I've spent hundreds of days

in psychiatric hospitals.

I might have ended up spending

most of my life on the back ward of a hospital,

but that isn't how my life turned out.

In fact, I've managed to stay clear of hospitals

for almost three decades,

perhaps my proudest accomplishment.

That's not to say that I've remained clear

of all psychiatric struggles.

After I graduated from the Yale Law School and

got my first law job, my New Haven analyst, Dr. White,

announced to me that he was going to close his practice

in three months, several years

before I had planned to leave New Haven.

White had been enormously helpful to me,

and the thought of his leaving

shattered me.

My best friend Steve,

sensing that something was terribly wrong,

flew out to New Haven to be with me.

Now I'm going to quote from some of my writings:

"I opened the door to my studio apartment.

Steve would later tell me that,

for all the times he had seen me psychotic, nothing

could have prepared him for what he saw that day.

For a week or more, I had barely eaten.

I was gaunt. I walked

as though my legs were wooden.

My face looked and felt like a mask.

I had closed all the curtains in the apartment, so

in the middle of the day

the apartment was in near total darkness.

The air was fetid, the room a shambles.

Steve, both a lawyer and a psychologist, has treated

many patients with severe mental illness, and to this day

he'll say I was as bad as any he had ever seen.

'Hi,' I said, and then I returned to the couch,

where I sat in silence for several moments.

'Thank you for coming, Steve.

Crumbling world, word, voice.

Tell the clocks to stop.

Time is. Time has come.'

'White is leaving,' Steve said somberly.

'I'm being pushed into a grave. The situation is grave,' I moan.

'Gravity is pulling me down.

I'm scared. Tell them to get away.'"

As a young woman, I was in a psychiatric hospital

on three different occasions for lengthy periods.

My doctors diagnosed me with chronic schizophrenia,

and gave me a prognosis of "grave."

That is, at best, I was expected to live in a board and care,

and work at menial jobs.

Fortunately, I did not actually

enact that grave prognosis.

Instead, I'm a chaired Professor of Law, Psychology

and Psychiatry at the USC Gould School of Law,

I have many close friends

and I have a beloved husband, Will, who's here with us today.

(Applause) Thank you.

He's definitely the star of my show.

I'd like to share with you how that happened, and also

describe my experience of being psychotic.

I hasten to add that it's my experience,

because everyone becomes psychotic in his or her own way.

Let's start with the definition of schizophrenia.

Schizophrenia is a brain disease.

Its defining feature is psychosis, or being

out of touch with reality.

Delusions and hallucinations

are hallmarks of the illness.

Delusions are fixed and false beliefs that aren't responsive

to evidence, and hallucinations are false sensory experiences.

For example, when I'm psychotic I often have

the delusion that I've killed hundreds of thousands

of people with my thoughts.

I sometimes have the idea that

nuclear explosions are about to be set off in my brain.

Occasionally, I have hallucinations,

like one time I turned around and saw a man

with a raised knife.

Imagine having a nightmare while you're awake.

Often, speech and thinking become disorganized

to the point of incoherence.

Loose associations involves putting together words

that may sound a lot alike but don't make sense,

and if the words get jumbled up enough, it's called "word salad."

Contrary to what many people think, schizophrenia is not

the same as multiple personality disorder or split personality.

The schizophrenic mind is not split, but shattered.

Everyone has seen a street person,

unkempt, probably ill-fed,

standing outside of an office building muttering

to himself or shouting.

This person is likely to have some form of schizophrenia.

But schizophrenia presents itself across a wide array

of socioeconomic status, and there are people

with the illness who are full-time professionals

with major responsibilities.

Several years ago, I decided

to write down my experiences and my personal journey,

and I want to share some more of that story with you today

to convey the inside view.

So the following episode happened the seventh week

of my first semester of my first year at Yale Law School.

Quoting from my writings:

"My two classmates, Rebel and Val, and I had made the date

to meet in the law school library on Friday night

to work on our memo assignment together.

But we didn't get far before I was talking in ways

that made no sense.

'Memos are visitations,' I informed them.

'They make certain points. The point is on your head.

Pat used to say that. Have you killed you anyone?'

Rebel and Val looked at me

as if they or I had been

splashed in the face with cold water.

'What are you talking about, Elyn?'

'Oh, you know, the usual. Who's what, what's who,

heaven and hell. Let's go out on the roof.

It's a flat surface. It's safe.'

Rebel and Val followed

and they asked what had gotten into me.

