him to examine me.

They kept insisting I had some kind of sexually transmitted disease. I knew I didn't. They performed this horrible test on me (I'll leave the details out) which turned out negative. They said I had a "urinary tract infection." I would later find out this was not the case. It was the medication that was doing it to me. They gave me some kind of pill that turned my urine red. I got scared and thought I was bleeding. I still continued discharging for the duration of my stay.

I also had my back examined. To this day I have no idea of the results but they were kind enough to send me the bill. During the duration of my stay I was submitting bills to Medicaid and was also granted (like every other patient) a lawyer. He was obviously part of the hospital routine. My first submission to Medicaid was denied (they say it happens to everyone). My second accepted. Medicaid is a nerve-racking experience.

I was constipated, agitated, frustrated, confused and felt as if my life was going to end in a place that was designed to help me. Every single day I would write in my journal and watch the people around me. There was the mute man who had the appearance of a 14 year old boy. I wanted desperately to get inside his mind. He was weak but you could feel the pain in his eyes. Then there was the black woman who was given rosary beads and soon began to cry. She lifted her hands in the air and screamed "Praise Jesus! Praise Jesus!" People laughed. I didn't, and my heart sank. The woman in her mid forties who I befriended, her soul lost, all she wanted was to be with her children and to be back with her husband. She told me that she wanted to leave the hospital and go on a road trip. The elderly Spanish woman who only spoke English when she wanted a cigarette, would grab men's genitals and behinds. She made us all laugh. There was my friend in "The Breakfast Club" who walked into our little group a stone and came out with the softest heart. He wanted his father to communicate with him. He was on every medication in the book and was enormously wealthy. I remember the day his father came. When he left, he was angry and had reason to be.

One afternoon, I broke down in my room. I was the only one in there and began to cry. My friends were on their way to visit me. I hated having visitors. Although I wanted the comfort and healing of a shoulder to lean on, it was impossible for me to communicate with the outside world. I had a chair planted in the center of the room. I cried as rain fell down and hit the window behind me. All institutions have one-hour "checks." They have a nurse or staff member walk around with a clipboard. On that clipboard is a list with every patient. They want to make sure you don't escape. If you do, they "pretend" to care, but there's really nothing they do about it.

The nurse walked down the hallway. I could hear her feet shuffle the shallow metallic ground. She looked at me through the door of a plastic window. I was an animal in a zoo on an exhibit for all to see. I know she watched the tears fall from my eyes and I know she could see the pain and agony I was in. Although I wanted to be alone, the people who did not allow us to form "The Breakfast Club" ignored me and walked away. I recall someone saying, "That's what we're here for?"

My agitation eventually drove me to write a letter to the entire staff. It was one of peace, truth and honesty. I asked them why? The result of my letter was the opening of the music room for two days.

I had eventually grown to believe that I was feeling better. I asked to be in the music room alone and miraculously was able to have an hour in there. I closed my eyes and listened to the tape my best friend had given me. I meditated for awhile. Finally a nurse opened the door and said, "you have to come out of here now" as if I had been committing some sort of a crime. I walked out and said "I feel good, I can go home now!" The most hated nurse said (without exaggeration) "What's the difference? You're only going to end up in here again."

Such comforting words from one of America's best mental facilities. The day I left my father came to pick me up. My friend Sarah walked out of her room and we embraced in the middle of that narrow, sterile hallway. A new warden was there and she screamed "YOU CAN'T DO THAT! STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!" Human compassion is not allowed when you're locked up as an innocent person suffering from mental illness. I would later be institutionalized two more times, to no avail, at the same hospital but at a different ward. I was treated the same way by different psychiatrists and ignored as if I had not existed. THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL In early 1998, my new psychiatrist (who changed and saved my life), introduced me to a psychiatric rehabilitation program. It was designed for people who wanted to move forward with their lives and try to embrace the world. We covered basic life topics.

I told my caseworker (another lifesaver) that I was a filmmaker, professional actor and one time comedian (I gave up comedy a long time ago.) My sense of humor became apparent during seminars, all through high school and college. I guess I was the class clown.

I was asked by one of the staff members to host the yearly talent show, something that I simply couldn't pass up. However, I wanted to do something different on top of my comedic stand up routines. Months earlier I contacted my friend Johnny, a very talented musician, and asked if he would help me put together a cover song. The song was "That I Would Be Good" by Alanis Morrissette, Johnny has always been honest with me and said "You can't do this song, your voice just can't hit the high notes."

