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

The next morning I signed with a temp agency that soon found me work with AIDS patients. I’d hoped to get a live-in assignment to avoid paying rent, but there wasn’t one available. Still, I considered this progress and a positive result of my increased chanting. As a Nichiren Buddhist, I believed strongly in the power of chanting to bring positive results in my life and had increased the number of hours I spent on it. Sure enough, I found an ad for a cheap place to live: it cost $400 a month, which didn’t leave me with much else, but at least I would have four walls, instead of a car, surrounding me. I moved in and bought some Campbell’s tomato soup. I had to cook it in a partially rusted cookie tin because I couldn’t afford to buy pots and pans. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

I was in Los Angeles as the HIV/AIDS epidemic began to peak. One of my first patients lived in a house on Mulholland Drive, a long, twisting road with many spectacular homes that crested the hills between Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley. On my first visit to Fiona, her front door was open, and I could hear her weeping when I slowly entered the house. She had been stuck in a chair in the kitchen for days, and no one had heard her cries for help. She hadn’t eaten or bathed during the entire time. I cleaned her up, got her to eat, and comforted her by holding her, which at the time many people were afraid to do. In fact, the fear of AIDS was more prevalent than the disease itself. Many of these AIDS patients had been at one time vital, successful people who were essentially abandoned and shunned. It was so wrong, and my heart went out to them. I was happy to do all I could for them. Fiona, who was also a Buddhist, and I became and remained good friends until she passed away.

I got to be friends with Walter, who had been actress Teri Garr’s hairstylist. He was a kindhearted man who was deep in the grips of the disease. I would take care of him and even administered his medicine, because the nurses were too afraid of contact to give it to him. More important, I kept him company. Many a night I would crash there after my shift because he didn’t want to be alone. I was there for him when even his family turned their backs on him. He was my friend, and I appreciated the companionship as much as he did.

It was rewarding to care for patients who needed me as much as I needed them. But even that wasn’t enough to stave off the loneliness I felt without my children. Riley, already upset over this whole situation, was even more sure that my working with AIDS patients was another manifestation of my insanity. I explained to him that I had educated myself on the subject and that with the proper precautions there was no chance of me contracting the disease from my patients. Still, for a while, he considered me to be a risk to the children.

Our talks became nothing but shouting matches, so I decided to focus my attention on the upcoming auditions for the Pearl Chorus. As a practicing Buddhist, I wanted to do that more than anything. I sang day and night. In the shower, in the kitchen, in bed, in the Volvo, anywhere I could. I guess I overdid it. The day of the audition, my voice was gone. Nothing. Nada. When it was my turn to sing, all I could manage was a low squeak. I was more than surprised when the director announced that the newest member of the group would be Sylvia Harris.

My work with the Pearl Chorus was a joyful experience, although it was certainly challenging learning songs in Japanese. But it did little to stop that ever-growing hole in my heart. After about a month, I convinced Riley to let me come to Santa Rosa to see the children on the weekends. It was clear that my being in Los Angeles was devastating for all of us. The children couldn’t understand why I had to go back to L.A., and I couldn’t get them to understand why I couldn’t stay. Nothing had changed between Riley and me. He would just repeat his theory that he shouldn’t have to change anything to keep the family together. If that was the case, then my choice was clear.

I would drive back to Los Angeles, and during those lonely hours on the highway, my mind tried to figure out a plan to take the children with me permanently, but there was no easy solution. I couldn’t afford to keep them, and I didn’t want all of us to go on welfare. All I could do was stick to my plan.

In Los Angeles, work continued to flow in, and I got a job as a live-in cook for a Jewish couple in Hancock Park while still caring for my AIDS patients. The Richbergs were very good to me. They didn’t know about my secret, but they knew I practiced Buddhism and were not bothered by my chanting. And they knew that like most young women, so it seemed in Los Angeles, I wanted to be an actress. The wife, Gina, was a retired psychologist, and her husband was a movie executive with a major studio. They both encouraged me as I went on auditions and allowed for a flexible schedule for me to tend to my patients.

Living in Los Angeles agreed with me. It’s a city filled with kooks. It’s not unusual to see actors dressed as pirates or aliens in studio parking lots reciting lines over and over again, reminding me of some of the people at Oakcrest. But being an actor was more difficult than I had anticipated. Moreover, I didn’t have sufficient training, nor the time to get it. I auditioned often with little result. I thought I had a real chance with the sketch show In Living Color. I went to an open call and stood in line for five hours to audition for the casting director. When I finally got my turn, I was asked to do a comedic pantomime of my purse being snatched while at a bus stop. I ran around the room, punching and swinging at the air. I’m sure I looked crazy because I felt crazy. And I know crazy. Acting is a lot harder than it looks. I didn’t get that part, or any parts, except for a spot in the chorus of a local music production and as an extra for an experimental film. I wasn’t having much success as an actress, but I was keeping an even keel even though the marathon debates with Riley about our children were maddening. I wanted the children with me; he wanted them with him.

