***** For Readers who have been with this blogject since the beginning this is a unique post. All the way back in the Rules post I mentioned I had been grappling with whether to tell the story thematically where I could jump all around my personal history out of order, or whether to write it chronologically. This post was the primary reason why I made the decision to write it chronologically. There is a piece of information that I need to hit the Reader viscerally. I want a chemical change to occur in the brain. The mood I am going for is: Dread/Doom/Terror. I have seeded the first 30 posts with a particular theme again and again and again I keep mentioning how the success of the show had been withheld. I harp on it constantly. This post is what I’m trying to set up. It is my hope that as a writer I made the right execution, but often when you cut together a film a year later all the scenes you string together sometimes the jump scare/punchline you’re going for works and other times it falls flat. You are almost certainly going to know this moment when it arrives in the narrative but because I’m me and looking for specific feedback (all other feedback is allowed too!) I want to know if this moment in the narrative delivers the pop or not. I will place a giant red asterisk

*

after the moment. If any readers who have been following the material closely find that this moment flies or flops for them I would appreciate data to see whether I just wasted the last year of my life unnecessarily or not. Thank you. This message will not appear in later drafts.*****

THE HOLY GHOST

They had brought her to the front of the church… in her wheelchair.

She had some rare disease that doctors were frustrated to even identify. The whole church had her on our prayer lists for years. Everyone had sympathy for the family and many, many, many prayers would be prayed for her well-being over the years as her health would get better and than setback after setback.

But this day, she had been brought to the front of the church during the service and a special prayer was prayed for her by the church elders.

This was my understanding of what it meant to be sick as a Christian.

You get sick– REALLY sick– and the church will pray for you.
They will prioritize you.

You will have hands lain upon you and all the Mercies of God will be called upon as a hundred families join in unison to beseech God Almighty to stop His shenanigans with rotating the earth and keeping His eye on the sparrow and that the power of these prayers and the community of love that prayed them would prove that their God was a God of Mercy and Miracles and Compassion.

That the Fellowship and Unity of this Church– this extension of God’s Holy Spirit– where The Church is now the living embodiment of God, God’s presence is right in this building with this congregation and they have the depth of their faith to trust that God in His wisdom would heal this beautiful child so she could be freed from medical prison and live a good life.

And she would get better some time later! It works!

PRAISE JESUS!

As I left the hospital and returned back to my normal life, I suspected that at my first Sunday back in church this is the fate that inevitably awaited me.

I was certain, based on prior behavior, that my religious parent must have blown up the prayer chain with worries about my health problems. And that dozens– maybe even hundreds– of people were almost certainly praying for me to get better! There hadn’t too many other kids that got seriously ill in the years I was at this small neighborhood church. And so my being sick was a rare event and I guess I have to be prepared to be the center of attention while people physically lay hands on me and vocally pray for my healing and well-being as they call out to god.

RIGHT?!?

My first Sunday back, ready to do the sound and lights and the thing that I notice is that absolutely nobody is approaching me, talking to me, even looking at me.

I see an elder I know and I start to approach and he sees me coming and this unfamiliar look on his face appears where every Sunday prior for 6 years since we had moved to California this elder had smiled and always engaged me in conversation… he intentionally avoids me by seeing someone else and pretending he needed to talk to them about something… but he side eyes me as he’s talking to the other person in a way that’s odd.

An important thing to consider is that I was one of the main two dozen kids at this church. Like reliably always there. Never missed a Sunday. Never missed Youth Group. Always did the lighting for the worship band… this was my second home.

I knew everybody. I was the kid that they would get to read the Bible verses on Easter when they wanted the innocent children to stand on the stage and one by one take turns reading verses… I got larger amounts of text. I was that kid. The one that was an obnoxiously quick learner and could parrot and be the puppet.

And while I never really enjoyed being the center of attention for religious stuff I did like performing. So… as much as I don’t really want to have hands lain on me or be prayed for my healing, I can probably rely on my performance ability to fake it. I’ll just have to gut it out for Jesus.

The service starts. I slide my light faders one by one for whatever solemn hymn/pop song is being sung (probably something about how Jesus is the Shepherd and We are The Sheep sung un-ironically)… it won’t be long now… Usually after the first worship set the associate pastor or some other elder will stand and lead a prayer before the pastor delivers a sermon. That will be the moment. That’s when they’ll call me up.

Get ready.

Tuck in shirt in the control booth.

Look at some metal thing hoping the reflection will show nothing in my teeth in case I have to fake smile.

