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Chapter 1

WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS TO ME?
or HERE COMES MY FIRST NERVOUS BREAKDOWN
--Las Vegas Hilton, November-December 1982

First Manic Episode.
Las Vegas. Southern Nevada Memorial (S'n'M) Hospital. Psychiatric Unit.
"Quiet Room".
Friday, December 3, 1982. About 6 A.M.

    I had a very normal childhood, a good inheritance when my physician-father died (all gone), an excellent education with three university degrees, an excellent marriage, so, "Why?", I wonder, "Why are they putting my right wrist into an orange-brown leather strap marked 'Humane Restraints, St. Louis, Mo.' and then my left ankle into another restraint? Huh, huh? Was it something I did? Huh? Was it something I said? Huh? Maybe they didn't like the way I parted my hair? (I don't either but I've never strapped myself down on a bare mattress bolted to a drab, off-white linoleum floor in the QUIET!!! Room of a psychiatric hospital in Las Vegas, or anywhere else, come to think about it.)"
   
Day 1 in The Mental Health System. The "Quiet Room"   
    My first awareness of ever being what used to be called a "Mental Patient" (but
now we prefer the polite term "Mental Health Client" or "Client" or "Consumer") was at
about 6 in the morning on the first Friday of December in 1982.
    No use to wonder about these things or anything at all at that moment because I
couldn't stop them from strapping me down, even if I wanted to. And I couldn't want to
because I was drugged, not out-of-my-mind, but not exactly into my mind. I was just
watching the male orderly putting the straps on me. They had previously medicated me,
so that I would be docile and easy to strap down, but I have no memory of any needle
going into me and I do not know what antipsychotic drug they injected into me.
    The hospital orderly was joined by a nurse who verified that the straps were tight
enough to hold me down and to prevent escape. I wonder if she checked to see if they
were tight enough to hurt. These staff people hurried out of the room and I noticed the
door with its reinforced glass peephole. I could see a clipboard in the hallway beyond the
door which I learned later was my chart that they used for noting every 15 minutes what I
was doing and where I was. Being strapped down by Humane Restraints of St. Louis,
Mo., I wasn't doing much and wasn't anywhere else but in the Quiet Room.

    Now I was alone there for the first time, at least while conscious. The Quiet
Room was all white: the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the bed, the sheet. The only things
that weren't white were the gray bed frame and the black TV camera mounted to the
ceiling and aimed straight down at me. I often wondered if the TV camera were
connected, if it were turned on, if insidious doctors and nurses were watching a bank of
TV monitors, one with my black-and-white figure on it, with me looking totally subdued,
helpless and captured, strapped spread-eagle to the bed, with one wrist and the opposite
ankle cuffed with a leather strap.
    Alone, strapped down against my will in a psychiatric hospital, in a city I despised,
there was nothing for me to do but "make the most of it". But there wasn't anything to
make the most of besides pull against the straps and look at the TV camera, speculating
whether anyone was watching my every move, my every flinch against the straps. All I
could think of doing was to examine every aspect of the straps to see if getting loose or
even escaping was possible and to mock a smile and "Hi, Mom!" at the TV camera.

    After some time, I sensed another human on the other side of the door and I cast a
quick glance in the direction of the reinforced-glass window in the door. I saw a woman
looking downwards and figured she was charting me. Later I found that I was right and
that she had put a "W" for "wake" (vs. "A" for "asleep"). Sooner or later, I was no longer
alone for a moment. The orderly or psychiatric technician brought me not a bedpan, but
the high-tech equivalent of a bedpan. It was a putrid, hospital-green-colored, curved
plastic bottle with the ounces and grams shown on it. I figured out how to hold it
without spilling it with one arm in straps. I proudly gave them 44 ounces, not realizing
until my Board & Care days, starting 6 years later, that this was precisely the volume of
the prize possession of Board & Care-dwellers, a Super Big Gulp do-it-yourself-soda at
the Seven-11.
    They brought me dinner on a tray. I said, "How, I'm in straps?" They said, "Don't worry. You'll figure it out." I surprised myself by being able to manipulate things around so that I could eat all of it with one hand strapped down.
    The routine of lying there, pulling at the straps, looking up at the TV camera,
pissing, eating and being charted continued for about 2 1/2 days that I was in the Quiet
Room. They then moved me into the regular psychiatric ward. My total stay in the
hospital was exactly 2 weeks.

