Long Shot: My Bipolar Life and the Horses Who Saved Me

Dedication

This book is dedicated in fond farewell, and loving memory,

to my mother, Evaliene Fontenette Harris,

U.S. Army veteran.

(16.12.1943–08.10.2010)

ONE DAY

All the flowers that I’ve picked …

all the shells from the sea …

can never ever equal the love you gave to me.

Now as I stand upon this empty shore …

I’m wishing for your arms …

they can’t hold me anymore.

All the scrapes and bruises …

the long teary nights …

you comforted and guided me …

taught me … made me …

stand up and fight …

Now you can rest your tired and weary soul.

Your spirit soars with the sky …

you have stars to hold …

When the wind whispers, and the moon guides my way …

I’ll fall to my knees asking your Angel wings …

to lift me up … be with you … and pray …

Together again … ONE DAY.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Preface

The Race Hawthorne Race Course

The Start Santa Rosa, California

Furlong One Santa Rosa, California

Furlong Two Los Angeles, California

Furlong Three Virginia

Furlong Four Orlando, Florida

Furlong Five Ocala, Florida

Furlong Six The OBS

Furlong Seven Quail Roost II

Furlong Eight Mr. H

Furlong Nine Breezing

Furlong Ten Arlington Park and Hawthorne Race Course

The Finish

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Preface

I am small in stature, barely an inch above five feet. But I can put up a good fight, something I’ve been doing all my life, often with family, friends, and strangers but mostly with myself. I am bipolar and have struggled with it since it surfaced shortly after high school. I ascend to heights of frenetic energy and confidence only to plummet to hellish depths of madness, guided by unseen voices and terrifying hallucinations. Imagine you’re watching a DVD or a video, and you pick up the remote and punch fast-forward. Suddenly, those images flash by in milliseconds. The “screen” of my mind operates in the same fashion. It is in manic phase when I sketch voluminous drawings of people, places, horses. And I’ll sketch them on anything: paper, napkins, walls, wherever I can create. If I’m not sketching, I’m writing volumes and volumes of poetry or prose with unchained thoughts in my journal, until finally I crash into days of sleep. It is exhilarating while in it, but exhausting coming out of it. More than once I’ve found myself within the confines of mental institutions, and many more times I’ve gone off the deep end after tottering on the edge of reality and fantasy, unable to maintain my balance against a whirlwind of raging emotions.

I’m forty-three years old, but my life feels twice that. People say I am an angry woman. I am. When you’ve had to fight through so many things, it’s hard not to be. I have been hungry, cold, abused physically, tormented emotionally, homeless, and frequently out of control. But I’ve also, at times, lived a seemingly quite normal life with my three children and their father. And against all odds, at forty years old, I became the first African American woman in Chicago racing history to win a race and only the second in U.S. history.

I continue to struggle with being bipolar and always will. But psychotropic medicines, which have not always been available to me, spiritualism, which in my case happens to be Buddhism, and—most important—my love of horses keep me from looking at life as one continuous battle. My life has been a race to outrun the disease that attempts to consume me. To that point, I tell my story in parallel to my biggest race, that cold day in December 2007.

I haven’t always been able to live life on my terms, but I’m optimistic I’ll get there—even if it is a long shot.

Sylvia Harris

July 2010

The Race

Hawthorne Race Course

Cicero, Illinois

December 1, 2007

In an empty stall, at a makeshift altar, I close my eyes and begin my Buddhist chant, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo: “Devotion to the teaching of the mystic law of the universe,” or even more loosely translated, “Devotion to cause and effect.” I chant to quiet my mind in a way that lithium or Haldol cannot. Then I get dressed and head to the paddock.

December in Chicago is brutal. On this snowy Thursday evening, a cold front from Canada is blowing snow and ice into the city, creating dangerous conditions. As I pass through the backstretch, also known as the backside, an area of stables and living quarters for the people who call the track home, little ice pellets stab me in the face, but I don’t really feel it. My mind is on Peg. We have a lot in common, Peg and me: a broken horse and his broken rider. He was sired by Fusaichi Pegasus, who won the Kentucky Derby in 2000, a promising mount that never materialized, and I was the all-American girl from Santa Rosa who had long ago lost her way.

