Manic Marti (Part 1)

October 2018. Los Angeles. It was a difficult time. The #metoo movement was in full swing. I remember looking at Facebook and seeing the stories pop up, one after the other. It was powerful and devastating, important and triggering. Like so many other people, my own sexual abuse was very difficult to process because I couldn’t remember most of it. So when the stories started flooding in, it made me want to remember more, so I as well could participate in what looked like a cathartic way to release my own story while inspiring others to speak up.

At the time I was an aspiring actor working part-time at a gym where the male owner loved to hit on and flirt with all the female members and staff. He was smart. He knew where to draw the line before it turned into harassment, but he was emotionally manipulative. However, I loved the community, so when I finally quit I didn’t factor that I would be leaving a very stable and social environment that, in that sense, was healthy for me. At the same time, I decided to quit all my yoga teaching jobs so that I could 100% focus on acting.

This is when everything started to spiral. I didn’t know it at the time, but teaching yoga multiple times a week was very grounding for me. Yoga can be vulnerable, and many students came to my classes because I was able to create a safe space, as well as hold it. Little did I know I was doing the same for myself. So when I quit the gym, as well my studios, I didn’t have any more students to take care of- I was the only person I needed to be accountable for.

At first, everything was great. With all the free time, I was auditioning a lot, and booking almost everything I auditioned for. I think I must have filmed at least 5 short films in October and November. I was constantly driving from one filming location to another, and I remember loving the feeling of finally feeling like an actor. However- since quitting my jobs, $100 for a day or $300 for an entire short film was not nearly enough to survive on… I was starting to get desperate. I didn’t want to quit performing, but I also needed to pay my rent, so I decided to audition at a bikini bar that was walking distance from me.

At this point I had been taking pole dancing classes for about a year, as well as a brief experience dancing at a bikini bar in Chatsworth, so I felt ready. Surprisingly, I had a really positive experience. I walked into the dive bar-like club and was immediately put on stage. Pole dancing, or dancing in a sexual way, has always come naturally to me. As a performer it’s the one thing I get more excited about rather then nervous before going on stage. The audition was fun; I felt confident and free. Afterwards, the lady who held my audition couldn’t stop gushing about how great I was. We had a twenty minute conversation about what my stage name was going to be. She gave me her personal number and said she’d be in touch. In retrospect, I see now the giant red flag: the owner or manager wasn’t there. It was the bartender who held my audition. But it was my first time, and I had no idea what to expect. I left feeling excited and confident I had gotten the job.

I didn’t.

About an hour later I got a text… something like:

Hey Lucy!!! (a stage name we discussed that she said would do really well at the club) SO SORRY. I guess the boss isn’t hiring right now. But please come back!’

I remember staring at my phone in disappointment. Ok, I thought. This isn’t the end. They want me back. If only I’d known then what that text would lead to.

At the same time, I was also struggling with a break up.. if you could call it that. Like most of my ex’s, we were never officially together, just doing the whole sex-and-spending-all-your-time-together-but-never-actually-official routine. I’ve never been good at break ups. I started going to SLAW meetings- Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. They were helpful, but also very intense. I was an emotional wreck. After a month of attending meetings regularly I thought I’d be able to handle seeing a play that my former acting school put on, starring a really good friend of mine, and yes, the “ex.”Nope. I couldn’t. Seeing him, combined with stress from not having money, AS WELL as trying to function in the #metoo era, sent me over the edge.

The funny thing was, at the time, I saw it as the opposite. I felt invincible. I had amazing energy, without needing to sleep. I was more creative and artistic then ever, and for the first time in my life, I felt confident. I’ve always been a person who marches to the beat of their own drum, so at first it wasn’t too noticeable. In fact, people loved it- I was the hit of any party, pretty much an unpaid entertainer, and people couldn’t get enough of me. As someone who has always struggled with acceptance and self-love, this was dangerous, because it encouraged me to KEEP going, KEEP creating, KEEP partying. It also didn’t help that in a city like LA, there is no end to the amount of people looking for someone to lift them up…. which I was also doing a lot of. I wanted EVERYONE to feel as good as I was, to recognize their unique talents and go for their dreams. It wasn’t until December/January people started noticing that something was wrong….

I came back from Christmas break a train wreck. People were uncomfortable, but I was oblivious. Things got worse and worse, and I started to push the people closest to me away. My parents were contacted to come to LA, and shortly after I found myself without roommates. I went back to the club convinced if I brought in a huge crowd of people I would get the job. I remember calling and texting friends for almost 4 hours. I talked to literally anybody who would listen to me… some people I hadn’t spoken to in years. Meanwhile I felt like I was on a reality show, half expecting to see hidden cameras all around me.

They didn’t put me on stage.

The next morning my best friend took me to the doctor. We grew up in Alaska together, and I trusted her. I will never forget the confusion I felt after being told I was Bipolar, and experiencing delusional thoughts. It was honestly the last thing I expected, which I still find mind boggling. I never once suspected that anything was wrong with me. Mania is really difficult, in that sense. You feel like you’re on top of the world, so why do anything to change?

