The final straw in my marriage turned out to be Britney Spears. My journey with her has been tumultuous and intertwined with my own struggles. When she shocked the world by shaving her head and attacking a paparazzo’s car with an umbrella in 2007, I was right there, living my life at UCLA, hearing the chaos unfold outside my cubicle as the ambulance rushed her to the hospital. I had always imagined penning a chapter titled “Peers with Spears,” but I never anticipated that in 2021, we would become “5150 twins.”
The catalyst for my mental health crisis was my fierce determination to “free Britney” during a manic episode that I was experiencing without medication. A devoted fan, I impulsively organized a “pop-up performance” in just 13 days, dancing on the Venice Beach boardwalk in costume with backup dancers, rallying the crowd to join the “free Britney” chant. Collaborating with activists I met during a Black Lives Matter protest, we orchestrated a heartfelt tribute to mental health that even garnered attention from the BBC and The New York Times. It felt liberating to focus on a cause greater than my everyday responsibilities as a stay-at-home mom.
Unfortunately, the project took a toll on my marriage. I spent countless sleepless nights consumed by my mania, creating signs, sending emails, and neglecting household chores. However, I never overlooked my kids; in fact, I included them in my fervor. My preteen daughter rolled her eyes at my dance moves, while my toddler patiently accompanied me on “location scouting” trips around LA. I even jokingly referred to myself as “Lin Manuel Mermanda” during this whirlwind phase. But when my husband confronted me about my handmade “end misogyny” posters, it marked the beginning of the end. I was determined to advocate for Britney, even at the expense of my own marriage.
During this time, I was aware that I was in a manic episode, feeling an exhilarating rush of energy. My therapist had just introduced me to the term “hypomania.” Individuals with bipolar disorder often experience grandiose thoughts that push them to pursue ambitious plans, even when they seem unrealistic to others. I mistakenly believed that taking medication would stifle my creativity and inhibit my ability to achieve great things. In March, I was fully embracing my “inner Britney,” riding the waves of fluctuating moods and energy, with no regard for my husband’s disapproval. While this initial episode didn’t spiral into psychosis, it did signal the collapse of my already fragile marriage.
As resentments and poor communication peaked during my “free Britney” phase, I wasn’t on any medication, and this phase wasn’t nearly as severe as what was to come in the following months, which would land me in the hospital twice. My struggle with mental illness was about liberating the person I once was before being weighed down by trauma, including my son’s eye cancer diagnosis.
Embracing the thrill of hypomania, I channeled my energy into advocating for Britney Spears’ freedom from her unjust conservatorship. This initial episode strained my marriage to its breaking point, yet I resisted the notion that I needed medication to function. What followed was even worse—a psychotic episode that led me to act in ways that alarmed my family.
Mental illness and trauma do not define me. The episodes that began after the pandemic plunged me into a disturbing inner world filled with bizarre delusions. The chaos of my divorce and the aftermath of my unmedicated mania likely contributed to my descent into madness. I vividly remember running around town with mismatched shoes, no phone, and bizarrely placing feathers in the grass as a means to ward off evil spirits. It wasn’t until my family had no choice but to call the police during one of my episodes that I truly grasped the severity of my situation. I blacked out portions of that experience, but I’ll never forget the six days I spent in the psychiatric ward, where I felt paranoia about everyone around me.
Upon my release, I adhered to a regimen of the mood stabilizer Lamictal, having scared myself into acknowledging the need for help. I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 disorder with psychotic features. Following another troubling episode where I destroyed personal belongings, my diagnosis shifted to schizophrenia, necessitating an anti-psychotic called Geodon in addition to my Lamictal. I became aware of the seriousness of schizophrenia and recognized that I needed to rein in my chaotic “inner Britney,” which required medication.
Now, I take seven pills a day, and I’m at peace with that choice. I’m grateful for my strong support system and the effectiveness of my medications. I still possess my creativity and energy, but without the obsessive thoughts that once plagued me. My mental illness is not a source of shame; it has led me to profound self-discovery. This self-awareness enriches my role as a mother and as a person, and I have no regrets about my journey. The next chapter promises exciting things for me and Britney as we both embark on our comebacks!
For more on coping with mental health challenges, check out this informative post on medical resources for pregnancy and home insemination.
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