Tried Unsuccessfully to Determine Reasons for Hospitalization--
Described and Analyzed Life in Six Timeframes
    As I said at the beginning, I cannot conceive of an idea why I should have been
strapped down in the Quiet Room. I cannot fathom why I was admitted to the hospital as
a mental patient. With the perspective of eleven years having gone by since these events [through 1993], I have analyzed my previous life into six timeframes and have described each one in order to
find a clue for my being strapped down and then admitted to the hospital. I have found no
clue. Here are my descriptions of these six timeframes.

November, December, 1982:
Las Vegas, First Manic Episode:
Details Leading up to and including Hospitalization

"It's better to burn out than to rust."--Neil Young

    My lord, did your whole damn world go crazy and they put the blame on me? I
keep having these bizarre thoughts that get me in trouble. I used to be perfectly normal.
    In October 1982 when I was a 35-year old video game programmer for Mattel
Electronics, I flew from my home in Westlake Village, outside of Los Angeles, and went
to a computer show, Applefest '82, in San Francisco and somehow managed to sell $1,500
worth of my own erotic computer programs (retail $30) to the dealers there. Doing this
made me feel sky-high. I'm not a salesman but the programs must have been appealing. I
was planning to fly back but then the programs sold and I stayed overnight in the first
hotel I came to, the San Franciscan. It felt good not to have to ask how much it was for
the night.
    Later one dealer whom I talked to on the phone said that he was taking two days
off of work to go to the super-large convention for computer dealers, COMDEX, which
was four days in Las Vegas at the end of November and the beginning of December. He
emphatically suggested that I go there to market my programs. My hours at Mattel were
very flexible. I usually didn't work Mondays anyway and I decided to take that Monday
off and go to COMDEX for one day.
    I made up brochures about my programs and lined up my "entourage" to assist me:
Carol-Jean, my girlfriend, 41 and very much into New Age spirituality; Paula, my new
friend (and supposedly my lifelong friend), 36, who had lived in Las Vegas and who would
show us around; and Robb, my ex-girlfriend Darlene's nephew, 21, who was a student. I
paid for their airfares and room. One of us was late for the plane at LAX and it felt good
to have the plane held five minutes for us.
    With all of the 100's of details that I had to plan for COMDEX, there was one that
I left out: where to stay. This would be the most important detail for normal minds. Paula
said that the Frontier always had rooms. We got out of the cab there and checked it out;
they had no rooms. The feeling was tense--if the Frontier didn't have rooms, who would?
    I wanted to stay at the Hilton so we tried there. There were long lines. It seemed
futile. When we got to the front they said that they had no rooms. A long wait for
nothing. Then Paula did her stuff. She shook hands with the room clerk and introduced
herself. She told him that she used to work there and gave manicures to Conrad Hilton (which was
true). The clerk said that he could let us have an Executive Suite which usually went for $150
for half price plus $10 for an extra rollaway bed or $85 total. We stayed on the 27th floor
with a fantastic view. I was happy.
    On Monday the four of us went walking on the convention floor. We walked
about four hours. Then we came upon the booth for the top distributor for personal
computer software, Softsel. I had sent my programs to them and could not get any
response. Now at COMDEX with three friends at my side, I felt that I was intimidating
their officer into promising to call me when we got back. I did not feel comfortable with
this. This turned out to be my only day on the convention floor although I stayed for all
four days of COMDEX.
    Back at the hotel, I was talking in what I thought was a normal mode. The
assistant manager of the Hilton came up to me and said that I was talking like a 45 RPM
record in a 33 RPM world, that I had racing thoughts. He meant that I was going too fast
and that no one could catch me. I said that I didn't know what he was talking about. My
friends, however, nodded at what he said. They had been witnessing the behavior that he
was describing. His statement didn't bother me at first. It amused me.
    I went to the men's store in the hotel and was outraged and amused by the fact that
although I was the only customer, none of the four clerks would pay any attention to me.
Paula later said that this attitude was called "our shit doesn't stink". It essentially means
that we know that we're too good for anybody else. I finally got the attention of one kind
woman who turned out to be the assistant manager there. I bought a pair of pants for