We weren’t exemplary parents back then, Riley and I, but we loved our children, and he knew that my children missed me as much as I missed them. Still, I was surprised when one night he called me while I was in my room at the Richbergs’, sounding sweet and nice again. So I suggested, “Why don’t you and the kids come for a weekend in L.A.? Let’s see if we can all get along.”

“Otherwise, what? You’re going to sue me for the kids?” a suspicious Riley demanded. I had already decided in my head that I wouldn’t use the courts to solve our problems. I would solve everything in my life through faith alone. I concentrated on having a wonderful weekend at Disneyland with Riley and the kids. It was like we were on a family vacation. We went to Disneyland, to the beach, and to the movies. The best times were when we just sat around the hotel room and laughed with each other. The laughter of children can be infectious. Whatever mistakes Riley and I had made, Shauna and Ryan were beautiful, seemingly happy children. Disneyland is a magical place.

Then it was time for them to leave. Riley offered me a chance to go home. But I couldn’t. They left. It was harder being without them after that. Depression began to set in, and each day it became a little bit worse. In the shadows of my mind, I could hear the faint calling of the voices who were squirming to get out again. To quiet them, I started drinking. The Richbergs are Orthodox Jews, and they drank sweet kosher wine. I’d sneak a little taste now and then to calm me, and if I had an audition. But now, in an effort to sedate myself, I found myself drinking their wine much too frequently.

One night, while Mrs. Richberg (Gina as she preferred me to call her) was soaking in her massive hot tub, she called for me and asked if I had been drinking her sweet wine. I had to confess. I’d been drinking it to stay normal. I began to tell her about my illness, my relationship with Riley, leaving and missing my children, and how that first episode led to the night at Oakcrest, and ensuing ones after that. I figured she would ask me to pack my bags and leave; instead, she asked to help. I couldn’t believe it. I thanked her profusely, and she offered to look at any records I had, evaluate them, and give me her professional opinion.

I had my records in the trunk of my car, where they’d been sitting for months. They made a thick file. I left it on her desk, thinking it might take her a day or two to get through it. But an hour later, she had an answer. “From what I’ve read in your file, I would say you suffer from being bipolar.” Bipolar. Finally, a name. Bipolar. She went on to explain the two “poles” of hyperenergized feelings, mania and its dark and deadening opposite, depression.

Gina was pretty sure, but like any good doctor, she suggested I get a second opinion. I saw another doctor, who agreed and wrote me a prescription for some drugs that would level me out. Knowing that there was a term for it, studies about it, even experts who’d written about it, gave me some relief, but it also made me curious to learn more. With further research, I discovered it is rooted both in nature (my DNA and the dysfunction of my brain) and nurture (what happens in your life, including traumas and chronic stress).

It may sound weird, but now, newly diagnosed, I felt a rush of optimism. My malady had a name, finally something recognizable that could be treated. I worked for people who understood and supported me, and I just knew I was on my way to being cured. All that was left was getting a job as an actress, then a nice place for me and my children. And as far as I was concerned, it was right around the corner. Unexpectedly, when everything seemed so clear, the mania was beginning, and at its peak something would happen to change my life forever.

If you audition enough in Hollywood, you become friends with the casting directors, associates, and basically anyone working for them. I had befriended a young casting intern who got me a chance to audition for an independent film. The director was a dashing Spaniard who was fast becoming the director of the moment. To protect the not so innocent, let’s call him Juan. He was as beautiful as Antonio Banderas, but younger and shorter, perfect for my tiny frame. From the moment I met him, I couldn’t stop daydreaming about this beautiful man. I asked my casting friend if he was married. She shook her head no. I have to have him, I thought. Then she remembered.

“Wait, he has a fiancée, and they’re going to have a baby.” That meant hands off, but I still couldn’t stop staring at him and wanting him. For the next couple of nights, I tossed and turned in my bed, imagining Juan lying next to me. Whether it was just loneliness or lust, I didn’t care. I called the casting office to find out if he’d chosen an actress for the part. He hadn’t picked anyone yet, she said, but then she made a wonderful suggestion: “How about I give you his number, and you can ask him if you’re still in the running?” I quickly wrote down the number. My hands shook as I dialed. I was half hoping he wouldn’t pick up. He answered on the first ring. “Hello, this is Sylvia Harris. The actress,” I said with my most professional voice.

He responded with a thick accent. “Miss Harris. I haven’t decided yet. But how are you? Are you enjoying this time in Los Angeles?” I was sweating at the sound of his voice, and then, suddenly, without thinking, I confessed to this stranger about how lonely I was in Los Angeles.

