It was a bright morning on June 30 when I stepped off the F train near Times Square. I had blisters all over my feet from walking barefoot and was overwhelmed with fear.
(Aug. 12, 2016) It was a bright morning on June 30 when I stepped off the F train near Times Square. I had blisters all over my feet from walking barefoot and was overwhelmed with fear.
As I headed to my apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, I was in the throes of paranoia. I thought evil people were out to get me. As I stared at the towering ads of Times Square, they started to send me subliminal messages.
“Express Yourself,” read the billboard for Express jeans.
I obeyed. I immediately took off my clothes. Being naked, I thought, was the most truthful way of expressing myself. It made me feel safe.
Then, I saw another “sign” — the red glow of the TKTS stairs looked like a red carpet. It beckoned me to the top. After reaching the highest step, I noticed litter on the other side of the banister, so I climbed over.
I noticed figures in blue uniforms coming toward me. They looked evil, and I was convinced they were out to get me, too.
So I leaped from the roof of the ticket booth, 18 feet above the sidewalk, dodging what I later learned was an airbag the rescuers had set up to break my fall.
I hit the ground, but I felt no pain. It felt like I was no longer inside my body.
When I woke in Bellevue Hospital, my feet were shackled and my right wrist was handcuffed to the bed. The other arm was in a cast. I had 13 stitches on my left elbow, where broken bone had pierced skin.
I was moved to a barren room at the hospital’s psychiatric ward. I worked with psychotherapists to determine what had happened.
At first, I didn’t believe I had anything wrong with me. But after meeting my current therapist, I began to understand and accept my diagnosis — I was bipolar, and my nude jaunt was part of a manic episode.
It wasn’t until I got out of Bellevue three weeks later that I saw the front page of The Post with the headline “Ball Drop in Times Square.” I laughed.
That is not to say mental illness is a joke. I am now on medication and go to therapy sessions weekly.
I’m still trying to fix the damage in other parts of my life. Most reactions have been punitive and don’t come from a place of understanding of mental illness. That is why I am going public — to help others with mental illness who battle constant judgments and stigmas. In sharing my experience, I hope to start a dialogue.
I will continue to pursue my career in the arts and in modeling. I’m also learning to love myself, even my mania, because it’s a part of who I am.
KRIT MCCLEAN
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
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