Free Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher Page B

exactly losers (except probably to some members of their families, and all of their constituents) so relax and join the great drunks who staggered the Earth before you.
    So, when I was told I was a manic-depressive, there was a whole new list waiting for me.
     
    There was Abraham Lincoln—who wrote the Gettysburg Address in four hours—now that’s pretty manic
    Winston Churchill, who called his depressed mood the black dog
    Korea
    Kristy McNichol and Sir Isaac Newton (who I think would have made an adorable couple!)
    Mark Twain
    St. Francis
    St. Theresa
    Jonathan Winters
    Poor Brittany Spears
    And George W. Bush
     
    Well, naturally after this list I felt invigorated—but then that is part of my diagnosis.
    So, to celebrate my newfound ascent into the lofty heights of this noble group, I thought I would inaugurate a Bipolar Pride Day. You know, with floats and parades and stuff! On the floats we would get the depressives, and they wouldn’t even have to leave their beds—we’d just roll their beds out of their houses, and they could continue staring off miserably into space. And then for the manics, we’d have the manic marching band, with manics laughing and talking and shopping and fucking and making bad judgment calls.
    Of course, all this is still in the early planning stages—and knowing manics it probably always will be—but the point is we have a plan and that’s what counts. Because when you’re manic, every urge is like an edict from the Vatican. No plan is a bad one, because if you’re there and you’re doing it, it can’t be bad. It’s like a bank error in your favor.
    Mania is, in effect, liquid confidence
    when the tide comes in, it’s all good. But when the tide goes out, the mood that cannot and should not be named comes over you and into you. Because to name it would be an act of summoning.
    Losing your mind is a frightening thing—especially if you have a lot to lose—but once it’s lost, it’s fine! No big deal! There could be a light shining out of your head. It’s sort of like glowing in your own dark.
    Part of my story—because God forbid you miss a minute of it—is that I stayed awake for six days. This happened because two of my medications were interacting badly, so the doctors put me on what they called a medication vacation—now on a vacation like this you don’t get a tan, there is no Club Med, and you can’t send cute little postcards. Now, anyone who has stayed awake for six days knows that there’s every chance that they’ll wind up psychotic. Anyway, I did, and part of how that manifested was that I thought everything on television was about me.
    Now if anything like this should happen to you, I have some excellent advice. Don’t watch CNN. Please. Watch one of those pet training shows or cooking shows—even some of the discovery shows might be okay. But I watched CNN, and at the time Versace had just been killed by that man Cunanin, and the police were frantically scouring the Eastern seaboard for him. So I was Cunanin, Versace, and the Police. Now this is exhausting programming.
    But by the time I got to be Versace, he was dead. And also by then I was in the real hospital part of Cedars-Sinai hospital in Los Angeles, and I could literally hear the nurses outside of the door saying, “Don’t listen to her, she’s crazy.”
    My brother eventually arrived and he had to call the mental hospital to see about getting me in because there was, as my friend Dave says, “no room at the bin.” You had to be seriously nuts to qualify for residence in the lockdown ward. So finally, the head doctor of the facility came over. This guy looked like this kind of weird John Steinbeck character with his abnormally high pants and his strangely neat hair and his trimmed just so beard.
    So he walks in, and I say, “Finally, here’s someone who can tell us what it’s like to get his cock sucked.”
    Because (as you might have noticed) I had begun swearing a lot and apparently I couldn’t stop. Something in me had