Ticket to Madland is the fearsome yet funny memoir of my trek through a mind-body illness involving vertigo, insomnia, anxiety, and a host of other wacky symptoms, culminating with two weeks in a locked psychiatric ward. (Spoiler: I recovered.)
In the book’s epilogue, I share four lessons learned. Here are the first two. –Jocelyn Davis
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The first [lesson], I’m sorry to say, is that when you’re going insane it’s advisable to have plenty of resources. Money for sure, but on top of money you’ll want good insurance, a stable home life, sympathetic friends, and a supportive employer. You’ll also want a healthy body, familiarity with bureaucracy, and an education that puts you at ease with complex medical information—plus the sort of demeanor, not to mention skin color, that encourages doctors to take you seriously and treat you with a modicum of respect. In other words: privilege. Nearly every Madlander I encountered lacked privilege, at least compared to me. Did they make it through nevertheless? I don’t know. I think of them often: the Carpenter, the Fawn Girls, Savvy Alicia, Emotional Teresa (“I feel your dizziness!”), Kathy the Mock Turtle, Jackie the Jabberwock, Miranda the Gryphon (“That is bullshit!”), Coloring Girl Lindsey, Cast-foot Sam, Mad Hatter Joe (“Do ya wanna use the phone?”) and of course, dear disconnected Tessa (“I made this for you so maybe you won’t cry anymore”). I think of them all and wonder how they’re doing.
Me, I’m doing well. I’m still on the Zoloft pills and the estradiol patch, and I take progesterone and melatonin every night, 90 minutes before my boringly regular bedtime as advised by Dr. Taylor. I weaned off the clonazepam over eighteen months, slowly and without difficulty, cutting then shaving down the pink tablets until I was taking a mouse crumb a day, then none. I still keep a small stash in case of disaster, but the bottle on the third shelf of the linen closet remains full … Sleep is good: when you count naps, I get a solid eight hours in each twenty-four.
Yes. I am very, very lucky.
But even if someone is not as lucky as I, there is hope. For the second big lesson I learned in Madland is that we all have a Sane Me and, when the chips are down, it’s Sane Me you can count on. This guardian—whether you call her your higher self, executive function, the witness, the Word, consciousness, God, or Great Mother—is there to watch over you and will watch over you, stronger than the reptilian brain, more persistent than any disease, wilier than any demon. Not to say Sane Me is unvanquishable; I was separated from her, off and on, in the days leading up to my hospitalization, a state I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Nor would I say Sane Me alone has the power to heal; psychiatric drugs responsibly prescribed are an indispensable tool in the management of brain illnesses, as is therapy (with a few caveats). Nevertheless, if I had to point to just one guide that led me through the valley of the shadow of death, it was that bossy old bitch-angel who hovered behind my right shoulder doling out criticism, praise, and marching orders in equal portions, observing the scene with wry amusement punctuated by occasional sharp nudges in the ribs. I never heard an actual voice or felt a physical nudge. But she was real, and she is mighty.
How to nurture your Sane Me? Any serious practice will serve, I think; any discipline of body or mind that shows it’s possible to feel scared, uncomfortable, sorry you signed up for this terrible gig, and to step up anyway. “Deep training,” Matt calls it, referring to my father, who even in the depths of Alzheimer’s disease retained the elegant manners required of him during his 1930s Philadelphia childhood and, later, his diplomatic career. In my case, it was ballet training that taught me I need not be controlled by the feelings of the moment, that I could (for example) hold a pose on stage for ten minutes, heart pounding, blisters burning, a dirty contact lens making one eye stream tears, then pick up my cue and go on to execute the butterfly dance to perfection. In your case, it might have been a sport, a musical instrument, the study of a science, or the practice of a faith. Anything that demands grit, for it is grit that allows our meek little oyster-self to produce pearls from suffering.
Note well, I’m not calling for the infliction of suffering as a teaching tool. Nevertheless, when human beings understand that trials in life are inevitable and, more important, that they’re capable of bearing those trials with grace and courage, they do better. Everybody ought to have a good sound Sane Me, packed and ready to go, for we never know when we’ll need her companionship and support.
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Ticket to Madland: How I Went Insane and Met New People is available on Amazon and wherever books are sold.