Long Shot: My Bipolar Life and the Horses Who Saved Me

For days I had been feeling a strange burst of energy. My mind had been racing with thoughts and ideas, always changing, just enough to register an emotion but too short to contemplate. I would sit in my pink-shag-carpeted room, with its white four-poster bed and matching dresser, and write for hours on end, trying to express these revelations in poetry. Sleep was unnecessary, and I barely ate, yet it all felt somehow natural to me—enjoyable even. Colors, sounds, and images were more vivid and beautiful, as if a layer of thick plastic had been peeled away from my reality. I felt I was having some type of transformation, like Peter Parker in Spider-Man. When manic, you believe that whatever is happening is special. That is, until you start doing crazy things, like when I frantically searched for every bit of money I could find in my room and then, under the watchful eyes of my Sean Cassidy, Leif Garrett, and Prince posters, promptly tossed every cent out the window. It felt of the utmost urgency to carry this out. Why? I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. I was being swept along by something greater than me. And soon it turned dark. That’s how it felt the night the skies opened up and dumped acid rain and frogs onto my street.

I saw my neighbors falling to their lawns in agony, their flesh melting in the torrid acid rain. The scent was overpowering, a foul, blackening smell that gripped my stomach and threatened to slide through my chest and percolate from my mouth. I slammed my bedroom window to shut out the stench and backed away from it, as if that would do any good. I knew the rain would penetrate my house, burning through any place I hoped to hide.

“It’s killing everyone in the neighborhood,” I screamed. “It’s killing all the animals.” My mother came into my room, confused and worried, wanting to know what was wrong. I forced her to the window so she could see for herself.

“You see? We have to get out of here. We need to retreat, get everyone from the neighborhood so we can move to another planet. There’s only horrible death here for us.” And then it started raining frogs; huge green toads that hit the ground, bursting and scattering like water balloons upon contact. “It’s too late.” I sobbed.

“Sylvia, something is wrong with you. What is it?” I couldn’t answer. I felt numb and dropped to my pink shag rug, sitting there withdrawn and lost. My mother called our family doctor, who phoned in a prescription for Valium at a nearby pharmacy. She also called my boyfriend at the time, Tom. He was a big, six-foot-two man in his late twenties who knew how to stay calm in bad situations, a skill he’d learned as a corrections officer. He tried to console me as he scooped me up off the pink shag, took me outside, and put me in his car. My mother got in the back with me, and we drove off.

By the time we got to the drugstore, my terror had morphed into euphoria. I insisted on going inside, where I danced and twirled and sang in the aisles, then pulled down a metal shelf full of seaweed soap. At the time, it was the most important thing in the world. I had to have it. My mom and Tom quickly deduced that a little Valium wasn’t going to help. Tom whisked me out of the store, back into the car, and straight to a local hospital, Oakcrest, a facility that specialized in mental illnesses. Once there, the nurses listened to my ramblings. I told them about the “voices” I was hearing, and that I was the messenger for the forthcoming holocaust. I told them I hadn’t slept in four days and had been encoding messages to abandon the planet immediately.

The nurses, angels when I look back now, seemed grateful I’d told them of the impending doom. They kept telling me I was tired and needed rest. They gently helped me lie down on a gurney and then gave me a couple of injections that lulled me to sleep. As the nurses left, I heard a loud click as they locked the heavy door. I woke up the next day feeling more like my old self. The doctor at Oakcrest didn’t seem overly concerned. He never used the words “mania,” “bipolar,” or “manic-depressive.” His diagnosis: a temporary breakdown because of my father leaving. But it was just the beginning, as I struck out on a path that would take me from sweet little all-American Sylvia to nut-case Sylvia. It was 1986; I was nineteen.

I became a regular at Oakcrest. My problems became a part of my identity. I had been a burgeoning track star, known as the fastest girl in the county; now I was the crazy girl who was caught in the revolving door at Oakcrest. After each hospitalization, I was determined to reclaim my normal life, often working two or three jobs at a time and taking classes to better myself. A person with a mental illness shouldn’t be able to do that, right? At least, that’s what I told myself. So I enrolled in a beauty college and became an aerobics instructor.

