Electroboy craves Coke

Electroboy craves Coke. The drink, that is. Not that I haven't been addicted to cocaine at one point in my life, but I've always had this horrible addiction to Coke, specifically Diet Coke. So bubbly. So caffeinated.

Sometimes I think I can drink six or eight or ten of them in a day, but I generally write this off to my obsessive compulsive disorder. And the drink definitely speeds me up - makes me work more efficiently, more productively and more creatively. "Coke adds life, and everybody wants a little Coke." That's what they say in America.

I even demanded Diet Coke in the psychiatric hospital. But to no avail. They just didn't have it there. So, I begged my parents and friends and doctors who visited me in the loony bin to bring Diet Coke. Nothing else - no magazines, no books, no chocolates and definitely no flowers. I found flowers in a hospital a constant reminder of my suicide attempts and my funeral.

I was admitted to hospital on April 10, 1995. It was probably the gloomiest day in American history, as I was at the end of my rope and the only alternative I saw to my manic depressive cycles was putting a plastic bag over my head, or being really daring and just blowing my brains out with a gun. But I opted for electroshock therapy, more commonly called ECT (electroconvulsive therapy). For some reason, ECT seemed to have a happy ring.

I had a history of what the doctors called "rapid cycling" - tremendous euphoria and desperate lows. When I was really high, I would jump on a plane at JFK in New York and fly off to Fiji to sun myself on a gorgeous pink beach. After about an afternoon of "soaking up the rays," I found myself bored to tears, and would hop on a flight to a big city like Tokyo, which is where I ultimately got busted for counterfeiting the art work of a well known American artist named Mark Kostabi (and that landed me, the golden boy from the suburbs of New Jersey, in the slammer). But when I was really low, all I could do was lay in bed, watch television, talk on the telephone and drink Diet Coke. The constant "cycling" was driving me insane and the psychiatrists all believed that ECT would put an end to these cycles. I put my life in the hands of these silver-haired doctors.

The day after I check into Gracie Square Hospital in Manhattan, I'm waiting in a hallway outside the operating room with a bunch of about ten or so other depressed souls, schizophrenic crack-ups, manic depressive freaks and confused Alzheimer patients who come in an assortment of colours, shapes and sizes. I'm sitting next to an elderly woman who is gabbing non-stop about her psychiatric history (moments before I'm about to be jolted with 200 volts of electricity). Her name is Lena, and she tells me that she was diagnosed with depression more than ten years ago. She has dark circles under her eyes. She claims that ECT has saved her life. I'm only hoping it's going to save mine and it's not going to cause me any pain.

"You've got nothing to be worried about," she says. "It's like going to the dentist," she adds. But I look down at the palms of my hands and my skin looks grey and pale and I can only focus on the blue and green veins criss-crossing the inside of my forearms and wrists. Why do I feel like I'm about to die? Maybe because the man being wheeled out of the operating room looks dead. But there is no more medication to sedate me and make me like everybody else. ECT will hopefully save me, at least that's what Dr Wallenstein tells me.

Michael, a guy roughly thirty years old, leans towards me and tells me that this is his fifth treatment and that "Dr. Wallenstein is a pro." I panic. I hope he is, I think to myself.

"Trust me, you won't feel a thing. It's actually kind of cool," he tells me. I thank him and try to imagine how f***ing cool it's going to be. Soon, I hop up on the gurney and am wheeled into the operating room. I wait to be rolled past the swinging doors. I feel as if I'm waiting for either the scariest rollercoaster ride of my life or my own execution. I'm convinced that if I live, my brain will be reduced to a blank Rolodex. I look down at my bare feet. A flawless loafer tan line.

Soon, everyone is hovering over me - Dr Wallenstein, two nurses, an anaesthetist and ten medical students - gawking. Standing room only. I'm thinking about the electric chair and being struck by lightning and joking incessantly to fight off the terror. I'm about to have my goddamn brains jolted with electricity. Am I mad? Is it too late for the call from the governor? No call. The show must go on.

"Got an Amstel Light?" I ask. No response. I give the thumbs-up. An I.V. of Brevital, an anaesthetic, is stuck into my arm, silencing me. The room has a peculiarly sterile smell. I feel like I've just smoked cocaine and drifted high into the clouds and am struggling to stay awake. It's a losing battle; I eventually lose consciousness. But I've been told what will happen: an I.V. of succinylcholine chloride goes in next, relaxing my muscles to prevent broken bones and cracked vertebrae from the seizure that will occur. The nurse sticks a rubber block in my mouth so I don't bite off my tongue, a mask over my nose and mouth so my brain is not deprived of oxygen, and electrodes on my temples. All clear. Dr Wallenstein presses the button. Electric current shoots through my brain for an instant, causing a Grand Mal seizure for twenty seconds. My toes curl. It's over. My brain has been reset like a wind-up toy.

I wake up thinking I'm in a hotel room in Acapulco, feeling like I've had too many Margaritas. My jaws and limbs ache. I'm craving a Diet Coke, which is waiting for me downstairs in my room. When I see my parents and my sister, I'm so elated that I start doing jumping jacks. I've never felt better in my life. I also don't know my middle name. I have lost so much memory in only one hour. We sit around talking (both my mother and my sister are also drinking Diet Coke - very odd), and I ask them all types of questions. Do I have a job? No. Where do I live? Manhattan. Do I have a dog? No. I've forgotten just about everything. That week, I have three more "rounds" of ECT and then return home to recuperate, but later relapse and end up going through the same procedure nineteen more times in the next year.

I'm bed bound. Destined to watch CNN and drink Diet Coke for the rest of my life. It takes literally three years until I'm no longer confused and "in a haze." And I do literally nothing - I can barely shower, shave, feed myself or read a book. Just watch television and drink Diet Coke. Maybe I will become the Coke spokesperson?

And then, miraculously, I start feeling better. I'm not sure what it is. I'm able to go for walks, do simple chores, even write. And all I can think is that it's not the ECT, it's not the medication, it's not the therapy, it's the Coke.

"Coke adds life, and everybody wants a little Coke."