$100 which was three times as much as I was used to spending.
    My actions in the events of the above three paragraphs bothered me but I thought
that they were just my reactions to being in Las Vegas, a city that I greatly disliked. That
night Paula brought a friend who passed a joint. Later someone said that it was laced and
that was the reason for my bizarre thoughts. She said that her friend wouldn't have done
this. And besides, no one else was affected.
    That evening, Robb and I walked to the Riviera Hotel for a business meeting held
by Paula's friend who owned a computer company. The man had some kind of vague
interest in my computer programs. In their suite, the friend and other men spoke all of the
jargon of heavy-rollers. They had one or two pretty female "employees" dressed to the
hilt who kept looking at us. We left the meeting being told that some kind of business
deal could be arranged back in California.
    As Robb and I were walking back to the Hilton, a car pulled up just ahead of us
with two well-dressed prostitutes. We had no interest, especially since we knew that the
going rate was $200. I knew that I had $197 and I said, "Sorry, we're $3 short." Then I
said, not seriously, but probably not perceivable as kidding, "O.k. But we're very busy
doing business now at the convention. Let's make it for Friday." One of the girls looked
at my convention badge and read my name aloud. This embarrassed me.   
    On Tuesday I spent an extra hour or two in the room collecting my thoughts and
preparing what I was going to say at breakfast to the others. Surprise! When I got to
breakfast, they had dispersed. The same thing happened Wednesday. Since I was wasting
my money that was spent on these friends for their airfare and lodging, I thought I would
fly out one more friend whom I trusted to be reliable, Darlene, my ex-roommate, 31.
However, my friends and I were still not communicating.
    Wednesday afternoon, two security guards came up to me to ask if I were o.k. I
said, "yes" and wondered why they asked. They said that my friends were deeply
concerned. Soon my friends came by and said that they were leaving for L.A. and wanted
to see that I was in good hands, the hands of the security guards. The friends said that
what I wanted to do I had to do myself. I didn't want them to leave me alone but I agreed
that I had always done things best alone. They left. I felt alone but I also felt relieved of
the burden of friends who would not cooperate.
    I had been invited to a media party, a chance to meet the president of Omni Magazine.
I was looking forward to it; it was 6 hours away. My first inclination was to
sleep, but I wound up pacing my room and thinking. I kept going for 13 hours, walking
and thinking, missing the party. I calculated that at the normal walking speed of 3 m.p.h.,
13 hours was 39 miles. I walked 39 miles in the desert. My bizarre thought was that this
exceeded Christ's 30 miles in the desert - The Las Vegas Hilton is in the desert, although
air-conditioned and carpeted.
    On Thursday night, I was lying in bed in my room in the Hilton. There were eight Hilton
security guards in blue uniforms, two Las Vegas cops in brown uniforms and a doctor in a
dark suit who gave me a shot. I don't know what led up to this. Following it, I called
room service and ordered a steak and cheese sandwich which never showed up. Then I
dreamed that I had arranged for Gail, a friend who gives workshops at nudist facilities, to
give a nudist New Year's Eve party at the Hilton. I dreamed that I saw myself in clothes
going into the lobby of the hotel. Seven security guards pulled their guns and escorted me
into a closed room. The hours were ticking away towards midnight. Suddenly one
security guard shot at my heart. I dodged the bullet at the last second and ran back into
the lobby.
    Now it was only a few seconds ticking away until midnight. I imagined that Gail's
nudist New Year's Eve party was going on. As midnight chimed I was nude and I held up
my green mesh underwear in my right hand. Some well-dressed people who were
gambling glanced at me for half-a-second and returned to their gambling without missing a
beat.
    Many months later I was told by friends that the underwear incident was true and
not a dream. How did they know? They said that my doctor told them. Somebody called
me the "Hilton Streaker". I reluctantly believed them. But later I thought that if my
doctor told anyone, it would be a violation of confidentiality and those who told me that
they had talked to my doctor did not have access to the doctor. I don't believe that this
was anything but a dream.
    This was Thursday night and COMDEX was gone. I was the only computer left in
Las Vegas. Ten Hilton security guards in blue uniforms briskly escorted me to a white cab