Final song done…

the elder is approaching the stage…

this is the moment…

And then…

Nothing.

The elder gets up and does the standard prayer and the pastor takes the stage as the worship band members all take their seats.

What the frick?!?

That’s… weird.

Huh.

Well, maybe they’ll do it AFTER the sermon…

Dear Readers, do you think they did it after the sermon?

I’ll give you 3 guesses.

I would not be called to the front of church for a special healing prayer for my sickness.

Not that day.

Or any other day.

For the next 30 years.

This is the story of:

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN NOBODY CARES THAT YOU’RE SICK & DYING

This kind of shook me.

Wait. Wasn’t I just in a hospital for a whole week?

Didn’t my religious parent call every single person she knew in church and every state we’ve ever lived in to work those phone lines for healing intercession?

It’s weird… why won’t anyone look me in the eyes? Why am I getting scowls? Or people that were once friends are now avoiding.

WHERE ARE THE HUGS?!?

It wasn’t rude. It wasn’t even overt. Nobody made a show of it. It was the subtlest thing ever. Where I wasn’t sure if something had changed or not. Maybe I’m just perceiving things differently… maybe it’s the new medication I’m on? But, I’m not getting a lick of interest for why I wasn’t here the Sunday before. And every time I would ever stay home sick for a week the other kids would remark, “good to see you back/why weren’t you here/etc”

This time?

Crickets.

And all the smiles I used to see every Sunday? All the pats on the head for being the GoldenChild™… nothing. Do you know what it’s like to be used to being in an environment that is an extension of your family and to expect and rely upon the idea that these people LOVE YOU.

And then when you most need them…

that community of love…

it fails to materialize.

How is this possible?

I have the Holy Spirit in me.

I’m SavedDave™.

I’m one of you all!

Where is the loving kindness?

Where are the tender mercies?

Where is the love being poured into me?

WHO IS GOING TO ANOINT ME GOSHDANGIT?

It was amazing how quickly– like a switch being turned off– the reception I got after being in the hospital.

Back then the concept of “ghosting” wasn’t a term, but certainly that is the way that Fricking Evangelicals™ shun you.

With the JayDubs and the Mormons and the Scientologists and all the other cults, there is a clear tactic of shunning. I have friends that were shunned by the JWs and Mormons when they were teens and ended up being kicked out of the home and being homeless. And when they and I have discussed our different experiences with shunning… theirs was more clear. It was instantaneous and easy to understand.

It was traumatic and abusive and awful, but at least you knew what was happening. It was honest and truthful instead of hidden and deceptive.

With Fricking Evangelical™ shunning it is a very, very different tactic.

Evangies ghost you.

They slowly stop showing interest.

It’s not official.

There are no orders from on high or labels of “suppressive persons”.

They just kinda start avoiding you.

They call less.

The conversations at church are shorter.

People are conveniently busy when you want to talk.

It’s 1993 and I have no idea that the church does not believe that mental illness is a thing. And they actually believe that I am either demon possessed or a massively fricked up sinner. I won’t know this for some time to come yet.

Because the important thing to remember here is I AM NOT MENTALLY ILL. That’s for crazy people. And I’m clearly not one of those I HAVE THE HOLY SPIRIT IN ME. I was just stressed! But the people at church don’t know that!

Surely, I can score some free sympathy love bombs, eh?

All these families who I’ve been to the homes of and played with their kids and broken bread and gone to summer bible camp with and VBS with are all waiting for me to come home from the hospital so they can shower me with love and affection so that I can heal (even though I don’t need it).

And yet… that’s… not… happening.

Huh.

It’s like the hospital.

I get why they don’t allow flowers and cards and teddy bears because you might strangle yourself or slash your wrists in the hospital with a stuffed animal or get well card.

But… but SURELY ONCE YOU GET OUT PEOPLE WILL CARE ABOUT YOU AND SHOW YOU LOVE SO YOU CAN HEAL.

Right?

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT?!?

Surely a modern church proclaiming the love of God Almighty and the power of Jesus Christ where every member is filled with the Holy Spirit will bestow their love upon me for all I’ve done for them when I get sick… right?

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Well… uh… maybe they forgot?

Or maybe my religious parent told them to not make a big deal out of it.

They did call all of them, didn’t they?

Didn’t? They?

Well, maybe next week will be the week they’ll care.

Foreshadowing Narrator: They would not care the next week either.

And I will start learning something in my oblivious denial…

People don’t talk about this illness.

Not. one. bit.

Wanna know how many get well cards I’ve received in 30 years?

