My Recovery in 5 Minutes or Less

By Wendy McNeill

Like…oh my God, for sure for sure!  I’m Wendy McNeill, an authentic Valley Girl.  In fact, the San Fernando Valley is a sprawling suburb of Los Angeles, northwest of downtown.  

My family was a model of the American Dream.  Nuclear family:  Mom, a special education teacher, Dad, an engineer, brother, avid golfer from age 11, and myself, with aspirations to be an artist and a cheerleader who was a Daddy’s Girl to boot. Per my aspirations, I ended up being a poet and the leader of the high school drill team.  As Dad would say, “Close enough for government work.”

Having said that, my brushes with mental illness came early on.  When my best friend moved away in middle school, I plummeted into a depression, oversleeping, under eating, and writing letters of longing to her.  Likewise, when I was in high school, I was vulnerable to the manic highs.  At summer camp, the whirlwind of activities, disruption of the routines of home, and the sleepless nights led to grandiosity and flight of ideas, precursors of bipolar disorder.  

I followed the expectations of my family, though, and headed to college, in this case moving to San Diego to attend the University of California San Diego (UCSD).  

Then my life detonated.  My father, who had unbeknownst to me, lost his job due to a vendetta of an unscrupulous colleague, six months afterwards took his own life.  I was told the next day, the last day of my freshman year in college, triggering the onset of bipolar I with its volatile manias and depressions.

My first hospitalization occurred on my 19th birthday after a period of escalating manic psychosis, setting the stage for a decade of instability and brutal episodes.  I was the queen of the 51/50.  I spent time in restraints and seclusion in multiple facilities.  I started smoking in a psychiatric hospital in England, where I also picked up a psychiatrist nurse who became my first husband.  I sang Christmas carols in the grounds of a Lake Havasu hospital after getting arrested for indecent exposure. Then, here in San Diego, I went through electroconvulsive therapy to avoid being placed on conservatorship.  

One underlying theme of this period was a struggle with medication compliance, as the psychotropics made me gain weight, the nemesis of a Valley Girl.  My first long term psychiatrist, who I dubbed The Reptile for his lack of bedside manner, was often frustrated with my lack of progress in managing my illness. He insisted that I needed to treat myself like a 50-something with a debilitating heart condition that needed to do aggressive self care, which at that point was a sheer impossibility for me.

 When the ECT didn’t have its desired effect in stabilizing my manic brain, I relapsed and got involved with a psychiatric patient.  He was decades older than my 28 years, deeply alcoholic and skilled at manipulation.  In my fragile state, I was convinced to take a trip to Mexico, and consequently, I disappeared with this predator into Tijuana for two months until the money ran out.  When my threshold for abuse was exhausted, I fled back across the border, and back to my studio where I faced eviction.

 Enter my mother, who along with my brother, had reached the end of their endurance with my episodes, my medication resistance and my life choices. Because I was out of an apartment, my mother scoured the treatment options in San Diego and came up with a dilapidated motel-turned-facility called the Orangewood Manor, housing 44 severely mentally ill folks of which I would become one.  The only advantage of this place was that medication was administered twice a day.  

The message from my family was that for better or worse I was the master of my own destiny at this point, meaning I was mandated to get a job and pay my own way if I wanted to get out of this hell hole. In this facility, I was perpetually in utter disbelief:  how did a spoiled girl from the Valley end up eating frozen fish sticks, drinking Kool-Aid, sitting in rusty folding chairs, watching grainy Chuck Norris episodes, sharing one pay phone with 4 dozen folks, and reading Holocaust literature to gain perspective on people who could survive under the worst circumstances possible. The only thing that had happened to me is that I’d been abandoned.

The silver lining was that I took medication twice a day for the first time in my life, and unbelievably, my mind began to stabilize. I began to see the wasteland that my life had become, and my need to take responsibility for getting out of my current situation. Also, I got turned on to a support group, DBSA, the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance, and found solace in a group of my peers who were in recovery, a word I had only just learned. A mature, kind and stable man took me under his wing and gave me hope that I still had a future if only I would take medication and settle into some healthy habits.

Through a combination of determination and luck I was able to land a full time job at San Diego State University (SDSU) as an administrative assistant. I lived a double life: in academia by day and squalor by night. However, this miraculous entry into the mainstream world enabled me to get my own apartment in a charming neighborhood in a subdivided house with reasonable rent. I did what I promised myself I would do, celebrate with some brie, pate and wine on my balcony at sunset. 

Having said that, my bipolar wasn’t totally under control; recovery wasn’t linear but rather still filled with pitfalls. Subsisting on burritos and beer from the local bar, I met another drug addicted man and got involved in another toxic relationship, sending me spinning and sending me back to the hospital. I lost my job at SDSU.

But the dark days weren’t to last forever. Shortly thereafter, I got a part time job as an English tutor at the local community college. The lower stress levels and routine began to take effect and once again, I started to find a semblance of balance. 

Then, I met Mr. Right. We were an item from the get go, and his attention, acceptance, and love helped to bolster my foundation. He shepherded me through another episode, my last hospitalization for the next two decades. He was the love of my life, and our relationship flourished, leading to a long term relationship. In fact, we have now been together for 21 years, and he has been instrumental in my maintaining my health and recovery. 

So, what does recovery look like? As with most stories, when the drama ends, the story ends with it.  In my case, meeting Travis was the beginning of a relative plateau with my bipolar. I had two phenomenally talented psychiatrists who treated me for mania, depression and anxiety.  I had long term relationships with two therapists who worked with me on the PTSD related to my father’s suicide. I stayed employed at the community college for 18 years until I left for a position in an independent living facility for women with mental illness, where I was able to pay it forward. Lifestyle-wise, both my husband and I both quit smoking and drinking. In 2020, I collaborated with a visual artist to publish a volume of art and poetry based on our experiences with madness.

In the present day, life, to some extent, has come full circle. I mentor a young man with bipolar with medication compliance and life skills. I am a facilitator and community liaison for DBSA, my support group. My family has been resurrected from the ashes. I have a loyal group of loving and supportive friends. I have free time to pursue my creative endeavors and cultivate both existing and new relationships.

Having said that, I wish I could say that the bipolar illness has evaporated from my life, but that is not the case. In February of 2020, I was let go of my beloved job at the independent living, just like my father before me who was terminated by an unscrupulous colleague.

Thinking that losing one’s job was tantamount to dying, I myself suffered an acute depression which has not entirely lost its stranglehold on my psyche and energy. In addition, the precious medicine that I had come to rely on for my stability proved to have an impact on my body and had to be changed. So, the COVID and post-COVID era have been a challenge, and now, it is only my love for my family, my friends, and my village that keeps me on the planet.

When my soul darkens, as it often does, I count my blessings. I take a look around. I remember what I have already overcome, and I listen to my inner voice that tells me that I have the resilience to overcome the challenges of the future.

In short, I keep breathing deep.

Thank you.