We decided on another song, yet it didn't sit well with me.

A few months prior to the show I was hit with another illness, a tremor disorder. It started to control my life. It had gotten so bad that I couldn't leave the house. At night my body would literally curve into an arch and rise up, tremoring erratically. I went to a neurologist who put me through a battery of tests.

My psychiatrist and I became frustrated with this particular doctor and many months later she found another one for me. I'm now taking medication and the tremors are doing fine. BACK TO THE STORY...

Due to the tremors I had been missing many days at the rehab clinic and of course the phone was ringing off the hook. Needless to say, the show must go on.

The night before the show I went over to Johnny's house with this feeling, I had to do "That I Would Be Good." It had so much meaning to me and so much power. It touched me, it spoke to me and I knew, even though I can't sing, it might do something to the audience.

Johnny listened to it a few times and said, "Well, maybe we can find a key that you can sing it in." He did and he composed a beautiful background track for me complete with bass, acoustic guitar and a drum track, all on his own. I became so wrapped up in the song that I added some lyrics, we rehearsed way into the wee hours in the morning.

I made it to the show having no idea of the massive audience that awaited me. I was nervous and had planned to use a few old jokes and improvise the rest. I was only hosting the show. "It won't be that bad" I thought. Well, a few jokes made it, a few jokes bombed and the audience thought I was, well, strange. I didn't tell anyone what I had planned, I just told the coordinator of the show that "I have something special planned. It's not funny, it's different, just stand by the door because I'm going to hand you the microphone."

The idea was to sing the song and simply leave and not turn back.

The time had come and my heart was pounding out my chest. The final act ended and I took the stage for one last time. I sat down on a stool and gave a speech that actually came out coherently. I cued the guy behind me with the tape recorder and with my coat on and my face to the ground, I sang with every part of my heart.

Towards the end of the song I got up from the chair and continued to repeat these words: "Love myself" "Love myself" I paused for a few seconds, lifted my head towards the audience and said, "Thanks for listening." I handed the microphone over and left. Someone grabbed and kissed me, I didn't look back. I remember driving home with all these different thoughts and feelings running through my mind. "What did I do?" "Did people understand it?" "Did I make a fool out of myself?" I am not one to have an ego, I never have and I don't have one. When I got home my body was coated with sweat. I took my shirt off and lay down. An hour later, the phone rang, it was the coordinator of the show. "John?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you leave?" she asked.

"I just didn't feel right." I kept stumbling over words, I didn't know what I was saying. She told me that what I did was beautiful and that I touched a lot of people that day. She even said that two people had been crying.

It was soon after that I had an epiphany. I want to help people. I want to come out of the stigma closet and let the whole world know who I am. I want them to understand that people with mental illness are normal, everyday human beings. We do not harm people. We do not walk around talking to trees. We are not the grotesque creatures that are portrayed on TV. We live our lives like everyone else. It is only a small population that is seen on the media, the population that feeds the ratings system. The real population (people like you and I) are never seen because we are forced to hide behind our doors. And we allow society to treat us that way.

I don't know how many people like me are out there, but if I can make a small dent in this world with my campaign by exposing myself, then that's what I'm doing right now as you read this.

Two Years Later

A series of events occurred which landed me back in the hospital back in July of 2001.

I landed a job with a public access station for a major cable company. For me it was a dream come true, years of my life spent on shitty jobs finally paved way for at least something tangible. It wasn't a spectacle or anything like that. It was a simple job, I was a cameraman and a programmer, and a programmer essentially puts stuff on and off the air. It was a little boring because lets be honest, public access programming sucks.

I worked with Sally (her name is being protected for reasons in which you'll soon find out) my boss and a small group of other people. It felt a lot like working in some kind of junior high school clique. There were only a few of us but it was just me being the one not included.

In the early stages of my job, like everyone else, I was figuring stuff out. One day the phone rang and my bosses boyfriend, who worked for the company, was on the line. She was in the bathroom so I asked him to politely hang on for a second. Suddenly, the other line rang and her boyfriend got disconnected. He called back and started shouting at me.

"WHY DID YOU HANG UP ON ME?" he shouted.

"I'm sorry, we accidentally got disconnected. Hold on Sally will be with you in a minute" I replied.

"GET SALLY ON THE PHONE!"

"I'm really sorry, someone was on the other line and we got disconnected"

He kept shouting at me, making me feel like some kind of an idiot. Sally finally got out of the bathroom and picked up the phone. He began shouting at her, which resulted in her running to her office and slamming the door for an argument.