Wanna know how many times Fricking Evangelicals™ have showered me with prayers and healing and flowers and meal trains and gofundmes?

In 30 years I’ve never seen it.

Not. Ever.

Not. One. Single. Time.

Not for me or any other patient with these life threatening illnesses.

But in the flow of this story… my illness is maybe 10 days old here.

Surely my church will care about me, right?

I’ve got the Holy Spirit in me, right?

I’m SavedDave™!

You love me, right?

Right?

Unbeknownst to me, something is happening in my brain at this precise moment of God’s Perfect Comedic Timing™.

That little pill called Paxil is starting to upload into my noggin. This new miracle drug.

Today, antidepressants come with a warning that you may be at risk of having a rebound suicide attempt in the first few weeks after starting SSRI’s.

In fact, there would be a scandal that would occur around the issues of prescribing SSRI’s– and specifically Paxil– to teenagers.

BUT NOBODY KNEW THIS YET IN NOVEMBER 1993.

This. drug. was. brand. new.

There would be a clinical study the following year that… uh… well…

How about you click on that article a couple lines down?

And then remember, I was prescribed this drug in November 1993.

Look at the dates on this trial.

And please… if you care about Dave… spend 2 minutes jumping down this rabbit hole:

Study 329

Go ahead… I’ll wait…

Did you read the part about the fraud?

*nods slowly while peeling an apple with a pocketknife*

So, here’s where things get tricky.

Because my memory is utterly shattered of the events of these next 3 weeks of my life. The order of things is jumbled. And so I am going to not care about order… I’m going for narrative.

And if I get some of the order wrong well… SO DID THE SYNOPTIC GOSPELS.

And if the Infallible Bible™ can get things out of order then surely I’m allowed to, right God?

This is the Whale Vomit story you wanted me tell, remember?

In 2004 the FDA will issue a black box warning that the drug Paxil should not be prescribed to adolescents.

A thing that would not be known in November 1993– because SSRI’s were so new– is that many, many young patients were dying from these drugs.

Gather round, sheep….

*eats slice of apple off pocketknife blade*

… See when someone attempts suicide, in the days and weeks after that event the patient is typically completely wrecked in terms of executive function and mood disorder.

These are the two basic parts of the behavioral brain functioning system: Executive Function and Mood.

Executive Function is how you decide what to eat for breakfast every morning. It’s how you decide to to take a shower or clean your room. Tie your shoes.

Mood is how you feel. And your behaviors that stem from mood. I’m feeling happy so I hug my cat.

In both cases of getting breakfast and hugging the cat the brain is making behavioral decision but for very different reasons.

With Major Depression… the mood crashes. And the behavioral elements that are affected by the feeling of Depression are in play. This is why we don’t shower. Don’t eat. Lay around. The mood of the Depression is so intense it overwhelms the brain. And it dominates and kills your Executive Function. So you can’t make decisions. (It’s why it’s been hard to write the blog for the last few months for me.)

AND MAKING DECISIONS IS AN IMPORTANT PART OF SUICIDE.

You can’t kill yourself unless you have a plan.

Even an impulse is a plan.

Ohthere’sabusjumpinfrontofit!

Instantaneous plan.

But a plan nonetheless.

When you have attempted suicide you are usually so intensely depressed afterwards that your mood level of Depression is like 107 on a scale of 1 to 10.

And super duper depressed people who have just tried to kill themselves are typically unlikely to do it again because their Executive Function is now shattered.

This is actually a good thing.

We don’t want Depressed people to keep trying.

But there’s a problem.

This new drug Paxil is really good at bringing back the Executive Function of the brain. Good, right? We want the Executive Function to come back. That’s what the drug is supposed to do.

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT.

That 107 on scale of 1 to 10 level Depression… that hasn’t really gotten better yet. The Mood Disorder is not keeping pace with the Executive Function.

And so my 107 Depression is still completely bottomed out. BUT MY EXECUTIVE FUNCTION IS CAPABLE OF MAKING PLANS AGAIN.

Which means… I am dangerously unstable.

I really should probably be in a hospital for a whole month, but this is the USA and FRICK YOU, MENTALLY ILL SICK PERSON. This is the country of fast cars, fast food, fast genocide, and fast healing! You gotta get back to work after all. This country don’t like moochers.

And so here is a 16 year old kid… who has just been prescribed Paxil… an SSRI that can increase suicidal behavior, but you read the Study 329 stuff, right?

IT IS ILLEGAL TO PRESCRIBE THIS DRUG TO ADOLESCENTS NOW.