“What if we were to go to dinner? Could I give you a telephone call later, and we’ll make arrangements?” he asked with that thick, heavy accent with which I was falling in love.

My rational self was saying, You should not be seeing an engaged man whose fiancée is about to have a baby, when you have unfinished business in another part of the States and two kids. But my manic self purred, “I’d love to have dinner,” into the phone. He later had to cancel—problems with his other movie, he explained sweetly. Of course, I didn’t believe him and swore off men again for the rest of my life. But to my surprise he called again.

“There’s going to be a cast party for my last movie. Do you want to go with me? You can meet people. That way you don’t have to be so lonely.” Excited, I tried to play cool. “That would be wonderful.”

I hadn’t had a real date in years. Not since I first met Riley. I was excited. I reached into my war chest and got as cute as I could get with a short, flirty dress and the strappiest of strappy sandals. I got to the small romantic bistro on Melrose Avenue before him, positioned myself cutely at a table, and waited. Who says I can’t act? Juan showed up at 8:00 p.m. sharp, wearing tight black pants and a dark sweater. I kept imagining how dashing a couple we were as we shared a candlelight dinner. He told me all about his life as a director. He had so much to say that it wasn’t, to my relief, necessary for me to tell my story. After two hours of flirting, eating, and drinking, which doesn’t mix with the lithium I was taking, Juan took me by the hand and escorted me to a little bar down the street for the cast party. Even if I don’t get the part, I thought, being his leading lady would be even better. I was in heaven.

The minute we walked into the party, he dropped my hand to become the man of the moment. Women draped themselves all over him, and he made no attempt to stop them. Feeling ignored, I found a seat at the bar alone, ordered a drink, and sat there watching him soak up the attention while I boiled. My mind began to race, and the voices returned. “Somebody put something in your drink. Check out the three chicks at the end of the bar,” the voice said.

I looked over at three gorgeous women who had draped themselves all over Juan, my date—no, my man. Then I looked at my drink. Of course, they’d poisoned me so they could have him all to themselves. Well, I’ll fix them, I reasoned. I’ll order another drink.

My head was pounding as I moved away from the bar with my drink to a little table in the middle of the room. Being the great actress that I thought I was, I sat there and began sobbing and crying. And with each emotion, I got louder and louder. People stopped talking to stare at me. The loud din of a packed bar suddenly became library quiet. At first Juan tried to comfort me, but as my frustration grew, he stepped back as if he didn’t know me. My heart, as well as my mind, snapped. Even in my state, I could see the scene I was making, but I felt detached from it. I was unable to do anything but watch, as if it were a movie starring me, the overly jealous woman who makes a complete ass of herself in a crowded room. In my head, I begged for an exit.

The voices gave me one. “Run.”

I jumped up from the table, dashed out the door, and stumbled onto Melrose Avenue. I staggered down the street, looking for my car. When I found it, I stumbled in, jammed the key into the ignition, jerked it into drive, stomped my foot onto the accelerator, and drove right onto a crowded sidewalk. People, tables, and chairs flew everywhere. I hit the brakes and quickly shifted back to park. Relieved to see that I hadn’t hurt anyone, I put my head down on the steering wheel. Suddenly, there were sirens and blinking lights. As I lifted my head, I saw a cop moving slowly toward my door with a pistol in his hand. In an instant, he snatched me out of the car, threw me up against the hood, and handcuffed me. Panting, I told him I needed to get to a hospital.

He and his partner took me to an emergency room where the nurses shot me up with Thorazine, and I passed out. When I woke up, the mania was gone, and they released me. But I’d left a lot of wreckage behind, not the least of which was my relationship with Juan. I wanted a chance to explain what was wrong with me. But first I needed to rest. So I let a few days pass before calling him to apologize. Finally, I got up the nerve.

“I’m a director,” he began. “People know me. I have to keep an image. I’m not even from this country. I have to be careful, and I can’t be seen with—”

“Someone who is crazy,” I said, finishing his sentence.

“We’re all a little crazy.” He chuckled, then begged off and hung up.

Luckily, being “a little crazy” helped me to avoid serious charges for my sidewalk adventure, but I was certain that my mania had ruined what could have been a wonderful relationship. I never told him about the wreckage I’d left behind on Melrose, and I thought he would never call me again.

And yet, two weeks later, he did.

He invited me to another party. This time, we ended up spending the night together without having sex. We talked throughout the night. I knew I couldn’t let myself fall in love with this guy; he was claimed already. I thought, He’ll go back to Spain, and I’ll never see him again. But we weren’t done yet.

“Sylvia, I must see you tonight,” said the Spanish accent. “I must.” It was a call I wasn’t expecting, but I was glad to hear it. It was another all-nighter at a mansion in the Hollywood Hills. This time Juan tried to be the doting date, getting me a glass of wine or checking on me as he mingled with industry folks. I wasn’t having fun. I really just wanted my man all to myself. My unhappiness must have showed.