He would constantly call and harass me, soon Sally made a rule where nobody was to answer the phone but her and her associate. It was obvious as to the reasons why,

As time progressed things got worse. I had a meeting with the people at corporate headquarters (all this for a job in public access) to discuss my job performance. Sally created this list which blew my mind, she exaggerated and quite literally lied.

She had tendency to walk around the studio barefoot so as I joke, after Christmas, my sister bought me a pair of silly slippers. I had no intention on wearing them through out the day (which was so blatantly obvious). I walked in wearing them and was looked upon like a complete idiot. What I thought would be a funny joke ended up being a travesty of embarrassment.

As the brief time in which I worked there went by I became more and more detached. It was obvious Sally wanted me out of there because of the harassment that occurred with her boyfriend (there was one instance where he was kind enough to call me a few colorful words). The company we worked for had a no tolerance harassment policy and it became evident that she had to get me out of there. If she didn't, her boyfriend wouldn't have a job.

The meeting gave me thirty days to improve, I was pretty dumbfounded at what was sad but as usual I kept my mouth shut.

After the thirty days had ended she literally told me that I had improved BUT --

I couldn't take the pressure anymore and honestly my emotions became were a wreck. I kept thinking if I left the job I'd let my family down but after discussing it with my father, he agreed it would be proper to give two weeks notice.

The day of her meeting I arrived at work prepared, I decided it would be best if I called corporate headquarters and speak to Sally's boss. As irony would have it, she was with them when I made the call. I specifically asked the secretary to please leave a message with her boss but to not tell anyone else. I did not want Sally to know about it, I wanted her boss to hear what was happening.

Twenty minutes later I received a phone call, it was Sally.

"So I hear your leaving us" she said in a rather giddy and obnoxious voice

I don't remember what I said after that but what I do remember saying I still regret.

"You left me no choice"

Despite my shortcomings I still think I would have that job today, if I only stood up for myself. I wish those words never slipped from my mouth.

It was then I decided that two weeks weren't fair for me to continue working there, I finished my shift for the day (which I still haven't been paid for) and left my security badge and keys on her table.

With all my regret, I never turned back since. The last day upon driving home I turned my portable C.D. player on in the car and played "Beautiful Day" by U2. It clearly wasn't going to be for quite sometime.

I would later spend months in bed, I wouldn't leave my bedroom. I slept all day, my bedroom was a mess and I didn't even have a box spring. I had a mattress and slept on the floor. I gained weight and am now heavier than I have ever been, I did things I shouldn't have, I hated myself and I wanted to die.

It was happening again.

In the summer of 2001 my doctor and I decided to get me back in the hospital, I would go through a major medicinal change and try to recover for months passed.

It was three and a half weeks I spent in the hospital, when I left I was crying inside, I was jaded, I was a lost soul. I felt as if I had nothing. I was self consumed, self absorbed, I needed to be loved, I want to be loved.

A dear friend of mine disowned me, since than I thought we had patched things up but I sense this horrible distance. I miss her.

I'm constantly reminded by people who don't even know me that there's no such thing as mental illness and I'm feeling sorry for myself.

Live your life.

Everybody hurts.

You're not the only one.

2003

As I write this it's nearing the end of April 2003; I had just turned 30 years old in February. I was thinking how fast the last year has gone by. I can't say I had the greatest of all years. It was mainly quite a complicated year.

For close to a year I was in a group called the "DBT", I didn't know what DBT stood for other then it had something to do with "borderline personality disorder". I had felt that it was giving me some hope, changing my attitude towards things, helping me see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can say now that I was pretty much blind.

The "DBT" is an absurd and preposterous form of therapy. Once a week you're required to attend group meetings and go over "home work" assignments that you learned the week before. You're given a workbook full of "skills". Before you begin your group meeting, you're required to do some sort of mediation. I've always been a strong advocate for the practice of meditating, it does work but not when it's forced. A lot of the mediations I experienced in "group" felt like something out of a badly written self help book, to be frank, just about everything I experienced in the "DBT" felt like something coming from a badly written self help book.

You’re also required by the "DBT" to have a licensed "DBT" therapist and a trained "DBT" psychiatrist. Looking back on it now I've come to the realization that this form of support is nothing but a form of "false hope", an infomercial that would absorb insurance money every week with the thoughts that I'm feeling better. The "DBT" is nothing more than a glorified version of a 12-step program, except these people really don't give a shit.