My family had learned how to cope—Dad, by not being around; Mom, by taking me to Oakcrest when I got weird. My brother, Edward Jr., just kind of watched the Sylvia show. Poor kid, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t talk about it. None of us would talk about it. Somehow, we managed to play “happy family” while living in our own private hell.

Even my best friend Gigi didn’t know the extent of my condition; I hadn’t told any of my friends what happened that first night I went to Oakcrest. I also never really explained my subsequent visits. If I had to, I would pass it off as a trip to the hospital because of some bug I had caught. I wanted to believe the doctor’s diagnosis that it was a passing condition, and because my mother rarely talked about it, I thought it best to be quiet. There was, and still is, a stigma attached to serious mental health problems, and I didn’t want to be thought of as a mental case by my friends.

Even now, I’m always in constant fear of not appearing normal. In the beginning, I didn’t know how to recognize an oncoming episode. The fear or anger that can be an ordinary response to events can feel like being manic to me too. I can’t tell if a burst of creative energy is real or a misfiring in my brain. At times, it’s almost impossible for me to tell when I’m manic. The change can be so gradual that the choices I make seem perfectly normal. But the result may be far from it.

This was especially true when, in early 1987, after beginning to feel better—almost normal, I thought—I visited clubs with my girl Gigi. We were two hot girls: Ebony and Ivory. We’d get dressed up and tried to act like a couple of seasoned rocker chicks. This required us to play more mature. When manic, I played it to the hilt.

One night we hit a popular club, and I was feeling a surge of energy. That night the stars seemed brighter, the air crisper. It had been two years since my first episode, and I still wasn’t sure what was happening to me as I flowed in and out of moods. But that night I was having fun and feeling pretty, wearing a flower in my hair the way Diana Ross did when she played Billie Holiday in Lady Sings the Blues. Toward the end of the night I spotted, across the room, what I knew was my own Billy Dee Williams, except he was Irish, tall and broad-shouldered, with deep, rich green eyes and a long ponytail. He moved with a confidence I found sexy. Immediately, I felt we were destined to be together.

I made my way over to him and asked him to dance. Amused, he agreed. As I led him to the dance floor, my girlfriend whispered, “Watch out. He’s trouble.” So what, I thought. I’m crazy.

He wasn’t much of a dancer, but I didn’t care. His name was Riley McKnight, and I was hypnotized by those green eyes. That night we made plans to see more of each other, which quickly became a frequent occurrence. For weeks it was heaven. He drove a TR6 convertible, wore the best clothes, always had a roll of bills in his pocket, and took me to the best restaurants from Santa Rosa to San Francisco.

We spent every day and every night together. I loved his house. It was warm and homey. He was a gifted painter, with his own art decorating the walls. His passion was rock and roll, and he was a wannabe musician who didn’t quite have the talent. Still, he did his best to be around music, and many of his friends were musicians. They would often come by his house and jam, with Riley shaking a tambourine as he attempted to be a part of the “band.”

When he told me all of his secrets, I didn’t blink. I had my own secret, which I was hesitant to mention. My bizarre behavior had eventually sent my previous boyfriend Tom packing, and I believed my mother’s illness had a lot to do with Dad leaving. It seemed to me that if you’re sick and want to keep your man around, the best thing to do is to keep quiet about your illness. So I talked about art and music, asked questions about what Ireland was like. I never told him about my problem.

We were having a wonderful time with weekend trips to San Francisco and Napa Valley. We even went to Hawaii for a week. The weeks together quickly turned into months and despite having my own apartment, I was practically living at Riley’s. By the fall, my brother was off to college and, with me hardly ever around, my mother decided to move to Seattle to be near family and friends. It was just Riley and me. My behavior would get erratic at times, but Riley just considered me to be fun-loving and overly energetic; over time, though, it wasn’t easy to hide my true condition.