and told the driver to take me to the airport. There I wrote thoughts down in the blank
spaces of airline schedule covers as I walked back and forth the length of the airport
terminal. After some time, two Las Vegas police officers came up to me and called me by
name. (I found out much later that Darlene was trying to reach me from L.A. after being
told where I was taken. That's how the cops knew my name.) They had a police station
in the airport and the cops took me there. After a while, a bearded, heavyset man with a
clipboard came in. He never said a word but it was obvious to me that he was a
psychiatrist. I counted aloud in the way that a computer would with binary doubling:
1-2-4-8-16-32-64-128.
He wrote something down. I thought that these numbers are computer basics to me but they
probably mean insanity to him. I repeated these numbers in sequence many times and he kept
writing.
    Then two policemen who seemed friendly drove me away in a police car. I
thought that they were taking me back to the Hilton. Guess again. They took me to the
Psychiatric Unit of Southern Nevada Memorial Hospital. My first memory of the hospital
was when I woke up in the "Quiet Room". I was in a room with a single bed bolted to the
floor. I was in leather restraints on the left leg and the right arm. I didn't think that it was
possible to use the urinal and the bed pan while restrained this way, but when I had to, it
was possible. They would bring your food tray and you were supposed to eat while
strapped down. That didn't seem possible, either, but was. There was a video camera in
the ceiling. I talked to the camera a lot, but I couldn't decide whether it worked or not. I
didn't like the "Quiet Room".
    My racing thought while I was falling asleep in the Quiet Room, directed towards
the TV camera, was this. It's December 3 and if half of the people in the world are
guaranteed a Merry Christmas by now, then I can stop thinking and I can relax. (I didn't
share this thought with anyone else. Too insane.) After about two days I left the Quiet
Room.
    Now I was in the Locked Unit. I did not have freedom to leave, but at least I was
not strapped down in leather restraints. I needed to find something positive to do. What I
did was to save the servings of leftover food that would otherwise be thrown away. One
time, I opened the refrigerator and there was a plate with a piece of ham. In my hand I
had a plate with a piece of bread. I put the items together and where there would have
been trash, there was a ham sandwich.
    I spent two weeks in the hospital. I don't remember what kind of pills I took.
Much of the time I was interacting with the other patients. One pretty young woman had
tried to kill herself with Quualudes and we talked a lot. An older Black woman wrote out
her life history and her address, but I didn't want to stay in contact with anyone there. I
didn't like the Locked Unit.
    One doctor, Dr. Pike, saw me almost every day and later billed for it to the minute
(about $800) although he didn't do anything worthwhile. The main doctor, Dr. Rosalinda
Rueca, was always unreachable. She was supposed to be observing me but I hardly ever
saw her. Once or twice I saw a woman's face behind a reinforced-glass window in a door
and was told that that was my doctor. She never talked to me. Two weeks after I left the
hospital, I called her long-distance. She said at first that she was putting me down for
schizophrenic. I didn't like the sound of that so we negotiated and she agreed on manic-
depressive. I didn't like either of the two doctors.
    When I was in the hospital, my ex-business partner and lawyer, Rita, said on the
phone, "If it does not jeopardize your release, please get me some leather restraints." I
knew that she was into Bondage and Discipline, but I said, "I thought your lawyer was
supposed to get you out of captivity, not wish to keep you in bondage!"
    When I was in Las Vegas, I overheard a cop on the phone to Paula in L.A.,
explaining to her about me, "He's fried a chip, like a computer." She and her son Joshua
sent me some beautiful flowers. When I was ready to go home from the hospital, Paula
surprised me by picking me up at the hospital in my car, a 1981 Porsche 924. I was a little
pissed because I was conscious of the Porsche being worn out by about 1,200 miles for its
round trip.
    When I returned home to Westlake Village, there was a telegram from Mattel
saying that I was terminated for not reporting to work. I called them up and we agreed
that if I got a letter from the doctor, then I could still be working. I called the doctor
long-distance and I asked her to send a letter so that I wouldn't lose my job. She agreed.
However, a week later when I called Mattel, they still had not received her letter and the
personnel person exclaimed three times, "You're terminated!" My low regard for the
doctor fell to as low as possible.

