<body><div><figure><img src="https://img.particlenews.com/image.php?type=thumbnail_580x000&amp;url=1GSkq1_0vl7LbT900" alt="https://img.particlenews.com/image.php?url=1GSkq1_0vl7LbT900" width="320" height="214" ></figure>When I ran down the street naked in West Point Grey during a manic psychosis, I had no intention of writing a play about it. I had no intention period. But years later, after police pickups, ambulance rides, and several stays at the psych ward, a solo show was born. My firstborn. Crazy for Life recounts my journey with bipolar disorder. Five others followed. And I thought I didn’t want to have children.I wish the reasons I wrote the piece were more virtuous. They weren’t. I worked as an actor prior to my bipolar disorder, anxiety disorder, and psychosis diagnosis. After my stays at 'Club Medication' (aka the psych ward), I didn’t approach the auditions quite like I used to. I was rather gun-shy about the whole business of acting. I didn't exactly leave at my peak.Before putting pen to paper, I was working as a marketing assistant, but I craved a more creative life. So, I started to write. And write. And write some more. And eventually Crazy for Life materialized, originally titled The Truth Shall Set You Free… but first it’ll piss you off. It was an apt title, but it didn’t fit easily on posters and definitely wasn’t a good sound bite.In retrospect, I realize I created the play for another reason. I wanted, more like needed, to hear other people’s experiences about psych wards and side effects, crap doctors and good doctors, backless gowns and steel gurneys.I hoped talking about my experience would encourage others to tell theirs. I imagined we’d band together, celebrate, and commiserate about what it’s like to be poked and prodded, diagnosed and dismissed, loved and labeled, relapse and recover. And that's exactly what happened.The arts have an amazing capacity to heal both audience and artist. Each show challenges me to, as much as I can, remain in the driver’s seat of my treatment, to shake off my web of internalized shame and continue carve my own road to wellness.I get to smash some of the stigmas that are out there (and more honestly, in here—in me) of what “the mentally ill” look like, of what we are capable. The backhanded compliment: “But you don’t look crazy?” still makes me laugh as well as shake my head.The comedy in the piece offers me a forum to talk about my “Captain Zoloft” experiences with humour, chutzpah and heart, reminding me to live life in the same way.Every show I see something new about my experience, the illness and the art of storytelling. In post-show Q&amp;As, the audience teaches me. I learn about new resources, new strategies for managing a mood disorder. But mostly I learn about the tenacity and heart of being human.I am no longer silent or ashamed. Far from it. I’m out there with pride like Richard Simmons in his satin shorts or RuPaul on the runway. Shame rarely rises within me. But if it does, because others have revealed their stories, I know I’m not alone. The exchange of experiences offers me the gifts of community, purpose, and belonging. Those are as helpful and important to me as my doctor, counselor, and medication. Like a car needs oil and gas, muffler and motor, chassis and driver, I need a mix of strategies, which when combined result in good medicine and my healing.© Victoria Maxwell.</div></body>

Mountain View, CA

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Out There Like RuPaul on the Runway

When I ran down the street naked in West Point Grey during a manic psychosis, I had no intention of writing a play about it. I had no intention period. But years later, after police pickups, ambulance rides, and several stays at the psych ward, a solo show was born. My firstborn. Crazy for Life recounts my journey with bipolar disorder. Five others followed. And I thought I didn’t want to have children.

Out There Like RuPaul on the Runway

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