I apparently became the “ghoster” to many of my friends during the past 4 months because of a complete violent, manic episode that led to months of hell in a rubber room at NCUI Hospital in New York. Every night like clockwork at 7:30pm I waited by the door for my parents to visit me, (they never came), and every night the night staff forced me from the door and five or six huge Nassau Police officers wrestled me to the ground, ripped down my underwear, and gave me a huge Haldol injection, and essentially murdered me and my spirit for two months straight. Every night the smoke alarm would blink at me too, and for some reason I woke up with burn marks on my legs the next morning.
Heaven and Hell answered as I screamed to the Heavens for Jesus Christ to kill me from one of the highest points in New York City where the Hospital stood, and as I cursed Jesus’ name for condemning my spirit to that incessant torture, I died every night. And every morning, I sat with a gentleman named William and read the absolute perfect passage in the New Testament during breakfast, which I would selflessly give away because there was not enough food for all of the patients there. I was their angel. I gave out snacks, helped with silverware when the meals came and jumped in to aid our little family and “heaven” as I called it, right there on the 14th floor.
Every night those cops killed me in that rubber room, they destroyed my spirit, they made me a broken woman, but every morning they peeled me from the floor, hydrated and fed me and I used the place for all it was worth. I attended every group. I became the best interpretive dancer and singer they had ever seen, I used my muscles that I gained strength from after every attack in the rubber room, and learned how to manipulate my body, mind and soul for the ultimate survival.
They just couldn’t figure it out. Every morning a team of doctors came to see me, led by the head psychiatrist, Dr. Barris, because by the time the morning came and I was off to fight another battle, I was completely coherent and knew everything that was happening to me and my surroundings. They tried everything, and most of all, they couldn’t understand all the hurricanes, tornadoes, car accidents, murders and during my worst night ever the 600 lightning strikes that rocked my little Long Island neighborhood.
I was born without a thyroid gland, the rarest case in history, and the technology they used to keep me alive when I spent the first six months of my life in a hospital is probably unheard of. The truth of the matter is my mind is a machine and when I have these psychotic breaks I see stars, and patterns in the universe. In the “Quiet Room” I was anything but quiet. I punched the glass to the outside, I kickboxed against the wall, I let out all my aggression and the bawled my eyes out like a little baby for my best friend Dave and my family who never came to visit me. I can’t say that I blame them because they were moving when I got locked up in there and this is my 9th hospitalization. There is a court order made by a judge who decreed that if I ever, EVER end up back in one of those places I will be sent away upstate and locked away for good.
I cannot let that happen. However, the drugs they put me on are so expensive I don’t know what to do. My parents and my therapist are on my back to be compliant, but if I can’t afford it, I just can’t, and the pharmaceutical companies are getting richer and richer off of people like me. But that’s for another time, all it will take is a quick call to Dr. Barris who became my mentor in there. It baffled the staff how fearless I was when the team did their rounds at breakfast, and there I stood, fully dressed, showered, fresh from my Bible reading with William, ready to see what other bullshit theory they had for my condition. They labeled me Schizophrenic when I am just Bipolar. Every morning I demanded my 250 mg of Seroquel and my .05 Klonopin and wouldn’t take anything else because that medication cocktail was given to me by the new doctor I had changed to right before I was sent there. Fuck Depakote and fuck Lithium, those are the drugs I fear most, funny now that I say that because I agreed to take some Lithium to help get me out of there.
I fell in love in there too. James is his name, and boy is he handsome. I picked the baddest, meanest, motherfucker to fall in love with. Covered in tattoos with the bluest eyes, when he was cursing out the doctors on one end of the unit, I was cursing out the staff on the other side, and when we walked the hall together every one ran! We ran that unit because as much as I helped out, so did James. I even made a wedding ring out of blue drawstring and string to represent a wedding band on my finger because we ate every meal together, shared our food with other patients, hid our food and rocked it at Jeopardy! every night at 7pm. It was literally like being in jail. The staff was so unhelpful, playing on their phones, completely unhelpful to the patient’s needs. Cursing out the staff every day is probably what made my stay so long after they vacated me out of the “Quiet Room” because I never stopped fighting for the patients there – I was there only advocate and I fought for everyone except myself. And boy did I try to help James. I made him smile so much. I became such an incredible dancer that after every time I put on a show for everyone during Exercise or a full open Lobby group, the man took like three or four showers!! Haha!! I also sang while another patient played a guitar. My talents shined so bright and when it came to art, I made collages, 3D art and tons of love notes for James. I lifted him, he lifted me, but I think he may have fell into a depression because he relapsed the last time they let him out on a Day Pass to a sober house that didn’t exist. That was right before I left and when I called yesterday he was sleeping at 7:30pm and that isn’t like him at all.
My parents want me to move out, so I have to try really hard to reach James. I love him more than any man I have ever loved. We survived absolute starvation and jail-like conditions with the other patients there. I made a family there and as God as my Witness I will help all of them get out of there.
The best thing I am doing in the interim is taking up dance classes. I found a couple of great dance studios for interpretive dance right here on Long Island, and even some ballroom classes. I lost 45 pounds in the 4 months there, and I have never felt curvier or sexier. I bought new jeans that are ass tight, new Victoria Secret bras, and I am on my way on collecting on some of the offers for employment I was promised by some of the staff over at the hospital. From bartending, to stripping, from singing with a drum in my Native American Tribe the Hopi in Arizona, from Payroll Executive at the Yale Club of New York City, from the bowels of the chop shop brokerage firms on Wall Street, to my first job at the age of 14 as a greeter at the Gap, there is absolutely nothing Lynn Feroz can’t do when she puts her mind to something. I was even a model at 17, (the head shot in the photo featured here).
I am shining. Too long have I let Bipolar take my life from me. I sat in my room for 14 years with a bottle hiding behind being fat, lazy, and chasing internet men. I spent my 38th birthday in the hospital this year too, but having James and my little babies there with me was the best birthday I ever had! They tried to sneak cake up to me, but I told them to fuck themselves because if they didn’t have cake for everyone then I didn’t want their bullshit. So instead, I made a huge cake in 3D Art!
So join me now as I reclaim my life back, and I assure you, my posts will get more and more juicier every time!!
Here’s to freedom!!
(Cheers with a non-alcoholic beverage)