On November 19, 2009, I woke up. I tried to move, but my face was stuck to something. As I gathered my wits I found myself face down on the cold, icy concrete floor of my Outpost Pictures office at StudioPlex in Atlanta. I dodged the shady Grady ambulance and was rushed to Emory Hospital by my wife’s uncle. That morning in the ER was just the beginning of a series of events unfolding over the course of the week. Determined, my wife’s motives to immediately get me not only to the dentist, but seven days later after a physical exam to also be rushed to the closest head-shrinking psychiatric facility. One week after getting zero sleep my mind was riding a rollercoaster of physical and spiritual delusions of grandeur. I vividly remember every moment. That’s a gift I have. I can go back into any point in my history and see every detail in clear view. It is a byproduct of moments tied directly to heightened emotional states. If there’s a strong emotion tied to a memory I see it all.
Every bruise and every scar in clear, fully encompassing detail. By week’s end I’d be diagnosed at PACT Atlanta with bipolar disorder after a kneejerk five-second diagnosis. Keep in mind I was never asked any questions by Rasharee Praturi who christened my psychiatric profile. Just a quick glance and no intake evaluation. Just a cold, hard stare delivering the unfortunate news. I remember her eyes deeply engulfed in the prospect of another tick mark to add to their rotating roster of unfortunates. Dollar signs flashed quickly, but I caught a glimpse of them. The following six months remained some of my most horrific except the time I spent over two weeks at Peachford Hospital. I’ll get to that later.
“‘Still alive,’ mused Maximus. ‘The gods must have a sense of humor.’ Valerius posed, ‘the gods musts love you.’ Quintus noted ‘Maximus the farmer. I still have difficulty imagining that.’ Maximus rebutted his observation that ‘you know, dirt cleans off a lot easier than blood, Quintus.’”