Follow-up 1993-2001

1. 1993. 11 Years, So Far, as a Mental Health Client--1982-1993
    In my estimation, I feel that I have been mostly normal since my first
hospitalization in Las Vegas. In my favor, I have been able to obtain professional jobs, at
least from 1982 to 1988. Also, I have been on many mental health boards and committees
from 1989 to 1993.
    A number of professionals and other clients would point to my relapses and say
that there were many. I consider them to be "occasional". In these 11 years, I have been
hospitalized approximately 20 times because of being off of my medications. This is about
twice a year and a person diagnosed with mental illness cannot be expected to have 100%
compliance in taking their meds (some professionals do expect 100% compliance).
    For one year I was on a conservatorship. This is when a court finds that you are,
because of a mental illness, unable to provide for your own food, clothing and housing.
These conditions were not true--indeed, I have more shirts than God and had no trouble
paying my rent or buying groceries--but a lady from CMH (County Mental Health) got a
judge to believe that I was in such distressed condition that I needed to be taken care of by
the county for a year. My conservatorship was my lowest point in my decade-plus of
mental illness.
    Another negative against me was that I was fired several times from jobs for being
manic at work. Some of the bosses said they did it for my own good; other bosses were
scared and wanted to get me off the premises as soon as possible.
    A number of times I was removed or fired from board memberships and a
chairmanship of a group by my peers for mania or hospitalization for mania. It was
devastating to be fired but even more so to have it happen at the hands of my peers.
    More details about these and other subjects are covered in other chapters.

2. Reflections, 1993.
    It is fast approaching the eleventh anniversary of my becoming a mental health
client (December 3).
    Last year around this time when I realized that the tenth anniversary was
approaching, I realized that it was the anniversary of an illness, not the cause for a
celebration. I realized that more correctly, it was a milestone and a time to reflect.
    At this point I probably have more positive events for reflection than usual.
Positive events of the past year include:
    (a) marriage to Diann;
    (b) nonprofit corporation, Mind*Star, on its way to fruition;
    (c) political campaign for San Diego City Council;
    (d) being subject of San Diego Union-Tribune special supplement on mental    
    illness (planned for publication in January 1994); and
    (e) the likelihood of finishing this book by my goal of December 31
I feel good about each of these events and about my work today on writing this book.
Reflections on these topics are in the other chapters.

3. December 3, 2000. 18 Years as a Mental Health Client - Milestone or Millstone?
    The earth has gone around the sun 18 times since the moments described above, but the moments are still vivid to me. They were vivid when I wrote CrazyPages 5 to 11 years after they happened. There were times when I worried that I wouldn't remember things, but I guess the outrage and the humor of the moment kept me going. 18 years! The 18th letter of the Hebrew alphabet is CHAI (pronounced kuy), as in L'CHAIM - " to life" (famous song in Fiddler on the Roof). Well, life - I had this "terrible disease" for 18 years and I'm still living - some aren't.

What I've done in the past 7 years in one paragraph
Masters' of Arts, San Diego State University, Educational Technology, 1996-97
Married and divorced, 1993-97
1 year of law school, 1994-95
Chuck's Newsletter #25 -"I was institutionalized following the 1996 RNC",
#26-13th Anniversary - dotTV, G-d, Election2000
web domains owned - mindstar.org - dottvguy.tv - gottashoponline.com - elearningpower.com
web domains subowned - crazybytes on geocities - chuck77 on tripod
became Internet guru - BenFranklin Institute, 2000
Subject of special section on mental illness, San Diego Union-Tribune, 1994
Poster boy, Mood Disorders, Abnormal Psychology: An Integrative Approach, Barlow & Durand, Brooks/Cole Publishing, 1995

Current
- I'm a "webpreneuer" (web entrepreneur) - goal = make as much from websites as I would working - more details on my 1st ecommerce site - dottvguy.tv - launch 01-01-01 (the real millenium) - prelaunch now. I hope to have a new life from ecommerce, and be able to move out into actual independent living. I don't want to fall back on old, but used to SS poverty for so many years.

Current thoughts
    My pad says, "I'm riding on bus going to see Fred (shrink) and can hardly think because of the 2 loud black chicks in the back!"
    No - my thought, while crossing the street -
"I'm a child of the '50's in his 50's."
First few times I said it, sounded profound. Now, I don't know.