Things shifted very quickly after that. I was given medication, which I took. They didn’t solve any of my problems or ‘fix’ me… they just put me to sleep. And it worked. After being prescribed an extremely high dosage of three different kinds of anti-psychotics, I got tired. Heavy. I couldn’t think clearly, and I suddenly felt like I was trapped in a fog. I didn’t go down without a fight though. I was determined to not give up, to keep going, and regain my life. I found myself in a new neighborhood, and I slowly started to rebuild. That’s the thing about LA. A 20 minute drive and you’re in a completely different place.

Keeping friends when you’re bipolar is hard. For the most part, it can be very lonely. My dog, Penny, is the true hero for getting me through that post-mania depression. She forced me to take her on long walks, and we were lucky to live next to a park that was full of life: families celebrating birthdays, BBQ’s, and lot’s and lots of soccer. It was the perfect place to heal, and slowly, steadily, I started to feel like myself again. I got back in the acting scene and became focused. I took the classes I was supposed to take: Killigan’s, Groundlings, Agent Showcases… I was committed. After spending almost a grand on new headshots, I had an agent. She was up and coming, and created a community of actors that would actually reach out and support each other. I suddenly had a network of people to connect with. As fleeting as that was, I’m still grateful. I had a summer romance who got me into playing soccer again, which introduced me to an entirely different community of athletes and creatives. Suddenly I was booking acting jobs, playing pick up games, and combing yoga and meditation lessons with pole dancing. I was happy, and had everything going for me. Or so I thought. The reality is that because I was so excited for a fresh start, as well as all my new friends, l didn’t want to acknowledge or process what had happened not even a year before. And you know what happens when you try push something down? It keeps coming up. I found myself having difficulty sleeping again because I had nightmares involving abuse. I started writing poetry that was dark and disturbing, but raw and real. I couldn’t stop moving. This time, I knew what was happening. I even started sharing clips from a documentary about my mental health that a yoga student of mine made- looking back, I think it was a cry for help. But no one can save you except yourself.

My second time being manic was such a strange experience. I knew people thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care. I had a falling out with my agent and once again stopped doing yoga/dance lessons. I started dating multiple guys at once, and made salsa lessons that took place at a nightclub a weekly priority. All I wanted to do was dance, create, and sing. I continued to play soccer, but pissed off almost every player who didn’t like physical contact…. Especially from a girl who would give HERSELF high fives after scoring goals. It’s difficult to think about, but at the same time, also hilarious. That’s another thing… I’m funny. My sense of humor and giant grin masked the fact that something wasn’t right, and the insane amount of alcohol I was consuming didn’t help either. Mania can look an awful lot like being wasted, and if you’re not familiar with mental illness it can be hard to tell the difference. I was manic AND wasted, so basically, a tornado. It wasn’t all bad. I had beautiful experiences with fleeting friends that I wouldn’t trade for anything. But relationships when you’re manic don’t last. I started accepting that I would never have lasting friendships, and only started caring about living in the moment. My apartment became a non-stop party, my door was open to anyone. This was also the same time that Joker came out in theatre’s, which, although one of my favorite movies, couldn’t have been released at a worse time. Like the Joker- I didn’t care anymore.

And just like that- I ended up in Mexico.

Okay. I didn’t just “end up” in Mexico. My car broke down when I was alone in San Diego. So what does one do?

Cross the border to Tijuana with the tow truck driver. Obviously.

To talk about that entire three day experience would honestly fill up a book, so I’ll describe the condensed version. I drove to San Diego to meet a stranger on Instagram. The next day, my car broke down. The tow truck driver took me to a small auto shop close to the border. They told me they needed to order a part, so my car wouldn’t be ready until Monday. It was Saturday. I knew something was very, very wrong. You would think I would be panicking at this point, but I felt strangely calm. I was in survival mode- one of the only times I can actually control my emotions.

So here’s the thing: I was broke. And I was stranded. The tow truck driver liked me. I’m not an idiot. I flirted back. I did what I do best- I connected with him. I liked him, too. He was my age and handsome. I also have to admit, I have a thing for Latino’s. So when he invited me to drive to Tijuana with him I accepted. Was I aware it was dangerous? Of course. But if this experience was a roller coaster, I was already buckled in and climbing up the tracks. Anyways, the tow drive driver told me he had family there, so it was perfectly safe. Goody.

The funny (and not so funny) detail about this story is that I was posting constantly about my adventure on Instagram. I wanted people to know where I was. It gets harder to talk about here. Maybe because as soon as I crossed the border things got very, very real, and incredibly scary. Maybe one day I will write a book or script about this whole experience. Let’s focus on the positives: I had the best street tacos and ceviche of my entitle life. I met several kind, compassionate people who understood me even though we both spoke different languages. I met a young man who had taken too many drugs, so I helped him home and put him to bed. And to this day I have never felt stronger in my entire life, then walking the streets of Tijuana alone at 3 in the morning. Terrifying things were happening all around me, but nobody messed with me. I wouldn’t have, either. Eventually, I did make it home. It’s a long, fascinating, story, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I was extremely confident that I would make it back, and that’s honestly what kept me going. My mania. Now was it also the reason I was stranded in Mexico in the first place? Yes. Yes. But mania isn’t all bad, and in this case it saved my life.

