Autobiography of a Madman

At school, I felt like an outsider and kept to myself, I don't remember starting school as my first recollections were just before I had finished grade one. Because of my poor eyesight -- damage caused by cataracts at birth (though immediately removed, of course) -- I could barely see the teacher, let alone know what she was doing, Also, I couldn't hear her very well because of the hole in my ear with which I was born. So I taught myself, and did quite well doing so. However, when the teacher observed that I was performing school assignments far beyond those of the other students, she gave me a lecture -- an experience that only discouraged me from continued over-achievements, By mid third grade, the school gave me an eye exam, and I was prescribed glasses; one more factor that made me an outcast.

And there was yet another dysfunction of mine to make me feel like an alien; I never showed any emotion -- anything bad that happened I forgot almost as soon as it happened. But, then again, neither my father (nor his father) showed emotion. They didn't talk about anything, except themselves. I think I had already begun reading about meditation and mind control by then.

In my early teens, or there abouts, I was sexually abused. I have no recollection of the act except that it was a man and he was a stranger.

In my teens, I had the mind-control thing down pat; both physically and emotionally, I couldn't feel anything. My peers started experimenting on me, to see if they could make me feel something. I soon discovered, however, that totally controlling (ie: suppressing) one's anger is not at all wise. Once, I became enraged for a minor reason and picked up a friend over my head and slammed him down onto a picket fence, pinning him down with my knee. Two of our friends were there, but they couldn't pull me off until I'd settled down, Since then, I can clear-mindedly recall the whole incident in retrospect; but during the violent act, the only thing occupying my thoughts was KILL. That was only the first time I blew. The second time, I also blacked out. When I came to, my friend was shaking like a leaf; he said that I picked up a fairly heavy chair by the bottom of its leg, lifted it high into the air and brought it down where his head was a second before. The impact left a deep indent in the floor. After that, I realized that I had to avoid allowing negative emotions to build up, and I haven't had any problems with my temper ever since. Mostly I let out my temper when there is nobody around, if at all possible.

With my newfound coolness combined with my sense of humour, I managed to do all right with the girls. I never turned down any of their advances, lest I then be deemed unworthy. I also thought it was a waste of time to go out with a girl more than twice if I didn't get what I wanted. But one time I went with a nice girl, and we had a lovely time. She told her friend that she liked me a lot. However, to make a long story short, I lost her due to my own misbehaviour. I have had to live with that guilt and shame ever since. I have never tried to date a girl I really liked since then, because I didn't deem myself worthy.

By that point in my life, the only way I could go on was with alcohol, drugs and mind control. At times my moods were changing from depression to manic, even without booze or drugs. Sometimes I got so depressed, I would seclude myself for weeks at a time, without even paying attention as to whether I bathed or ate. At one point, I was getting dizzy spells, and the doctor said that I was suffering from malnutrition. The first time I became manic, I was sure I was the antichrist; during another time, I thought I could heal people with my hands. Of course there were also spending sprees.

Eventually, however, there was a diagnosis. During a very deep withdrawal period, I had to see a mental-health worker. Within five minutes, she was on the phone and set-up an appointment for the same day for me to get help. The worker decided to put me in a day program instead of locking me up. The doctor put me on medication. Later I was referred to a psychiatrist, who liked dishing out prescriptions; he added three to my list. I needed the anti-anxiety medications because I was having almost constant anxiety attacks since I left the safe refuge of the mental-health day program and ventured out onto the crowded sidewalks and buses. I needed the major-tranquilizers because I was only getting two to four hours of sleep most nights, he added more sedatives for good measure. In the therapeutic group, I got to know another member, who felt that I was a lot like him, he was diagnosed with manic-depression and I was diagnosed with major-depression, but we seemed to like the same things and were soon out gambling together.

I was by then probably swinging to manic, but I was still being treated for depression. I was in a bit of a fog with all of the sedating medications, so I began reducing it without telling my doctors. As well my father was sending me sedatives and pain-killers that he himself couldn't take. Even though I was cutting down on my sedatives and sleeping pills, I was finding myself in places that I did not remember going to. I also found things that I bought and left in weird places that I did not remember buying, let alone why I bought them.

Existing in this unreal, mixed-up world, was getting to be too much for me. I had a killer cocktail, thanks to my prescription-happy psychiatrist and my father. When my daughter said she was staying at a friend's house, it was time to take suicidal action. First, I went to the liquor store and found the strongest cider they had. When I got back home, I took every prescription I could find, whether I knew what it was or not, and poured them into a mug, The mug must of been at least three-quarters full. I put on a heavy-metal song that talked about suicide. (I can't remember its title or the performing group, and I'll likely never know, since my daughter destroyed the album.) I sat back in my easy chair, with my mug in one hand and the cider in the other. I gulped them down.

I woke up in the hospital puking up blood and charcoal. Apparently my daughter came home early for some reason. My doctor was at the hospital, but he just gave me a dirty look and released me, it was 2:30am. Soon after that I gradually desisted consuming the anti-depressants. Then I left the city.

I was fairly healthy for the following ten years (no really high manic nor really low depression) -- until Christmas 1992, when I was about 44 years old. Just before Christmas, my mom phoned me up to ask me to visit her; and I was somewhat perplexed, for it was unlike her to ask for anything for herself. I told her that I was too busy, which was a lie -- I just wanted to party. On Christmas Day, my brother phoned me up to tell me that she had died in her sleep. My brother gathered up all her things and left within two days.

By 1994, we decided to move back to the West Coast, where I had spent my earlier years and my daughter spent most of her growing years. My father also liked the idea because most if not all of the family is buried in Victoria and my brother held mom's ashes, When we got there, my father of course wanted to phone my brother. But my brother told me flat out that he did not want his father or myself living anywhere near him. My father lived until 1996. My brother paid him a visit for about an hour just before he died.

Mentally, I managed to hold on until early 1997, (I had forgotten everything that could harm me,) when depression became to much for me to bear; so I informed my doctor, and he put me on an anti-depressant. I think it was the Mental Health that got me into the evening group at the hospital. The group had a psychiatrist, and he took me in as a patient. A few months later my psychiatrist noticed my rapid speech, giggling, etc. and re-diagnosed me as having bipolar 2. He took me off of the anti-depressant and put me on two other medications, when I told him I was getting up around three or four in the morning, he gave me something to help me sleep. Since then, the psychiatrist has added another medication, increased the dosage of a current one and is also experimenting with two new ones.

I'm now in much better shape than I've ever been. My lows don't last too long, as I follow my own advice with exercise and deep breathing, and I usually can handle the highs. It's the mixed moods that seem to be the scariest and hardest to control because I can't think straight...
... And such is the autobiography of a madman.

I should write a part 2 or better yet Becky should write it as she knows everything I don't.

The reason I had the missing memory and fugue is because I have DID. It was Kelly our protector who took over when he thought the body was in danger. Becky was the one who was out for most of my childhood, including elementary school. I first went to school full time at the end of elementary school. Becky was over protective of me because my predecessor couldn't take it any more and left. The body was about 5 when I came along with Keven my twin, except he never grew and I did. The birth person and the body was only about 7 months old when Becky came. The first Bruce remained an infant until about 3 or more years ago when our therapist helped Becky to heal the first Bruce's sores and he was able to start growing, he is 14 now.

Author: Bruce Demers

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Bruce Demers 15090 101 Ave. Surrey, BC Canada V3R 6T4

bndemers@stewm.com

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