It's very easy to manipulate someone into feeling better about themselves when they're enormously depressed or suffering from some form of mental illness. The desperation to feel better (if you want to) forces you to try anything. I just don't understand how these people can call themselves "therapists". It really makes me sick.

There would be times where they would leave to go on "retreats" in order to learn more about some form of insidious mediation concept. When I would hear some of the stories the leader of the group would tell us I always thought to myself "is this a cult?" It just didn't make sense.

We were encouraged to help each other for what they called "skills". It was supposed to help us deal with specific problems. For example, if one of us was feeling depressed than we might have been in "emotion mind" (everyone gets into "emotion mind" that's why they call them "emotions"), we'd have to look in the book or our understanding of what we learned and apply it to ourselves or the person on the other end of the line we're trying to help.

If a new "member" of the group would join we'd have to pass around a piece of paper going over the rules. "You are not allowed to have sexual relationships with other members of the group". "Anything that is said in the group stays in the group." "If a member of the group calls you for help than you must stay on the phone with them and help them." (Note that all the following quotations are NOT EXACTLY what were written in the rule guidelines, however, a depiction of the rules). Here's the kicker on the last remark, I love helping people, it's something that I do, and it’s a part of my personal human nature. However, if I had someone on the other end of the phone who was on the verge of killing themselves, I wasn't allowed to tell them or take them to a hospital for help, makes a lot of sense doesn't it? A mental institution is the last resort for anyone but if your going to harm yourself or if you’re a danger to yourself, that's the place you need to be.

During private "therapy" sessions we would receive "diary cards", every week they would have to be filled out. Every day before that week you'd have to sit down and go through your feelings and choose a number which indicated the relevance on how you were feeling. A "diary card" looked a lot like a spreadsheet; on the top there'd be sections of areas that you were required to go over. One of them was "suicidal id-elation", if I recall correctly I'd have to choose between numbers 0-5 on how "suicidal" I was feeling that particular day. I was supposed to apply my "skills" to get me out of the situation.

My therapist, although we did start off on the right foot, started to really change as we went further into the year. She would say things to me like "I feel like I'm banging my head against the wall", because I didn't fill out a diary card. I'm there for you to help me, to talk with me, to listen to the pain, the whole that's in my heart and all your worried about is a piece of paper?

I always left my therapist's office feeling as if I had done something wrong. I knew that I needed to talk; I was getting more and more depressed.

In September of 2002 I began to relapse, earlier in the year my therapist had told me that she specialized in people that had "bipolar disorder". I was leaving for vacation (which she made me question before hand, she was obsessed with the fact of me finding a job, something I agreed with but I really needed to talk to her, I needed help. I began "banging my head against the wall") and had called her on my cell phone, I said on her voicemail that "I'd like to leave the "DBT" and just work privately with you on bipolar disorder". I was a little more long winded in the message but the keywords here are "work with you".

I returned home and when I spoke to her I was told that I would no longer be seeing her, that they would be finding a new therapist as well as psychiatrist for me. When I asked why she said "I only deal with DBT patients" and I replied "but I thought you said you dealt with bipolar issues as well?" "No, I never said that". I asked why I would no longer be seeing my psychiatrist (who I thought was very good) "because he is a DBT psychiatrist, you have to be in the DBT to see him and we simply don't have enough room to keep you".

First, let's make one thing clear, when you go to college and study to become a psychiatrist, you DO NOT TAKE A COURSE ON "DBT". It's a completely different entity. There is NO SUCH THING AS "DBT 101". There are classes that doctors do take to learn this nonsense but they don't learn it in college (what fool would waste their tuition money on a form of therapy created by some hack?)

I was supposed to see my therapist I think one or two times after I had spoken to her, I couldn't, I felt betrayed. I felt both sad, confused and angry. I thought I was going to miss her, I did make some wonderful friends in the support group itself (and I still communicate with one of them to this day) but now the disease that I went in the hospital to be treated for was once again being used against me. What was I going to do?

A few weeks later they set me up with a new "therapist" only to my surprise he wasn't, at all, a "therapist", he was a college student. I don't mean any disrespect, I know what it's like "learning the ropes" and interning but I knew the second day I met with him it wasn't going to work out. What angered me even more was the fact that the hospital still billed my insurance (Medicare/Medicaid) the full amount they charge to see a professional. This kid wasn't making any money, where do they get off?

My psychiatrist, who I still see, wasn't much help either. I told him it wasn't working out with this kid and he said, "Well why don't you tell him?" I began to make an example, very simple, if your dating someone and you don't feel the same way you used to about them anymore or if you went on a date for the first time and hated the person, does this mean you still see them? You still go out with them? No, you break up.

