My Week at Club Dread

Today, I’m going to talk about mental health. Don't panic; it's my mental health, not yours— It's not like I'm handing out surprise therapy sessions!

I know. Talking about mental health is not your typical comedy event material.

You might think it's like chatting about root canals in a candy store or speaking about calories over birthday cake. But it's important to talk about it because, back in the day, talking about mental health was taboo. It was like being in Italy and asking for pineapple on your pizza! But we must talk about it to chip away at the stigma.

Forty years ago, I was starring in a soap opera I didn't audition for. This woman thought I'd stolen her boyfriend. She truly believed the man was as handsome as a movie star. Brad Pitt! He was kind of attracted to me but I had no interest in him whatsoever. She was truly obsessed.

At one point, she confronts me. But she didn't just confront me; she stalked me, yelled at me, took a swing at me and for the grand finale, she stole my windshield wipers. Like was this her weird way of challenging me to a duel, or was she just trying to mess me up for the next snowstorm?

Either way, things got so ridiculous I half expected her to demand a sword fight at sunrise. She was clearly acting insane, and her insanity rubbed off on me. Who said that mental illness is not contagious?

By the end, I felt as worn out as a sofa in a room full of cats. I was anxious and depressed. So, I went to a therapist, and she recommended a vacation to reset.

So, I did. But not to Club Med; no, I go to Club Dread, an all-inclusive, grooming-optional, drugs galore psych ward.

To say that the psych ward is a dreary place is like saying that the Sahara Desert is just a little warm.

Entertainment on the ward is non-existent. There is no TV, videos, or music. I guess they figure our personal hallucinations are already the deluxe package. Who needs Netflix?

I was desperate. I was reading the shampoo bottles.

One day, I stumbled across a 1963 LIFE Magazine. Jackpot! There's nothing like vividly reliving the JFK assassination to lighten the mood.

To add insult to injury, my birthday comes up while I am there and, what better way to spend my 30th birthday than at Club Dread?

Picture it: A place where the soundtrack is a mix of yelling, screaming, and the occasional ancient curse. It was like being on the Dufferin bus at peak hour-- on a one-way trip to CAMH.

I try to make friends but all the patients have their own thing going on: some chat to the air with gusto, others glare like they dare you to lock eyes so they'll have an excuse to pounce. On you! These are not party vibes.

Then, just as the mayhem reaches its peak, my sweet parents walk in, holding a birthday cake. Adorable, right? I am mortified. The absolute last thing I want is more attention. For just a moment, I imagine kicking the chaos up a notch. For just a split second, I find myself daydreaming about stripping, covering my body in chocolate icing and streaking down the halls like a sugar-fueled banshee. At least then, I would blend in with the rest of the chaos and earn my stripes. Happy birthday to me. When is this vacation from Hell ever going to end?

I'm desperate to connect with my usual psychiatrist. I make endless requests, convinced it'll help with my "healing and growth"-- or whatever. But no luck. He is on the out-patient side of the hall, and I am stuck in the in-patient lockdown. It's as if they had built the Berlin Wall overnight; they've labelled me a communist, and sneaking across is out of the question.

Naturally, I'm marinating in a cocktail of shame, fear, and fury, wondering, "How long are they going to keep me here?" I’m climbing the walls. As you can imagine, on the ward, there's plenty of time to overthink and you always conjure up horrible scenarios just like when you've been waiting three hours at customs, only to find out you've been standing in the wrong line and you remember there’s a joint in your bag.

Navigating my stay is very hard. If I want to talk to the nurses they are nowhere to be found. The only ones who stop for small talk are the cleaning crew who would drop empathetic pearls like: “Una cerveza por favor” which I thought meant: "Rest up; you won't be here that long." Hey, it isn’t therapy, but it's better than a kick in the teeth.

The real kick in the teeth comes courtesy of the ward's head psychiatrist. We've spoken precisely once, for about as long as it takes to microwave leftovers. He hits me with this gem: "You're manic-depressive and need to go on lithium—for the rest of your life." Excuse me, what? Lithium? You know, you’ve heard the news, the stuff Donald Trump and Elon Musk dream about hoarding from Greenland so Tesla batteries can take over the world. No thanks. Rest of my life? I don’t think so!

Fast forward a few days. I'm back in my room, minding my own business, counting the cracks on the ceiling when, BAM, my nostrils are ambushed by a cloud of tobacco smoke from the designated smoking room. I immediately go to complain, and naturally, I am ignored, as if they think," Cigarette smoke is the least of your problems, girlie."

I feel the fury building in my belly, and before I know it, I'm channelling my inner Norma Rae, grabbing an imaginary picket sign, and rallying the non-smokers. We draft a petition so fierce it might as well have been a declaration of independence-- for fresh air!

With chests puffed out and pens in hand, we triumphantly deliver the petition to the nurses' station, which causes them to react. Two hours after the uprising I am called back to the nurses’ desk.

"You're clearly well enough to leave. Pack your bags."

Apparently, victory smells like second-hand smoke! Hooray!

And that, folks, was Club Dread. A travel destination with as much charm as the waiting room for a colonoscopy exam. Book elsewhere.

Oh, and um by the way…I did end up marrying her boyfriend.