And. I. am. one. of. the. reasons. why.

It is around 2-3 weeks after my first attempt… and the Paxil has titrated up.

And guess what?

Focus called.

They want you again.

Drive down to Burbank.

Through the front doors.

Hey there’s a new celebrity with Marc Grau on the wall!

I can not remember which happens first.

The session.

Or the 2nd attempt/hospitalization.

But I will walk into this session suffering from an affliction known as:

I’m about to kill myself and I really love these people.

And we’re recording.


Adventures In Odyssey: Episode 262: A Prayer for George Barclay
Adventures In Odyssey: Episode 264: Making the Grade

I recall it was a double session I think? And I have absolutely no memory of any of the content of these episodes. I am literally a medicated fricking zombie. I have just had a suicide attempt a couple weeks earlier and largely am still in that head space.

It also could be that the second hospitalization occurs between two sessions? I literally have no clue.

I remember having another attempt and being hospitalized.

AND I REMEMBER BEING TERRIFIED THAT I COULD DIE AT ANY MOMENT BECAUSE THE PAXIL IS MAKING ME UNSTABLE AS FRICK.

AND I REMEMBER HAVING THE OVERWHELMING URGE TO TELL HAL SMITH THAT I LOVED HIM LIKE A GRANDFATHER.

I remember being really worried around the second attempt, which makes me think it happened AFTER the hospitalization. It would make more sense that the second attempt spooked the crap outta me and I might have been more enthusiastic and vocal about what was happening to me.

But it could also have been prior because I’d wanted to tell him for years. I loved the man. To me this was my family. I spent more time in my life with Hal Smith than I did my own Grandma who lived in Tennessee. And not being prepared for the industry… and nobody ensuring I had professionals around me to protect my emotional understanding… I deeply deeply loved AND STILL DO the people that I worked with.

And I was legit terrified that I might die. I’m unstable. Paxil is making pharmaceutical history in my brain while these episodes are being recorded.

I’m worried I’m going to kill myself.

And there’s Hal.

And he needs to know how I feel before I die.

I waited until it was just the two of us. I was never very good saying things that were deeply emotional for real. For pretend? That’s easy. But real emotions? There’s a reason this kid is killing himself. I’m a broken mess. My psychology is shattered.

Finally… I think it was a two episode day… so somewhere towards the end of the day the moment occurs.

It’s just me and Hal in the greenroom in the Lounge of Legends.

“Hal…?”

He looked up and smiled.

I don’t remember the full blurt out… but I remember saying…

“I love you like my grandfather.”

And Hal Smith said to Dave Griffin

“I know.”

It was not Han Solo being dipped into carbonite smugly taunting the Princess.

It was a man from an era where you never said those words.

Because you never needed to.

The people you love KNOW you love them.

It doesn’t need to be said.

And this is what he’s teaching me in my moment of bonkers instability.

It’s okay kid.
You don’t need to tell me cuz I already know.
And right back at ya.
Love you, too.

That was the “I know”.

And I’ll never forget it.

In my heart I believe this event took place AFTER the second hospitalization. But for the purposes of this narrative I’m going to place this conversation before what I am now about to write.

If this was a memoir I would end it here. On the sentimental note where Dave Griffin and Hal Smith have just told each other they love each other after 7 years of working together. It tugs at all the heart strings. In no way would you EVER WANT TO BURY SUCH AN AMAZING MOMENT OF HUMAN EXPRESSION OF LOVE IN THE MIDDLE OF A BLOG POST.

BUT. THIS. IS. NOT. A. MEMOIR.
THIS. IS. ART. AS. A. WEAPON.

Because… this next part needs its own time to breathe in the head of the reader.

2nd attempt.
&
2nd hospitalization.
(in the span of 3 weeks)

It was late at night again.

It’s always at night.

I would be taken to a different hospital with no pool table.

It will be here in this second hospital when God’s Perfect Comedic Timing™ will completely destroy my life.

I maybe could have gotten better if people understood the problems with Paxil then and understanding SSRI rebound and whatnot.

But in December of 1993 nobody knows about any of that.

And so not only am I making medical history by having a rebound suicide attempt as an adolescent on Paxil 3 weeks after starting taking it…

But I also am about to enter into a conundrum that to the best of my knowledge only one person on earth has ever experienced.

(If you can find any other person on the face of the Earth who has gone through this please have them email me so we can start a support group for people who go through these things.)

A thing to understand about psychiatric hospitals and acute care is that the attending psychiatrists do not have much time to spend with patients.