Things got worse after coming back from Mexico. I went through an extreme episode of PTSD. I was scared to be alone. I only felt safe in my bathtub, and I stayed there for days at a time. I continued to post everything on Instagram, and could feel myself scaring people. I had been manic for a couple months now, so I had already pushed most of my friends away. I started experiencing suicidal thoughts, but I refused to give in to them. Instead, I got myself up, I went out, and I made new friends. It wasn’t hard. When I’m manic people are just drawn to me. They love how expressive I am, my energy, the chaos.. but I think more than anything people can sense I’m a caring person, with a huge heart. That attracts … well. Everyone. The good and the bad. But most of these relationships don’t last. I’m still grateful for all the fleeting friendships I’ve had. There’s something magical about connecting instantly with a stranger.

I didn’t go home that Christmas because I couldn’t handle the thought of flying. I could barely get myself out the door. Instead, On Christmas I went to see my friend play at his synagogue. It was the first time I had ever celebrated Hanukah … on Christmas day. It was a beautiful experience. Another friend that I had just met brought me Jack and the Box. This person is amazing, and he left his family so I wouldn’t be hungry and alone. It meant the world to me.

But I was barely hanging on.

New Year’s 2020, surprisingly, was one of the best New Year’s of my life. I was trying hard to keep my grip, and I noticed that being around people really helped. Naturally. The trick was finding people who would ACTUALLY spend time with me. At this point I think anyone could tell I wasn’t exactly in my right mind.

I even remember asking my maintenance guy if he wanted to come later that night. We had just met ten minutes ago; he didn’t speak any English, so I had to use Google translate to look up ‘New Year’s Party.’

He didn’t come.

But lo and behold- one of the few people who was sticking around at the time invited a whole bunch of his friends and family to my party.

Around 9pm on December 31st, 2019, 8 guys from Compton who I had never met before showed up to my door, tequila in hand.

It was the best party ever.

A few other brave hearts shows up- one kind, sweet soul brought a ton of sandwiches and pastries from Starbucks. We spent the night singing, playing music, dancing. It was one of those magical nights where everyone is nice and respectful and goes along for the ride. I think that’s why I was partying so much- I loved the idea of strangers coming together to celebrate life. But that night was rare. A lot of my ‘parties’ involved fighting, drama, and phone calls to the police. I went out a lot, too. At the time I was supporting a group of talented musicians who played at several different venues. I went to almost every show, danced my ass off, and would hype up the crowd. I got invited to do stand up for a variety show, and would show up and improvise for 6 minutes. It was truly a wild, reckless time, and I was using shows, dancing and alcohol as a temporary escape. Actually, it wasn’t even about the alcohol. Everyone assumed I was constantly high or drunk, but a lot of the time I was sober. What I was REALLY addicted to, was the mindset that alcohol and party environments encouraged- ‘Let loose! Act wild! Be free!’ Not only was I accepted, but I invited everyone around me to be the same. Sometimes people need to know that they’re not alone before they can take the masks off. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a choice for me. I couldn’t hide what I was feeling if I tried.

One morning- or more likely afternoon- I woke up to my head throbbing like it was going to explode. I tried to get up and off the couch but couldn’t do it. It wasn’t a hangover… it felt like my mind was closing in, like my brain was giving up on trying to function. Penny needed to go outside, so I dragged myself to the park and collapsed under a tree. I was conscious, but couldn’t move, and I was gripping the roots like my life depended on it.

“Be like the tree,” I told myself. I felt like I was being ripped away from the earth, as if an invisible force was trying to unroot my body to fling into the ether. A man who frequently walked his dog and was always nice to me asked if I was okay.

“What’s your favorite song?” I asked.

Confused, he told me:

“The Beatles. Let it Be.”

So I pulled up the karaoke version on my phone, and I sang to him. When I finished, he smiled, tears in his eyes.

“You are okay now,” he told me in Spanish.

And I was.

Another kind lady who I had also gotten to know came and checked on me. She also barely spoke English, but it didn’t matter. Her husband was a bus driver, and every day she would come to the park to bring him his lunch.

That day, they both fed me.

As terrifying as this period of my life was, I also experienced some of the most beautiful encounters with angels roaming around as human beings. I will forever be grateful.

So basically, I had reached a breaking point. My mind had had it with the constant partying, and was threatening to jump ship. I STILL wouldn’t go to the hospital. I can’t speak for others- but when I’m manic, the last thing I want is to see a doctor or be put on medication. When you’re functioning on a level of mania as intense as mine, the drugs they give you are so strong that you feel as if you’re dying… your body gets heavy, your mind starts to go dark, and there’s nothing you can do. Then two days later you wake up manic again. I really didn’t want that. But I didn’t want to go completely off the deep end either. So what was I to do?

And then I met my boyfriend.

Part 2: