‘Many of the weird things I said and did were logical and made perfectly good sense to me’

I refused to leave the building and began 

to scream: "Foot! Foot! Foot!"

Excerpts from “The Extraordinary Life of An Ordinary Man” by David Delahoussaye 

(the book is no longer in print)

 When I would become “sick” many of the weird things I said were logical, and made perfectly good sense to me all the time. They may not have made sense to anyone else, but they did to me. I would also develop a sense of pure honesty, like that of a child, perhaps. If someone had an eggplant growing out of his head, I would approach that person in order to ask him, “Why do you have an eggplant growing out of your head?” Nearly everyone else would pretend not to notice the eggplant.

Anyway, it was not very long after the downtown episode that I wound up in Houston International Hospital with Dr. Jaime Ganc as my treating psychiatrist. I remained at the hospital for one month, was released and returned home. I went into a relapse after about one week and returned to the hospital for another month. This would turn out to be my cycle for over six years. Counting this cycle as two different hospital stays, I was admitted into the mental hospital eight times between the years 1976 and 1982.

As good and nice of a hospital as Houston International was, it was no fun being confined there most of the time. I was locked up and without my freedom, so it still was like being in prison. Talking about prisons, let me tell you about the two brushes I had with the police because of mental illness. The first time I became sick and not long after my downtown escapade, I wound up in my doctor’s office to receive treatment for torn ligaments in my left foot (which had happened at Crown). I was dissatisfied because I felt the doctor was not helping me get rid of my pain. I refused to leave the building and began to scream, “Foot! Foot! Foot”

I wandered to the drugstore next door where the cops caught up with me. About eight policemen had eventually gathered there. I soon had them in row, standing at attention. I then commenced to conduct an inspection. “Straighten up that tie, officer,” I would say. Or, “I can’t see my face in your shoes, sir.” And to another, “Suck in that belly, flatfoot.” The policemen soon tired of my little game and forced me face down onto the floor that was covered with indoor-outdoor carpet. One of them pushed the back of my head down and rigorously rubbed my face against the brush-like carpet—this caused a pretty good carpet burn on one of my cheeks.

Another police officer handcuffed me very tightly. My wrists began to hurt right away. They hauled me off in one of their patrol cars to Ben Taub Hospital. Rita and some of my brothers-in-law came to see about at Ben Taub. I remember messing with a janitor in a hall there. I must have told him something he did not like. The old man started shouting at me and chasing me down the hall with his mop. The janitor had almost caught up with me when Rita and my brothers-in-law stopped him. I had good medical insurance with Crown so Rita had me transferred to Houston International Hospital.

Bagging groceries at 7-Eleven led to my arrest

David Delahoussaye's graphic of himself

My second encounter with the law was in the summer of 1979. I had been wandering the streets of Houston all night. I pulled in at a 7-Eleven to buy cigarettes. It was about 7:30 a.m. There was an unusually long line at the checkout counter. To expedite things, I decided to give the cashier a helping hand. I went behind the counter, next to the cashier, and began to place customers’ items into bags as I handed their sacks to them.

The clerk did not appreciate my assistance. The clerk began to scream and flail his arms wildly. I tried to explain I was trying only to be of assistance. Unfortunately he could not understand what I was saying, and I could not comprehend what he was screaming as he was screaming in Vietnamese. Because of my failure to cooperate with him, due to our lack of communication, the perplexed grocer went to the rear of the store to phone the police. It appeared he also was having difficulties getting the police department to understand him. The clerk still was screaming and flailing his arms.

In the meanwhile, customers had grown impatient. They began to leave the store without paying for their merchandise. I still was assisting those who wanted me to bag their non-purchased merchandise. Needless to say, I was arrested right on the spot at the establishment for bagging groceries.

I spent three days in jail. When I was first placed in the holding cell, I took a twenty dollar bill out of my wallet and set it on fire with my cigarette lighter. I then took the burning bill and threw it into the middle of the floor, inside the jail cell. The guys who were seated next to me leaped up and found different seats. It had worked! I wanted to demonstrate how “bad” I was so that no one would mess with me.

At hearing I could not see much of what was happening as I had lost my eyeglasses. The judge wound up dropping the charges against me, probably on the grounds that I was mentally ill. I stood and spoke these words toward the judge I could see: “Your Honor, I had been looking forward to this weekend, I would have off for a long time. I would like to press charges against my accuser for running my long weekend.” Loud, hysterical laughter erupted throughout the chamber. The judge growled, “Clear this courtroom!”

Reflecting on my experiences

As I reflect upon my experiences while plagued with manic depression, I have mixed emotions. I can recall the agonizing mental chaos I experienced and the feelings of utter despair and worthlessness. I pray to God that I will never have to go through such misery again. However, during the short-lived intervals at the opposite peal of the mood swings, I can also recall the wonderful emotions of intense joy, complete freedom and self-confidence and anticipation with excitement. I clung desperately to these friendly sensations which I knew would soon be shattered by an inevitable downward crash. I remember not being able to sleep because of child-like excitement of anticipation of what the next day would bring.

Unfortunately for me, the unfavorable feelings lasted a long time. Sometimes they lingered for years at a time. The lengthy periods during which I suffered left me feeling bad and not knowing why. It seemed like an eternity and always left me feeling like a dirty, lifeless, limp dishrag.

I could write a book about the many agonizing sessions I spent locked up and sometimes bound in those awful seclusion rooms during the eight times I was hospitalized. Minutes passed like hours, and hours like days. I recollect convincing other patients who were on the freedom side to throw cups of water through the small crack underneath the seclusion room door. Like a thirsty animal, I would bury my face into the urine-stenched carpet and suck up the water.

I remember what taking 1, 200 milligrams of Thorazine a day felt like. My tongue has peeled so badly that it hurt too much to eat. My eyes are shut but I am not sleeping. I hear other people around me but they appear to be far away. When they are saying has no meaning to me. My bottom jaw is very heavy and some force is perpetually pulling down on it. I no longer have the energy or will to exert any effort into holding my jaw up. And so, I simply allow my jaw to hang down. A steady stream of saliva flows down my chin, leaving a dark pool on the entire front of my blue hospital top.

My mind is in slow motion and my body will not respond to it. It is as though my mind and body are separated. They are not working together. They are not synchronized. I feel very frustrated and I do not have the courage to attempt to put my mind and body back together at this exact time, maybe tomorrow.

I am very tired but if I allow myself to fall asleep now, I might never awaken or something awful might happen to me. I must fight this urge to sleep so that I can keep my eyes on everybody. I must continue to battle this annoying drug—Thorazine. I struggle to my feet and join other zombies in doing what is known in such hospitals as the “Thorazine Shuffle.” Step by short, slow step, without any purpose, we (the patients) shuffle up the hall, and then we shuffle back. I now am one of the zombies, one of the walking dead. In a dazed stupor, wee shuffle all day long. We shuffle. We shuffle. We shuffle.

Those are the painful memories. Yet, they are a part of a real life experience. They are part of me. No matter how unpleasant those memories are, I feel compelled to exact some benefit from them in some way. And, I have. With the grace of God, I have lived and prevailed through those seemingly never ending years of adversity! I have weathered the fierce, perpetual storm and I have emerged a fortunate and grateful survivor. I have been emotionally stable for over 10 (15 now) years. I feel that going through this most difficult period in my life has served to make me a stronger and better person. For it is in dealing positively with adversities in our lives that we grow both spiritually and emotionally.

David recalls the hospital visits: 'We always arrived at the shocking center much too soon'

The Extraordinary Life of An Ordinary Man

by David Delahoussaye

“When I was seven years old I wanted to stop growing. I wanted to remain seven and 

not become an adult. I wanted everything to stop changing. I did not

 want to have all the responsibilities with which grown-up were hampered.”

Chapter 1 

The good Lord spared my life the first time when I was four years old. I contracted a serious case of diphtheria. Diphtheria can be a fatal disease. I think the I came up with the malady is by messing around with some chickens. I would sneak under the house to play with those cluckers, spending a lot of time there. I found these creatures quite interesting. I was fascinated by the way they drank from the puddles of rain water that accumulated underneath the house. We humans use a dipper or a glass to drink. These birds, however, had quite a different way of quenching their thirst. One would lower its beak into the puddle, take a small sip, raise its head as high as possible, and then finally swallow the small amount of water that was taken in. This procedure had to be followed several times.

The scary, twisted face of mental illness

I was thrilled whenever I had the opportunity to see a number of my [fowl] feathered friends perform this ritual simultaneously. Some of the heads would go down, while others went up. Up. Down. Up. Down. They were a live carousel of hens. I would giggle with glee at the delightful sipping symphony.

Naturally, sometimes I would pretend I was a chicken, and I was very thirsty. I would get on all fours, lower my lips into a puddle and take a small sip. After stretching my neck toward floor of the house, I would finally swallow. Up and down I went. I was a chicken. And, so, it was speculated that this was how I contracted diphtheria.

The symptoms of this illness were difficulty in breathing, high fever and a sore throat. I did not know the word for breathing, so I complained to Mama. "Mama, I can't go like this!" I wheezed as I labored to breathe. The first doctor that saw me misdiagnosed my condition. However, when Dr. Orien Dalton initially saw me, he knew it was diphtheria.

I was hospitalized until I was better. The one thing I remember about the hospital was my first encounter with a hamburger. One night Daddy brought a hamburger to Mama for supper. When Mama unwrapped the still-steaming sandwich, and unfamiliar, yet mouth water aroma tantalizingly flooded my sense of smell.  "What's that?" I asked Mama excitedly. "It's called a hamburger," she answered. While passing me a generous portion, she said, "Try a piece."  Well, that was just the most wonderful food I had ever tasted. It was unfortunate I could not eat much solid food at that time. I felt as though I could eat at least five of those savory sandwiches all by myself.

After returning home from the hospital, my ordeal was not yet over. I had to remain in bed, and the entire house was quarantined. Mama and Daddy stayed, but Grandma, Carol and Lorita were forced to leave in order to stay with Mama's parents, who lived just down the road. After a while, I was allowed visitors inside the house, but not inside my room. Lorita was one year old then. I remember Mama would lay a chair down across the entrance of my bedroom so we could see each other. Loreet, (my sister's nickname) meanwhile, would try to crawl through the chair to play with me. She would reach toward me with her little hands and cry out of frustration.

The time finally arrived when I could leave the bed and then eventually go outside. God had healed me through a young doctor named Orien E.  Dalton. By the mercy of God I had my while life ahead of me again. I was certain my relatives prayed for my healing, but at four years of age, I knew very little about our great and almighty God. It would not be until the age of 32 that I would realize God's powerful healing grace throughout my life. 
 
Chapter 4

Well, many are called, but few are chosen. I would neither be a missionary priest nor a diocesan one. That summer, only a few weeks after I graduated, I was stricken with an emotional illness. I feel that it was God telling me He had not chosen me to become a priest. Realizing that once a seminarian became mentally ill, he was never allowed to pursue the priesthood any longer. I was completely devastated and that made my emotional start worse.

I spent about two months at the state mental hospital in Pinesville, Louisiana. My stay there was a most horrifying experience. After I was there a couple of days, I ran into Timmy. Timmy was a cousin who married one of Mama’s sister. I had just come to the hospital a couple of weeks before with my aunt, Nora. We had come to visit her husband, Timmy. You talk about coincidence! But was that one? Timmy was just as sedated as I was, and he had very little to say. That did not offer very much encouragement. I did not understand what was happening to me.

To amuse themselves (David was now a patient at the same mental institution) late at night, the technicians would drag me out of bed, and antagonize me into wrestling and fighting with them. They had themselves a good old time taking turns manhandling me, and tossing my heavily drugged body around like a big rag doll. Once, when I was tied down to my bed, wrists and ankles, two patients came into my room. One was an older man with a pot belly, and the other was a teenager. They were supposed to be on a laundry run. Well, they took turns slapping me in the face until they became bored. When they left my face was covered with blood.

The absolute worst ordeal I went through was those series of electrical shock treatment I was forced to undergo. Back then, in 1965, shock treatments were administered in its early, crude form. A considerable amount of voltage was used. I rode a small bus with other patients to where the so-called “treatments” were performed. There was a look of fear in everyone’s eyes during the bus ride, and no one spoke a word as we were being hauled to hell.

We always arrived at the shocking center much too soon. Inside, they strapped me down securely on a table. I do not recall [them] ever giving me any sedatives—they may have. In any case, I was always awake and aware of everything going on around me. There was a long row of tables with a hapless victim atop of each one. The torturers started on one end with that cursed machine of theirs, and worked their way toward the other end. When they were two beds from me I would turn my head slightly, and witness this horrendous spectacle. I would see them hold the electrodes on either side of the unfortunate sufferers’ head. They would then turn on the switch of that fiendish instrument. The poor person that was being electrocuted would immediately go into uncontrollable convulsions.

This horrifying scene reminded me of the way those chickens writhed and tossed in agony after Grandma had cut their heads off so we could have them for dinner. As the electricity shot through the pulsating patient, it seemed that his body would levitate above the table at times. The patient could not scream to vent some of the pain, because a large, rubber mouthpiece had been installed inside his mouth to prevent him biting off his own tongue.

By the time the “electrocutioners” got to me, I was in an extreme state of terror. I moaned and sobbed loudly as I rolled my head from side to side in a pool of my own tears. I knew how excruciating the pain would be, but I was helpless to do anything. All I could do was stiffen my entire body in anticipation of that dreadful, initial surge. I bit down hard on my mouthpiece, tightly closed my eyes and hoped and prayed that I would live through yet another one those tortuous shocking sessions.

When I got zapped, all I could do was grunt and squeal. The pain from this inhumane shocking of my brain was truly unbearable. Thanks be to God that I would fall into a state of unconsciousness before I suffered too long. On the bus ride back our quarters I felt like a limp, lifeless dish rag. For the longest, tormenting hours, I was forced to endure the most severe headache imaginable. What seemed like many days afterwards, when my condition had improved some, I was given the liberty to walk around the grounds. It was a blessed relief that those shivering shock treatments had finally come to an end. I sincerely enjoyed my newly found freedom. I felt almost like a human being again. While walking I started getting in touch with the spiritual part of myself. In my young life I had never really done this before, even when I was in the seminary.

This spirituality began to grow bigger and bigger until one day I was convinced that I was Jesus Christ. I suppose I had gotten in touch with the real Jesus within myself, but I had gone to extremes. I became obsessed with finding a priest with whom I could discuss all of this. I wanted to ask a priest whether I was Jesus Christ. After wandering around the entire day, I finally came upon the chapel, and the priest who ministered to the patients at the hospital. “Father,” I asked him in dismay, “Am I Jesus Christ?” In a kind, gentle voice, he replied, “No, my son. You are not Jesus Christ.” A great burden was lifted from my soul at that moment.

One day, by the grace of God, I was released from the mental hospital and allowed to return home. However, for about two months I was like a zombie. I had neither the inclination nor the energy to do anything. All I did was watch television all day and all night. One day, praise the Lord, I just snapped out of my deep depression and rejoined the human race. I had truly been blessed by God. I was touched by His healing grace.

This is a true story. David was first hospitalized for mental illness when he was 16, and diagnosed as a manic depressive. He spent a number of years in and out of mental institutions. His depressison is controlled with the medication Lithium. In his book God is the center of David's existence, who he talks about more than he does his wife, who suffers the same illness. He used a pen name to protect his privacy.
 
The Extraordinary Life an An Ordinary Man is self published© by David Delahoussaye, 1999-2000, printed by Princess Press, Austin, Texas. photo by dorothy charles banks