Wildwood Pegasus is a four-year-old gelding who has lost his spirit, but I understand him. When you spend time in and out of mental institutions, questioning your reality and making a mess out of your life, your spirit takes a beating that no anti-depressant or mood stabilizer can fix. Pegasus is arthritic, with a bum right leg shattered during a practice run when he was a promising two-year-old. Together, we are a bad bet. Entertaining, maybe, but a bad bet nonetheless.

When I reach the paddock, he is waiting for me. Jockeys can be superstitious. Many have rituals before or after every race. British jockey Graham Thorner wore the same underwear for every race he rode in after winning the Grand National in 1972. They got so old and frayed that he would wear a new pair over the old ones until he ended his career. Garrett Gomez, one of horse racing’s biggest prizewinners, makes sure he steps out of bed with his right foot first on race day; and top jockey Ramon Dominguez reads a quote from Booker T. Washington that’s taped to his locker before every race: “Success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome.” Me, I have two rituals. I chant, and then, before I mount the horse, I breathe him in. I know it sounds a little Horse Whisperer-ish, but when I breathe in a horse, it’s as if we are kindred souls. We are one.

I hold Peg’s face in my hands and press my own to his, to breathe my baby in. So there we are, Peg and me, nose to nose; soul to soul. “Peg, my beautiful Peg,” I said. “Tonight, it’s you … you show me. I’m just along for the ride.”

I gulp down the freezing air near the paddock as both of Peg’s trainers, Charlie and Janelle, come over. Their bright, sunny smiles greet me, and suddenly everything is more than fine. The three of us stand in the cold with a light snow falling and with that beautiful smell of horses filling our noses. We have been working with Peg for weeks, and we instinctively know this is his time. Charlie and Janelle both give me a leg up onto Peg, who waits patiently for us to finish. Once my body connects with his, there is only one way to go. As Peg carries me, I feel as if it’s a new day and a new life. I always feel that way when I get on the back of a horse.

Following tradition, we are led to the starting gate by the outrider, Jerry. Life on the backstretch is full of irony. Jerry, an ex-cop, is quite the horseman. Fit and good-looking, he’s partial to cognac, and a few days before we’d had a heated argument in the parking lot of a bar near the track. I don’t even remember what it was about, most likely something petty, personal—that’s the way it can be on the backstretch, the world behind the racetrack. It’s a carnival-like atmosphere filled with runaways, addicts, desperate lost souls, and the rich people who employ them. But when it’s time to compete, everyone does his job. Jerry is no different. He throws me a look that says, Go, Sylvia. I nod to acknowledge it.

Once we’re near the starting gate, I look up to the grandstand briefly to find my family. They’re here visiting me, and for the first time, they will see me ride. I peruse the crowd until I see them looking down at me, wearing mixed looks of pride and concern. They’re like many American families, a cornucopia of dysfunction. My father, Edward Sr., a tough ex-army staff sergeant and recovering alcoholic; my mother, Evaliene, an ex-teacher with Crohn’s disease who for years was a punching bag for my dad; my brother Edward Jr., the minister—let’s just say he’s the good one; my oldest children, daughter Shauna and son Ryan, from my common-law marriage with Riley, an Irish hippie I met at a club. And then there was Mioshi, my youngest, the baby who was conceived during a manic farewell tryst in Los Angeles. They were all there together, and for once it was not a gathering to decide, What are we going to do about Sylvia? A rare occasion.

The weather is changing for the worse, and I can feel the icy sleet pounding my face. I know Peg can feel it too. The track will be treacherous, but it is also perfect for Peg’s old, worn body, where the soft powder of the snow is like a natural cushion for his knee and ailing bones. Finally, someone or something is delivering him the break he so richly deserves.