When you first go into a psychiatric hospital a doctor will asses you and attempt, if you do not have a diagnosis, to give you a rudimentary diagnosis to get you prescribed on a course of medication to help you out of your problem.

1993 is an interesting time in psychiatry. There is beginning to be a greater understanding of the divisions between depression and manic depression– in 1993 this has been given a relatively new name Bipolar. They don’t know about type 1/2 yet. As you’ll soon see.

The identification of illnesses is growing. But sometimes the overlap of symptoms during this era makes misdiagnosis a constant.

And in a hospital setting the attending psychiatrist shows up once/twice a week. Maybe there’s a rotating psych on call for the weekend. But these psychs take care of the whole wing. All 20-some patients. And the psych is only here for 2 hours.

How much time is that per patient?

And so it’s not unusual for patients to sit with a psych for <5 minutes be given a quick diagnosis and a prescription scribbled on a pad will be handed to the nurses station when you’re done.

These psychiatrists, I genuinely feel for them. This work is s***. The patients are pissed. Or in denial. Or give them the runaround. Or are catatonic. It’s thankless work for sure.

What happens next is not the fault of… the Doctor.

What happens next is the fault of…

Focus on the Family™ & Adventures In Odyssey™ Production Teams.

This will be the moment that really changes my life forever.

The first thing a Psych will tend to do is give a basic assessment.

They’ll do this by asking you a series of questions to assess your memory function, your state of reality/delusion, do you have cognitive issues, etc. So the questions are pretty basic and boring and seemingly not intended to trip you up.

But when you’ve just had a second suicide attempt (I’m still technically healing from the first one btw) and have the double shock of realizing those meds did not magically solve the problem THAT DOESN’T EXIST… and now the PROBLEM THAT DOESN’T EXIST IS SEEMING TO EXIST RATHER HARD RIGHT NOW… makes it hard to think.

My brain is fricking mashed potatoes at this point. Answering questions is difficult. My words are scrambled. Not thinking clearly. Hard to talk.

ALSO. TOTALLY SUICIDAL AND I DON’T REALLY CARE SO I’M NOT PAYING ATTENTION…

There’s a LOT of stuff happening in my head as this conversation plays out.

The conversation I am about to write you goes far smoother than the real one.

What’s the date?

December 1993.

What city do you live in?

Claremont, CA.

Who is the President of the United States?

Bill Clinton.

Can you name the president before him?

George Bush.

Keep going…

Reagan, Carter, Ford, Nixon, Johnson, Kennedy, Eisenhower, Roosevelt

Okgood. How old are you?

16.

What year in school?

Sophomore
(remember my religious parent held me back so I was technically a year older than my grade).

Then the questions shift to the here and now.

How are you sleeping?

How are you eating?

How is school?

Do you have any hobbies?

Play sports?

It was a nothing question.
I shoulda just said nothing.

Instead I say…

I’m an actor.

Oh? The theater. That’s lovely.

No, on the radio.

What do you mean “on the radio”?

I’m an actor on a radio show.

*psychiatrist eyebrow furrows*

You are saying you are an actor on the radio?

Yes.

In real life?

Yes I just recorded this week.

What is your show called?

Adventures in Odyssey.

I’ve never heard of it...

Nobody has apparently.

You’re on the radio right now?

Yeah. Probably.
(it was late at night which confused him more)

Where? What city?

Um… all of them I think.

Here in Greater LA all the cities?


Well, yeah… but, I meant around the world.

You are an actor on the radio all over the world?
You must be famous.

I guess so.

You have fans?

Yeah.

Do you get fan mail?

*blinks*

*blinks again*

W-What… was… the question?

*

*mouth dry as frick*

Do. You. Get. Fan. Mail?

Uhhh….

You have fans they must send you fan mail.

Uhhhhh… well I don’t get the fan mail.

**His tone is changing. He’s scribbling in his pad. He’s shifted in his chair.**

I’m too tired to process what’s happening at first.

And then it happens.

The moment in my life God ACTUALLY abandons me.

The Psychiatrist now starts challenging me.
His inner detective has suddenly spied a red flag.

Actors are on tv. Stage. Not radio.

This is an oldtimey kinda thing. Like in the old days. Radio theater. With voices. You hear the acting.

Are you hearing these voices now?

What?

The voices. Are you hearing these voices now?

What??! No. No, no, no, no. I work in Voiceover. I work with actors that play cartoons. I know the cartoon guys.

The cartoon guys are your friends?

