If you had told me at my college graduation that in four years I’d be belting Sublime’s “What I Got” during a 72-hour hold at a mental health clinic, I would have thought you were off your rocker. In fact, even if you had told me days before it happened, as I prepared investor pitch decks for a Silicon Valley incubator, I would have looked at you in disbelief.
My early twenties were filled with many moments of privilege — among them, sharing the stage with Willie Nelson and being a semi-finalist in a national start-up accelerator. But as I look back, it’s actually that moment in the clinic that had the most profound impact on my life.
Nothing prepares you for an inpatient psychiatric unit. It’s not something you think you’ll ever have to deal with. I especially didn’t think so: I had led a charmed existence and I was at the top of my game.
But something snapped. In the days leading up to my involuntary commitment, my investor meetings seemed less like discussions about capitalization tables and more like trips to oracles. Each interaction served as a metaphor for age-old truths about the nature of existence. Our legal advisor may have been outlining the pros of equity versus debt, but to me they were symbols of good and evil.
By the time the weekend arrived, my frame of reference to the external world had completely shifted. My actions began to defy rational thought. My words lacked coherent sense. I started to feel that I was in some sort of cosmic rhythm with the world; even getting a discount on my valet parking suddenly carried spiritual significance.
This all culminated on what otherwise would have been a typical Sunday morning in Los Angeles. My girlfriend’s dark, barren backyard seemed like an omen of emptiness. All I could do was repeat the words, “I need to go to New York or I’m going to die” in an echoing cry. After valiant attempts to walk the nearly 60 miles to my parents’ home and then trying to escape my mom’s Prius through the sunroof, I was escorted by an emergency response team to a hospital and then the mental health clinic in Santa Clarita, California.
II was soon pumped full of drugs that neither my parents nor I knew anything about. My mind and memory slipped into a cloudy haze and I was aimlessly shuffled from one nurse to another. Hiding behind mobile computer screens, the nurses would roll from one patient to the next, punching away stats and rattling off their daily questions. I began to feel more like a prisoner monitored by robots than a person treated by medical professionals.
Music and my support network got me through those three days.
I spent hours poring over lyrics I had scribbled on the back of that day’s lunch menu. Racing down the hall, I’d show the nurse my latest verse — a juvenile search for approval. My brain filled with ideas from every angle and I needed an outlet for the incessant flow of inspiration. Music felt like a guided escape. Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened without that pen and paper. Would my condition have worsened? More frighteningly, would I have resorted to harmful behavior?
Creative exploration seemed to be an infectious cure at the clinic. There was a kind, quiet woman who had been abused by her husband. Her speech was slow and disorganized, as if she were learning a new language. One day, she sat beside me at the piano and tried to fumble her way through a few of the chords and melodies. Not only did her face light up, but her imperfect pitch and vocal honesty were exactly what the song needed.
The following afternoon, at our scheduled time in the courtyard, a man with a drug addiction shared his fears about losing contact with his son and being stuck in the homeless shelter system. As a few patients lit cigarettes and others threw around a basketball, I reached for the guitar.
As soon as my fingers struck the first guitar lick, everyone knew it was Sublime and joined in. Soon the whole group erupted in song. There was no distinction between the clean-tech entrepreneur, the homeless man with an addiction, or the bank clerk suffering from depression. There were just eight voices melting the world away; no judgment, just a community finding joy in a common struggle. The lyrics “Love is what I got” could not have rung more true — in that moment, love seemed like the only cure we needed.
My support network didn’t end there. I wouldn’t have made it through those days without visits from my parents. The following weeks, I spent many nights pacing anxiously or crying in my room. Late night calls with close friends and evenings spent on my best friend’s roof kept the world from closing in.
SSo then why, until just a few weeks ago, did only five friends know that I’m bipolar? Why couldn’t I go back to my life, to the venture competition in Silicon Valley, and tell them what happened? After all, that’s what I would have done if I had, say, been diagnosed with a life-long physical condition.
The truth is that I had an overwhelming fear of being judged for having something that could cause harm to myself or others — an uncontrollable beast inside me. In reality, there’s overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Less than five percent of violence in the U.S. is directly related to mental illness — despite the fact that 40 percent of news stories about mental illness connect it to violent behavior towards others.
When I had a second episode a year later, I was working on Wall Street at a sustainability consulting company. The same fear ensued. When I returned to work after a three-day stint at Bellevue’s psychiatric unit, a high dosage of medication coursing through my blood kept putting me to sleep at my desk. Medication, and its side effects, can be a constant battle with mental illness. But when my boss asked what the matter was, I told him about my recent “vitamin deficiency.” I feared he would assume I was a liability.
Again I found a safe haven in music and my support network. I started playing at open mics around the city and jamming on street corners with jazz musicians — anything to channel my manic tendencies. My mother flew across the country to stay with me. My closest friends called frequently to check up on me. They all provided an ongoing dialogue that anchored me in love as well as a sense of reality.
II’m privileged to have both a network and a creative outlet — options that aren’t open to everyone. Many people don’t have supportive families or open-minded friends; the free time required to create art isn’t accessible to someone working 12-hour shifts or multiple jobs just to pay rent.
This is why I still cringe at the dialogue used to describe mental conditions like mine. The phrase, “Oh she’s so bipolar” to describe someone who is just moody, or even using the word “illness” instead of mental “condition,” is reinforcing the stigma.
I take nightly medication to manage my bipolar symptoms, but I have also earned a master’s degree and spoken at the United Nations about climate change. I feel less cursed by an illness, and more able to manage a condition that has both positive and negative traits.
During my time at the California clinic, I learned that community can come in various forms and from the most unsuspecting places. I learned that a mental health condition can be debilitating, but can also be an incredible source of creativity, empathy, and support. I learned that cognitive dissonance can bring new perspective to ideas — just like dissonant melodies can bring renewed beauty to a song.
It can be difficult to remain optimistic, but glimmers of hope exist. Earlier this year, a coworker boldly left his role leading global investments for our nonprofit to pursue more creative endeavors. In his exit speech he explained his ongoing struggle with mental health and how his decision to leave was connected to doing something more “authentic to himself.” Instead of judgment, he was met by a room filled with tears, hugs, and most importantly, new perspective.
I was new to the company and it was my first time hearing about it; tears welled up in my eyes and chills of empathy shot down my back. His courage and the team’s reaction were a big part of what inspired me to be more vocal, including writing this piece.
I’ve moved past the younger version of myself who hid behind “vitamin deficiencies.” I’ve opened up to my next layer of friends about bipolar, and found an authentic voice in telling my own story. And surprisingly, most people have someone in their family with mental health issues. They seem almost relieved or excited to talk about it.
It’s up to people on all ends of the mental health spectrum to have the courage to speak, and for others to have the willingness to listen. Personal stories can empower others in the same way my co-worker inspired me and my team. It shouldn’t take privilege to flourish with a mental health condition; it should simply take a supportive community with open minds and open arms. “Love is what I got” should be a diagnosis we can all relate to.