“Have a few of these, and you’ll have a great time,” said a woman with a wink, holding a baggie full of magic mushrooms, once Juan stepped away. I had heard so much about “’shrooms,” but I had never tried them. I thought, Why not? A short time later I discovered why not. I heard the same woman that gave me the hallucinogenic yelling, “Hey! Hey! I need some help! This crazy bitch is going nuts.” Of course, the “crazy bitch” was me.

I had started to physically accost the woman. I grabbed, pushed, and cursed her. She had turned into an evil spirit. Some guys at the party tried to restrain me, but I got away by running faster than Usain Bolt out the front door and into pouring rain. I ran around with my arms outstretched to the heavens, trying to soak it all in while they were chasing me. But I was too quick for them as I sprinted back into the mansion and headed straight to the dining room. I knew they were after me, and I had to protect myself. That’s when I noticed the blue Wedgwood china nestled inside a very expensive, beautiful hutch.

To protect myself from the evil villagers, I grabbed plate after plate, smashing them on the teak hardwood floor. A couple of them tried to stop me, but like a feral cat I leaped onto the dining room table, grabbed a giant bowl of chocolate pudding, then started throwing gigantic handfuls of it onto the creamy white walls. It was as if I were Jackson Pollock (another manic-depressive) throwing paint onto a huge canvas. It was beautiful to me, but frightening to others. Juan finally tackled me and dragged me out of the party, kicking and screaming. He threw me into his BMW and sped down Sunset Boulevard, cursing in Spanish and smoking cigarettes furiously while I watched streetlamps and cars whir by.

“I can never see you again,” he managed in broken English, “never.” But he still took me to his hotel room, where I passed out. The next morning, as I came down from my mushroom high, we had a screaming match that led to a visit by hotel security. Juan covered for us, explaining that he was a director, and I was an actress rehearsing a role. When he dropped me off at my car without saying a word, I knew we were finished.

It was almost two months later, around Christmas, that he called again.

“I have to see you again. One more time, before I leave America,” he begged. “I have the most amazing gift for you.” I thought, Why not?

We met at the Travelodge. While he sat there rolling a big fat joint and talking on the phone, taking care of last-minute details before his return to Spain, I sat there watching him and thought, Sylvia, what are you doing? But I knew what I was doing, although I couldn’t admit it to myself. I was trying to fill the gap in my life that surpassed even loneliness. I thought this beautiful man would wipe away all the fears I had for myself and sweep me away to some imaginary place in my head. I so wanted him to love me.

“Promise me,” I said shakily, “that you will come back to America.” He smiled and said, “I just want to spend a beautiful evening with you.” His amazing gift to me was him, I realized. And I accepted the gift gladly. While the strains of Mariah Carey’s “I’ll Be There” barely escaped the borders of the tiny radio on the nightstand, we made love long into the night. I was his until the next morning, when I woke up to find him dressed and ready to leave America. He politely said, “Thank you,” as he closed the door. Feeling ashamed and down, I didn’t go home to see my family, my kids, or Riley for the holidays. Instead, I remained in Los Angeles and cared for my AIDS patients.

For weeks, I thought about Juan. My casting friend told me he and his fiancée were the proud parents of a beautiful baby girl. The news sickened me to my stomach. I began to feel nauseous, and thought that on top of everything, I was coming down with the flu. And then I remembered that Juan had summoned me to the Travelodge to give me a special gift that Christmas.

He delivered as promised. I was pregnant. Again.

The pregnancy made me realize I wanted more than anything to be a good mother to my children, but the nature of my illness caused me to make bad decisions. I do not ask forgiveness for this; I accept the responsibility of my behavior. So many people consider a mental illness, especially the kind that seems to come and go like mine, as a weakness of character. I have struggled with feelings of shame and felt like I should be able to control it by myself. But the hazy boundary between what is and what isn’t reality makes it difficult for me to even trust myself.

The cruel irony is that the time I am the most confident is when I’m at my worst: in full-blown mania. I am so sure of myself that I don’t even begin to question my thoughts or actions. Sometimes I receive an occasional strand of clarity that manages to filter through an episode and tells me to take my meds, but then I fool myself into thinking that I don’t need them because I feel so damn good.

Pregnant and not sure of my mental state, I returned to Santa Rosa. When I arrived home with my news, Riley and my mother shunned me. They were beyond angry and thought I was foolish to have let such a thing happen to me. I was pregnant and broke; my mother rejected me, and Riley, jealous, insulted, and just plain mean, was not going to let me be pregnant with some Spaniard’s baby and live with him and our children. Again, even with my “mood swings,” an abortion was not an option. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Somehow, through all of this, my children gave me a sense of purpose and hope. While pregnant, I didn’t take any medications for the disorder and yet remained level. In that moment of crisis, my children were my medicine.