Yeah.

Do you see these cartoons?

All the time.

Are they in this room right now?

What? No. Uh what do you mean?

Are you hearing the voices right now? Do you see the cartoons here?

No. I’m… NOOOOOOOOOOO.

No you’re not understanding.

This is a real thing.

I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP.

The Doctor is staring straight into my brain.

I am the most fascinating patient this man has had all month.

If your show plays all over the world…

it must play here in LA.

I’m sure it does.

And here it is… the precise moment being Jimmy Barclay destroyed my life.

What station?

What?

What station does your show play on here in L.A.?

Uhhh….

He sets down the pad and crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.

He’s sure of himself now.

What station does the show you act on play on the radio?

I… I… don’t know.

please god don’t do this to me

Do you know what day and time your show is on?

No. Please. I swear this is real.

When is your show on?

I. don’t. know.

Have you ever heard of the term Delusions of Grandeur?

Yes, I have and this is real I SWEAR.

You are telling me you are famous…
But you get no fan mail.

You are telling me you are on radio stations all over the world…
But you can not name a single one.

How long have you been on this show?

Since I was 10.

For YEARS?!?

You’ve been on a show for years and don’t know anything about it?

If you’ve been on a show for years you must be rich.

Are you rich?

PLEASE GOD DON’T DO THIS.

No. I’m not rich.

Dear Readers… remember how my entire journey in suicide was literally partly because I had recently worked with Earl Boen?

And Earl Boen’s most famous character role?

Playing the Psychiatrist who DID NOT BELIEVE Sarah Connor is being chased by robots from the future.

And I want you to imagine the one of a kind irony as I’m literally– I had just worked with him a month earlier and I can’t stop playing the scene in my head from the first film where he thinks she’s crazy and is belittling her.

And the same thing is happening to me right now.

BUT THIS IS NOT A MOVIE.

THIS IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING TO THE ACTOR WHO PLAYED JIMMY BARCLAY.

All the ways that Focus withheld proof of success of the show are now destroying me.

I can’t prove a fricking thing.

And the internet does not exist in 1993. There is no googling this and seeing my picture pop up in dozens of websites. There is no Wikipedia article about me (sadly now taken down by someone mean). There are no cell phones.

In 1993 I’m still not even being credited on the show itself. Never. The only way you know who I am is if you went to Pomona and saw my picture with my name next to it in person.

And to the best of my knowledge they never had a pic of me in Colorado.

For reasons that become clear very soon.

But I don’t exist.

The show doesn’t exist.

Remember, bumping into Rodney Rathbone in the first hospital IS THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE I EVER ENCOUNTERED ANY TRACE OF AIO IN REAL LIFE.

And this Doctor sees right through my obvious attempts to lie to him to hide my severe illness.

I’m just like every other surly teen who lies to him. Who is delusional.

And because this doctor does not yet know and understand the problem with my suicide attempt is actually Paxil annihilating my grey matter… he thinks it’s because I’ve been misdiagnosed.

I’m not suffering from Major Depressive Disorder.

He thinks I’m Bipolar and Schizoeffective.

And he yanks me off Paxil… and puts me on Lithium and Resperdol.

In under a month I have been placed on Paxil, had it titrate up into my brain, had it cause a massive suicidal event, and now without any bothering to wean off– an entirely new chemical cocktail is going to be the new plan.

This decision ends my childhood.

This decision functionally would end my education.

This decision would nearly kill me a year later.

God. did. not. stop. this. decision. from. happening.

God Almighty…

After 6 years of literally thankless and rewardless service doing a show to spread His Glory around the world…

God allows the Actor who played Jimmy Barclay to be misdiagnosed specifically BECAUSE HE PLAYED JIMMY BARCLAY.

Let me say it another way…

If I had NEVER played that part…

Then even if everything else happens the same way and I end up in front of this same Psych having just been regular Dave and never been an actor…

The decision that Doc probably makes is to switch me to a much safer anti-depressant.

The diagnosis wouldn’t change.

But BECAUSE I had done the show…

BECAUSE all evidence of success of the show had been withheld…

BECAUSE I had this part of my life that literally drove me mad because I could never prove it to anyone…

A month earlier God gave me an Actor in the hospital to show me how much He loved me.

Odyssey protected me.

Here God ghosts me.

Just like His followers.

God Almighty just sits back and watches

while Dave Griffin’s

brain

and life

and future career

get annihilated

because I had played Jimmy Barclay.

And that omnipotent motherfucker was just fine with that.