Current living arrangement
    You call this living? I'm living in a board & care for 1 1/2 years now because my credit report isn't good enough to get an apartment. But my credit rating's getting better - received "guaranteed loan" certificate today from car dealer, maybe I should get a car & sleep in it (car dealers less strict than apt. owners). Back to board & care (why do  they call it that  - "because we're bored and they don't care" - old joke attributed to Jane Fyer.) or B&C--
    Ten years ago I heavily documented the b&c I was living in for this book -I'm not interested now but - the typical resident here is only interested in smoking & farting, latter probably because it's free. Typical conversation - asking what day it is, oh, good, I get paid tomorrow - which means they can buy cigarettes. I've now had 8 roommates in 18 months, typically 1st words out of each's mouth is what is your drug and drinking history (I have virtually none, too bad) - motive I guess is so they can mooch off of yours. One woman shrieks a lot, turns very angry, pause, and with a very loud Eartha Kitt-like voice with an accent says "fuck you". Today she was nicer but won't say how. Now I know I shouldn't be disparaging my fellow crazies. Just documenting what I see & hear.

Thoughts - take 2
    The real question, my notes say, is "How am I different since 1982 being a bipolar than if I weren't?" Well, I wouldn't have been different being hired, but wouldn't have been fired. Would have had a consecutive career instead of Social Security, would have assets instead of pocket change. But wouldn't have all these experiences if hadn't been bipolar. I haven't put a number ($) to it, of career vs. SS, and won't for now.
    One of my readers, PolarPaul, has his date of entry to the system graphically woven into the background of one of the pages of his webpage. On seeing that, I thought that I wasn't really aware of my date until relatively recently - I would calculate it - Comdex was the last 2 days of Nov.& 1st 2 days of Dec. So it was Dec.3. But I used to have to figure out the year. Well, now I know  it - 12-03-82.

This was 7 years since the last update. I hope to be more frequent - or see you in Dec. 2007, my 25th anniversary of being crazy.

Happy Holidays - Hanukah (12-21-00), Christmas , and New Year's (01-01-01) - the real millennium.

4.   2001, My December 3 Milestone and Reflections Come Again -
My Yearly Update 2001 - My 19th Anniversary in the System
Although I have great mathematical propensities, I never looked at "1982" and took the "19" and figured some day I'd have a 19th anniversary of this stuff - or that I'd need to. "19" and "82" of course total out to 101. 1900 and 101 equals 2001, the year it still is (at least at time of this writing).

Well, using my format of past annual reflections above, I have a problem. I haven't had any personal events of the past year. Nothing social. Still intentionally live in the board & care. Just trudged away at my ecommerce and charity web sites, as planned (new site SuperCheapWebDesign.com; deleted sites - gottashoponline.com, elearningpower.com). And I paid a lot of attention to the September 11 Attack on America and America Strikes Back, both watching the news and adding "my take" to my dotTVguy.tv web site - including Let's Bomb-a Osama, Mamma. This includes jokes, because we always need to laugh. Here's one I'm about to add on airport security from Rob Schneider appearing on Bill Maher's Politically Incorrect on ABC. Rob says I go to the airport and they say, "Hi, Mr. Schneider, we really enjoyed your last movie and we need you to take off your pants."

Well, one milestone I discovered about me. I am now covered in a second university/college textbook, Rod Plotnik's Introduction to Psychology, 6th ed., Wadsworth Publishing Co. I don't know what they say about me but the professor described the pictures to me (via email) so I know which ones they used. I'm included in the test bank. Once I used to develop test bank items "and now I are one." Oh, by the way, in addition to my not knowing what the textbook writer said about me, I never gave permission -- it's just about my intimate psych life. (Yes, I know I give all the details here on crazybytes, but I give myself permission.)

By reading the above reflection/milestone items, I see that 1982, 1993, and 1997 were pretty good years. Being crazy ain't that bad - if you're smart to start with - but as I say above (re 2000), if I hadn't been mentally ill, I "would have assets instead of pocket change".

Well, 2001 is the year they named after a movie, so they often played its song. And now a song that used to be played for each week (c. 1962-63), my modification -

That was the Year that Was
It's Over, Let it go
Oh, what a Year that Was
    (apologies to That Was the Week that Was [TW3])

Happy Holidays - Hanukah (12-10-01), Christmas , and  New Year's of the palindrome year (2002).

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