Don Quixote versus the Devil

By Eric Schmiedl

OXFORD INSIGHT

It’s been an adventure of sorts – albeit one I wouldn’t have sought on purpose, as it has included tastes of stigma and homelessness – to have bipolar disorder.

I’ve been described in various ways by various people when going through a bipolar episode. One of the most stinging descriptions I was tagged with was the “evil Eric.” I strongly disagree with that and others who know me well have disagreed also. Rather, if any comparisons of literary types could be applied to me when going through an episode, I’d focus on Don Quixote. I’ve gone in search of dragons where only ‘windmills’ appeared, making for confusion all around.

On another aspect of having the disorder, I’ve been told that it’s made me more compassionate about what other people go through. I’d have to say I agree with that.

The first full-blown bipolar episode I had – a full 11 years before I was diagnosed in 1998 – came following the suicide of a close high school friend of mine. I was the last one, at least to my knowledge, to see Larry alive before his death soon after. With that came a barrage of questions from friends and family about his close-to final moments on Earth. Most of those questions were beyond my ability to answer, and their asking, in tandem with the suicide, took their toll.

I got it in my head that Larry’s suicide had condemned him to hell and that, as the last known witness to his life, it would be up to me to get him out. Just how on Earth I would accomplish this task? I didn’t really know.

What I can tell you is I was preparing to battle hellish forces to get Larry back. Eventually, I lost sleep and became lost in a world of delusion.

A huge gust of wind? The dark forces were on the move.

Three sixes in a game of cards? What usually would have been a good hand made me quit the game.

And so on.

Ultimately, my family sat me down and tried to talk me into going into the hospital (this one in Kitchener). I refused to believe I needed help (which is a recurring theme for some people with the disorder) but finally agreed, thinking I would go to the facility to show them how sane I was.

Well, my talk to a health worker of aiming Earth’s nuclear weapons into space, to fend off any possible huge meteor strikes, wasn’t quite the ticket for staying out of the hospital. I still think that nuclear idea has merit, by the way, compared to the current reality of aiming the weapons at ourselves. Even so, my presentation of it at that time obviously left something to be desired and got me 10 days in the hospital.

As I mentioned earlier, it would be over a decade before being diagnosed, a time gap that apparently isn’t all that uncommon.

In the episode that led to my diagnosis, Don Quixote was out in full force. I eventually came to the conclusion that I was an investigator of sorts, searching out some great evil – again, that made for plenty of confusion. I was taken to Woodstock General Hospital, thinking the person I was driving with was the one in need of help. It came as quite the surprise when I was the one admitted.

The diagnosis came from two doctors and came as something of a relief – I had been concerned I had everything from bone cancer to some exotic disease that was beyond helping. Even though there was some measure of relief at that, I was soon to find bipolar isn’t the easiest condition to deal with, as I’ve had several episodes since then and the diagnosis led to my being ostracized by one of my oldest friends in the world.

Since then, I’ve tried to augment my prescribed medications with Omega 3 pills, which I’ve repeatedly read have therapeutic effects on the condition. If there’s one word of advice I can give to somebody newly diagnosed, it’s to stay on your prescriptions.

Enough from the advice department. It was during my most recent episode that homelessness again came into play – although I had a taste of it from the other side working as a volunteer with Inn Out of the Cold, a program providing shelter for the homeless.

I was staying at a friend’s place after having given up my old apartment. I was already on the verge of the episode. While I was making macaroni and cheese, the outraged landlord came banging on the door. He barged in and demanded I turn off the stove – which I did after demanding he say please. That I was in my underwear at the time made the situation all the more ridiculous.

Out I went, carrying only a hastily-packed bag. It occurred to me almost immediately that, for the first time in my life, I was officially homeless. That led to sleeping at just about any piece of shelter I could find. Eventually, through a friend, I hooked up with Homestead Christian Care, which – as a transitional housing facility for people with mental illnesses – seemed like a logical place to stay.

However, the episode had gone too far and Don Quixote again reared his head. I wandered the Homestead facility, and – among other things – noisily moved around the fire extinguishers, making them (at least in my mind) more accessible. I likely went too far in overhauling the alarm system… don’t ask me all the changes I made to it, although I remember the fire alarm seemed to be working more properly. At least, that’s how it looked to me at the time. In the end, the police – who were very kind – took me to WGH.

Some extended walks, which again gave me tastes of homelessness, have also been part of my episodes.

One, in the city of Kitchener, involved walking across the city and running into a couple of teenaged brothers who also had bipolar disorder. The older one appeared to be really down about what lay ahead of him – I told him of my decade at the Sentinel-Review, post-secondary achievements and my time in the reserves. Essentially, having bipolar disorder doesn’t have to hold a person back, I said to him.

During that trek, I ended up sleeping in Kitchener’s Victoria Park. Thankfully, I was packing a sleeping bag and found a roofed structure which gave me some protection against the late fall temperatures – when I woke up and left at about 3 a.m., I nearly slipped on a thin coating of ice on a bridge while exiting the park. I recalled passing by a mattress on a curbside as I walked through the night, and thought it would have been great to see that mattress earlier.

Another trek involved walking to New Hamburg from Woodstock. It was the fifth anniversary of my father’s death, and I felt it necessary to be with my mother for the occasion, to join her at her seniors’ home.

I left Woodstock at about 9 a.m. and aimed to be in New Hamburg that evening. My estimate was way off – I didn’t arrive at the home until the following morning. Along the way I got in a couple of quick roadside naps to keep me going. I also brought with me a copy of Bipolar Canada, a magazine devoted to the disorder – I left it with my mom, to help her better understand my situation, before calling a cab for a much quicker return trip to the Friendly City.

This trek in particular reminded me of route marches in the reserves, and made me feel all the closer to my dad, who also did military service.

As for Don Quixote, will he ride again, in search of the Devil (or a devil)? I sincerely hope not… the guy is misunderstood enough as things stand.