My mania finally showed up during a party one night at Riley’s house. His musician friends would come over to buy and smoke weed, then cover the songs of the day. Riley was on a beer run when it happened. I was sitting there, watching the fun. I didn’t smoke weed because I was afraid it might trigger an episode. But it might not have mattered that night. I was on a high of my own and had been cycling for days. A tweaking, rising energy kept surging through my body, making me feel as if I were about to burst. Then a voice whispered to me, but there was no one there. It was an invitation, asking me to follow it, and I did. Walking out of the house and into the night, I left the party for one of my own.

When Riley got back, he noticed I was gone. His friends told him I’d been acting really strange. Riley didn’t know I had been zooming the last few days; he just thought I was being his fun-loving, high-energy girlfriend. He didn’t know that I hadn’t slept in days—while he was sleeping, I was up all night, writing poetry and songs of my own. But he knew if I had taken off in the middle of the night without the car, something was wrong.

He found me at the lake near his house. I was naked, walking into the water toward the spaceship I knew was waiting for me at its bottom. I begged Riley to join us. I told him the spaceship had been sent by the voice, who told me to get on it before our planet was destroyed. Instead, Riley managed to talk me into putting my clothes back on. Then we went back to his place, where the party was dwindling down. He took me to the bedroom and got me to lie down. Moving from what I now know was a manic stage to depression, I finally fell asleep.

When I woke up the next morning I told him everything. I watched his facial expression change from one of concern to one that seemed full of panic. I asked him to take me to Oakcrest, but he wasn’t having it. He took me to my apartment and told me to rest. I didn’t see or hear from him for a week. I assumed he had left, as most people in my life had. But the following week, he called and said he missed me. We picked up right where we left off and were even more intense. I was in love again and our life was good, but I couldn’t help feeling like something was different. Even with no episodes or strange behavior from me, Riley watched closely, as if he was waiting for the next disaster to occur.

I had taken an extreme interest in crystals and their so-called mystical auras that were popularly associated with them by many believers of unconventional thought. I began trying to read auras and to use crystals in ways I thought could alter the energy around me. I had taken them with me when Riley arranged for us to take a romantic camping trip. One night he found me away from the cabin, in the woods, spreading my crystals around and meditating over them. I had seen a meteor shower and considered it a sign for me to communicate with a higher energy. Although nothing else happened, Riley was certain I was about to blow. He took me to see a renowned psychiatrist in San Francisco. The doctor didn’t diagnose me as bipolar, but after a few sessions he warned the both of us that I would undoubtedly have more episodes, probably for the rest of my life. This was enough for Riley. “I can’t do a mental girlfriend,” he said. He took me back to my apartment and faded out of my life.

My life quickly turned bleak. I was sick over my separation from Riley and was trying, unsuccessfully, to keep from blaming myself. I was lonely and heartbroken, and I withdrew from my friends out of fear that I might slip into an episode in front of them. And with my rich boyfriend gone, it was difficult for me to make ends meet. It wasn’t long before I ended up moving to Seattle to be with my mother.

I worked on getting my license as a certified nurse’s aide and also worked a part-time job at Frederick & Nelson, the best department store in Seattle. I was at the Chanel counter, the first black person ever hired in the cosmetics department. I was proud of that. In a short time, I seemed to be getting my life back together. I was handling Mom’s bills and mine, and making sure she was getting the proper health care she needed. But there was something else wrong. I was throwing up almost every morning.

A doctor confirmed my worst fear: I was pregnant. There’s no way I can do this, I thought. I have to get an abortion. I could’ve called Riley, but I didn’t want to involve him. He’d already dumped me twice because he couldn’t handle my illness. I knew he wouldn’t be happy about me being a mentally ill mom.