I had also asked my psychiatrist if I could see him for both therapy and medicinal reasons. He was quite blunt, I'd have to pay him $125 an hour if I wanted him for therapy (essentially, I'm only his patient because it's required by the hospital for these doctor's to have a certain number of people on their roster, after that, they can pretty much do as they please). This is really fair, especially when your really, really not emotionally stable.

Therapy is a lot like a relationship; you're forming a bond with this person. They're "your guide", if it's not working, than you don't continue to see them anymore. When your in the system like I am, your screwed.

I told my psychiatrist this and after a myriad of stupid answers and remarks, he told me he'd try doing something. I bought it up again twice, it's now close to a year later, I still have no therapist and this is my fault?

It's been a long year that's gone by fast and something happened to me recently that really changed my perspective, it didn't require a pill or even another crappie therapist, I WOKE UP.

So here I am in April 2003 and I have to admit, I feel pretty dam good about myself. I think God's been watching out for me. Although I'm still taking my meds, and I still have the same psychiatrist, I feel different. I admit when I turned 30 I did feel down about it, I was afraid to grow up. In two short months, I've become a man.

I've decided to seek treatment elsewhere, a place that actually brings hope and I can feel it. No more false "prophets", no more empty promises. It's my turn, It's my new life.

PROJECT STIGMA: PHASE 2 is a place for you to voice your opinions, your feelings, your emotions, whatever you maybe feeling. From now on this is YOUR forum. Send me your poems, your writings, your stories, your songs, your rants and your raves. As always everything you send is confidential, your name will not be used if you don't want it to. All I ask is that you speak your mind.

And as for me, well, let's just say things are working out (although my love life can use a bit of a zip).

Don't ever lose hope,

John Pilate

MAY 2004

I can't believe a year has passed and as usual my life has evolved into a total opposite of what it used to be. While I was lucky to find a new psychiatrist and a therapist. I've unfortunately learned that I will be losing my Psychiatrist in June. He's decided to leave his job, he can't take the pressure. This will make the 12th doctor I've lost in a span of 8 or 9 years. Out of all of them, I personally decided to leave one Psychiatrist them and a hand-full of so-called "therapists".

To add more pain into my life I've entered a severely bad manic stage. One so bad that this is the longest I've ever gone without sleep.

I've been taken off allot of medications, went from eleven prescriptions at a time to four. I have a feeling that's going to change.

My physical health has deteriorated. I'm having problems with my heart, blood pressure and stomach. My heart beats to fast and has a leaky valve (which I'm told isn't a serious problem), my blood pressure is now dangerously low and I bleed from my stomach.

I paid a visit to a physician a few months ago in which he wanted to send me to the hospital. I chose not to go because I was scared and didn't want to spend another 3 days alone in a hospital bed.

During one of the productions I performed in last year, my stomach started to bleed right in the middle of the performance. It was a nightmare and I was emotionally shattered. When I came home that night I discovered my boxer-briefs were soiled with blood. I'd never felt so terrified.

I begin seeing a new physician tomorrow and I've never felt as frightened as I do right now. I feel like a child on his first day of school. I'm anticipating a myriad of tests and I have this awful feeling that something is seriously wrong but I don't know what it is.

On higher note I've been doing allot of writing. I now keep an online journal and it's been very therapeutic for me. I've also been sending out my head-shots and resume electronically to push my career further. Can't say I've had any luck but I refuse to abandon my dreams.

I know this update since very macabre, it's really not meant to leave you with a "down ending". My prayer is that everyone who reads this and suffers with mental illness reaches out and tells a story. It would really mean the world to me if I knew people out there actually got something from what I'm trying to do. The only way we can combat the stigma is if we let people know how we feel and I've given you an outlet to do that. As always, your privacy is always of importance so if you DON'T want your name posted with you story, it won't be posted.

Now I'm asking you to help me feel better, let the world know that people like us can survive just like everyone else.

I promised that the site would be going through a facelift and some new additions will be added. Those plans are still being put forward, we just have some things that have to be sketched out.

For all of you who have e-mailed me, thank you.

God Bless,

John

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Last Update
Sept. 6th 2005

** The US national suicide hotline phone number is 1-800-784-2433 (1-800-SUICIDE).

A state by state listing of local numbers can be found at;

http://suicidehotlines.com/.

Another good resource is;

http://suicidal.com/