'This is the real me,' I announced,

waving my arms above my head.

And then, late on a Friday night, on the roof

of the Yale Law School,

I began to sing, and not quietly either.

'Come to the Florida sunshine bush.

Do you want to dance?'

'Are you on drugs?' one asked. 'Are you high?'

'High? Me? No way, no drugs.

Come to the Florida sunshine bush,

where there are lemons, where they make demons.'

'You're frightening me,' one of them said, and Rebel and Val

headed back into the library.

I shrugged and followed them.

Back inside, I asked my classmates if they were

having the same experience of words jumping around

our cases as I was.

'I think someone's infiltrated my copies of the cases,' I said.

'We've got to case the joint.

I don't believe in joints, but

they do hold your body together.'" --

It's an example of loose associations. --

"Eventually I made my way back to my dorm room,

and once there, I couldn't settle down.

My head was too full of noise,

too full of orange trees and law memos I could not write

and mass murders I knew I would be responsible for.

Sitting on my bed, I rocked back and forth,

moaning in fear and isolation."

This episode led to my first hospitalization in America.

I had two earlier in England.

Continuing with the writings:

"The next morning I went to my professor's office to ask

for an extension on the memo assignment,

and I began gibbering unintelligably

as I had the night before,

and he eventually brought me to the emergency room.

Once there, someone I'll just call 'The Doctor'

and his whole team of goons swooped down,

lifted me high into the air,

and slammed me down on a metal bed

with such force that I saw stars.

Then they strapped my legs and arms to the metal bed

with thick leather straps.

A sound came out of my mouth that I'd never heard before:

half groan, half scream,

barely human and pure terror.

Then the sound came again,

forced from somewhere deep inside my belly

and scraping my throat raw."

This incident resulted in my involuntary hospitalization.

One of the reasons the doctors gave for hospitalizing me

against my will was that I was

"gravely disabled."

To support this view, they wrote in my chart that I was unable

to do my Yale Law School homework.

I wondered what that meant about much of the rest of New Haven.

(Laughter)

During the next year, I would

spend five months in a psychiatric hospital.

At times, I spent up to 20 hours in mechanical restraints,

arms tied, arms and legs tied down,

arms and legs tied down with a net tied

tightly across my chest.

I never struck anyone.

I never harmed anyone. I never made any direct threats.

If you've never been restrained yourself, you may have

a benign image of the experience.

There's nothing benign about it.

Every week in the United States,

it's been estimated that one to three people die in restraints.

They strangle, they aspirate their vomit,

they suffocate, they have a heart attack.

It's unclear whether using mechanical restraints

is actually saving lives or costing lives.

While I was preparing to write my student note

for the Yale Law Journal on mechanical restraints,

I consulted an eminent law professor who was also

a psychiatrist,

and said surely he would agree

that restraints must be degrading,

painful and frightening.

He looked at me in a knowing way, and said,

"Elyn, you don't really understand:

These people are psychotic.

They're different from me and you.

They wouldn't experience restraints as we would."

I didn't have the courage to tell him in that moment that,

no, we're not that different from him.

We don't like to be strapped down to a bed

and left to suffer for hours any more than he would.

In fact, until very recently,

and I'm sure some people still hold it as a view,

that restraints help psychiatric patients feel safe.

I've never met a psychiatric patient

who agreed with that view.

Today, I'd like to say I'm very pro-psychiatry

but very anti-force.

I don't think force is effective as treatment, and I think

using force is a terrible thing to do to another person

with a terrible illness.

Eventually, I came to Los Angeles

to teach at the University of Southern California Law School.

For years, I had resisted medication,

making many, many efforts to get off.

I felt that if I could manage without medication,

I could prove that, after all,

I wasn't really mentally ill, it was some terrible mistake.

My motto was the less medicine, the less defective.

My L.A. analyst, Dr. Kaplan, was urging me

just to stay on medication and get on with my life,

but I decided I wanted to make one last college try to get off.

Quoting from the text:

"I started the reduction of my meds, and within a short time

I began feeling the effects.

After returning from a trip to Oxford, I marched into

Kaplan's office, headed straight for the corner, crouched down,

covered my face, and began shaking.

All around me I sensed evil beings poised with daggers.

They'd slice me up in thin slices

or make me swallow hot coals.

Kaplan would later describe me as 'writhing in agony.'

Even in this state, what he accurately described as

acutely and forwardly psychotic,

I refused to take more medication.

The mission is not yet complete.