While I struggled with what to do, I was getting bigger by the minute. Every morning I thought, This is the day I’m going to the clinic. But I kept putting it off. By the end of my fourth month, I was resigned to having the baby. But I wasn’t sure how I was going to care for it. My mom said with God’s help we’d make it through. And then out of the blue, Riley called.

He said that he’d had a dream about me holding a baby girl, and was calling to see how I was doing. I couldn’t believe it. How did he know? It had to be a sign. I took a deep breath and spilled the news about the baby. Rather than the harsh response I expected, he told me he would get to Seattle as soon as he could. And boy, did he come through. We started seeing each other again, and before long I was living in an expensive apartment by a shimmering lake. He gave me a credit card to buy whatever I needed and went with me to all my doctor appointments. We even drove up to Canada for a short vacation. I was episode-free, and I thought that despite what the doctor in San Francisco had told us, maybe my disorder was a thing of the past.

Although Riley had to occasionally head back to California to, as he said, take care of his business, he was never gone for long. He was a wonderful expectant father. We were both hippies and decided that we did not want our firstborn to enter the world in such a sterile atmosphere as a hospital. We had her at home. Riley was a great coach as he held my hand when our beautiful daughter, Shauna, was born. Finally, life was good.

It wasn’t long before Riley wanted us all to move back to California. He even agreed to get a place for my mother. I couldn’t say no. So we moved into a wonderful condo back home in Santa Rosa, at what was a staggering price for that time. But, as Riley told me, “Business is good.” I wanted to keep working, but Riley insisted I focus on taking care of the baby. I spent days bonding with Shauna and feeling like I could breathe for the first time in a long while. There were still no signs of my illness, and Riley never mentioned it. It was a wonderful time, until his mother from Ireland—let’s just call her Irene—came for an extended stay. Riley wanted Irene to bond with me and her new grandchild, but from the first meeting we immediately did not like each other.

It always amazes me how grandparents can love the grand-kids unconditionally but despise the very woman who carried them. She never approved of me and openly expressed concern that Shauna would become too dark. I used to catch Irene checking Shauna’s coloring closely to see if she was going to be dark like me. She hated me even more when I got pregnant again, six months after baby Shauna was born. It caught us by surprise. I felt like I had just adjusted to having one child, and now a second one? Riley shared the same sentiment when I told him. All he could say was the F-word repeatedly.

Granny and me on my first birthday (Sylvia Harris)

“Oh, God, this will ruin my son. Children are so expensive. And the two of you are not even married. Why are you doing this to him?” Irene ranted. I used to pray for the day when she would go back to Ireland. I began to have thoughts of pushing her over the balcony. I figured I could always claim to be having one of my episodes. For a while, this thought kept me smiling and shielded me from her daily verbal attacks. Despite his concerns about a second child, Riley soon became as enthusiastic about this baby as he had been about Shauna. But his mother was still a problem.

I hadn’t had any episodes in some time, but I began to think one might come on. I convinced Riley that the stress his mother was causing me might send me over the edge. To seal it, one day I casually mentioned to him that I hadn’t slept the previous night and didn’t feel the least bit tired. He was familiar enough with the disorder to know this could be the beginning of a setback. It wasn’t long afterward that Riley put his mother on a plane back to Ireland.

With Irene gone, I was back to playing happy family with Riley and Shauna as we waited for the new baby. I had a difficult labor with the birth of my second child. This baby was larger, and it proved to be quite painful, but when it was all done, I had the most gorgeous son imaginable. We named him Ryan. Our family was growing, and Riley was rolling in money. He moved us into a bigger house, and made sure the latest cars sat in our driveway. We were happy and we didn’t want for anything. The children were always dressed in the cutest clothing and had more toys than they knew what do with. The family became a familiar sight at the local finer restaurants. It was a plush life, and relatively problem-free. But there was trouble brewing: I began to feel the unwanted rustling of my emotional state.

Our relationship became strained as I began to criticize Riley’s livelihood, even though it afforded us a very good life. I expressed my desire to do more than be a stay-at-home mom. I decided to return to working part time as a home-nursing assistant. I also got involved with the local theater and started to think about an acting career—something I kept from Riley, knowing he would be critical. Although I enjoyed this change of pace, it only served to increase the tension between the two of us. Riley was not happy about me being away from the house and kids and he let me know it.

Buddhism also began to play a larger role in my life. I had become interested in it before I moved to Seattle, and now I decided to dedicate more time to it. I practiced Nichiren Shoshu, one of many Buddhist denominations that is often described as orthodox Buddhism and in which chanting is an important element of the faith. Although this type of Buddhism is not very common in America, it is practiced by many people around the world.

I found that the community, principles, and chanting helped me survive the stress that was too often in my life. To me, other than being around horses, Nichiren Shoshu is the best prescription for trying to keep myself level. I started chanting twice daily, in the morning and the evening. It helped to calm me as matters deteriorated between Riley and myself. It also gave me the strength to stand up to him. He was growing his business, and I felt those demands did nothing to harmonize our situation. I begged him to slow down for everyone’s sake.

We argued more frequently about it, and he began to criticize my interests in everything. It was becoming increasingly clear to me that basing a relationship solely on having kids was like leaving the gas on in an unlit oven; sooner or later there was going to be an explosion.

The underlying stress was building. Sometimes the change can be so gradual, it’s like a slow burn from normal to manic. Manic or not, I’d been thinking about moving to Los Angeles, and I felt like the kids needed a change. There were to be auditions with the Pearl Chorus, a renowned international Buddhist choir in Santa Monica. I decided I could sing. I sounded good to myself, and would sing along sometimes when Riley and the boys jammed in our living room. “The Impossible Dream” was my song choice.

One idea spurred another, and before long I had a plan. I would go to Los Angeles to sing in the chorus, get a place, and find a job until I realized my dream of becoming an award-winning actor or singer or both, then send for the kids. I would do it all.

Yeah, I was manic.

Furlong Two

An order is being established as some of the horses accelerate. I feel the urge in Pegasus. He wants to bolt with them. I know he wants to show them who they’re dealing with, but I hold him back. It’s too early. In a race, it’s easy to get ahead of yourself. I know what that can be like. It’s characteristic of my illness. I’ve rushed to places in my head that I was incapable of getting to, where wild, stampeding emotions took control instead of my controlling them. It was not the way to win. As much as I want to run with Peg and let him shine, I know I have to be patient for him. The excitement of the race can burn you out.

I remember words told to me a long time ago by a horseman who had become like a second father to me.

“Have a little bit for now. Have a little bit for later,” I softly speak to Peg.

Los Angeles, California

As usual, when I would get what I now know to be manic, my confidence was overflowing. The voices inside of me were clear: “Leave Riley, go to Los Angeles to become a successful actress, then come back for the children.” It all made sense to me. The Buddhist choir was a “sign” to get me to Hollywood. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have any experience; I had performed in a few local theater productions. I was ready for the next step. Weren’t you supposed to pursue your dreams? Countless others had, and had succeeded, why not me? I had a gift and was going to Hollywood to share it. And in my spare time, I was going to sing with the internationally acclaimed Buddhist choir the Pearl Chorus.

Never once did it cross my mind that over the years my dreams seemed to be constantly changing. It didn’t matter. I was determined. And I just knew it was the perfect way to save my children. Rolling down the I-5 highway, with the windows down and the cold night air washing over me, I imagined the kind of house I would have, right on the beach. The kids and I could play in the sand every day, and we would have lots of pets and maybe a ranch near Santa Barbara where we each would have our own horse. I began naming the horses: Hollywood, the Dream Machine, Superstar.

It was in the wee hours of morning when I pulled into Santa Monica. The city was still. With all of five hundred dollars in my pocket, the best place for me to stay was in my Volvo. I parked in front of the World Cultural Center for Buddhism, and for the next two days that was my hotel. I felt safe there and considered it only temporary. I was a certified nursing assistant; I felt positive that I could find work.