This is our second outing together. We came in third a month earlier, and with each workout we began to respect each other more. Despite that, on the backstretch, we are seen as lost causes—me because of my age and inexperience, and Pegasus because he had been winless in his last seven starts. Still, he is more than ready. Me? I’m terrified.

Just a few days earlier, three horses went down on the track with their jockeys in tow. The thought of a half-ton bay horse crashing onto my small frame is scary enough. But what is even more frightening to me is the possibility that a manic episode could happen right before or during the race. Skipping your medications is a big no-no in the bipolar world. The meds are supposed to keep me balanced. But in the horse racing world, a jockey can’t take any medications that give him, or her, an advantage.

I’m sure there’s an exception for a manic-depressive like me, but I don’t want anyone to feel I have to take something that gives me an adrenaline boost. I don’t think I’ve ever been manic while racing, but the exuberant feel of riding gives me the same rush. Normally, I would welcome that feeling of superhuman superiority, but not on race day. It’s too dangerous; the chance of losing your focus or miscalculating is too great. This is definitely not the state you want to be in while riding a horse. But when they load me and Pegasus into the gate, I’m normal, or as normal as a nonmedicated manic-depressive can be.

I’m a forty-year-old rookie jockey who’s riding her seventeenth race and has never won. I’m a mother deemed unfit by some to raise her own kids. I’ve been homeless, sleeping in a Jeep, wondering where my next meal will come from.

I am bipolar. And I’m about to win this race.

The Start

A top this thousand-pound mass of horse sits my taut five-foot-one, hundred-and-ten-pound frame. I contrast with the other jockeys in almost every way; my age, my gender, my race. What we all share is a determination to win, but for me this a big race—actually, at my age every race is a big race, but today my family will be looking on, and I so want to show them I can do this, give them something to celebrate instead of the trouble I have been.

Pegasus and I approach the gate, and my nerves do a jig on my body. I breathe faster than Peg can ever hope to run. He seems calm, although he shows some trepidation about entering the gate. I hope this is not a bad sign. Jerry, the outrider, comes over to help guide us into our post position.

The horses are in place. We jockeys are raised a few inches above our saddles with knees tucked in tight, which reduces wind resistance and allows us to lessen the load on our mounts. The grandstands are far from full, but that doesn’t change the excitement I feel. The air bristles with sounds, scents, and kinetic energy. I take it all in, then quiet it to a hush, slowing my sensations down to a point where I can move easily. Both Pegasus and I have traveled a long way to run this race. It’s a big moment for both of us.

The gate bell splinters the frozen air.

The horses bolt out of the gate, along with my adrenaline, as the announcer’s voice shouts, “And they’re off!”

Santa Rosa, California

“Come on, Daddy, tell me, tell me,” I beg him as he drives our wood-paneled station wagon down a dusty road I do not recognize. I’m twelve years old, and it is a typically sunny day in Santa Rosa, California, where my family lives. We moved to this small city, about an hour and a half outside of San Francisco, once my father retired from the army. Both my parents had made a career of the military, and with my father’s pension and the job he had at a nearby shipyard, we had enough money for a nice middle-class life in a comfortable suburban home.

“Tell you what?” he says, feigning innocence, knowing perfectly well what I want. The surprise is the whole reason for this trip.

“Just give me a hint, please,” I say, hoping to wear him down. I know it won’t happen, but I enjoy the game.

“If I tell you, that will spoil the surprise.”

“No. No way!”

“Okay, then, once I remember what it is, I’ll let you know.”

I poke him in the arm, then pretend to sulk, which only makes him laugh as I see what appears to be a farm come into view.

My first pony ride (Sylvia Harris)

My mind races to an image that I immediately let go of out of fear of being disappointed. I am silent—still, as if any expression on my part will somehow make it all disappear.

We stop in front of a large barn where a man dressed like a cowboy greets my father. They talk briefly; my father points toward me, then motions for me to join them. I quickly exit the car. My father introduces me as his daughter, and we all three walk past the barn to a corral that holds a beautiful horse. I long to hear the words “He’s yours,” but I’m too nervous to ask.

I’ve always loved animals, even the days before we moved to Santa Rosa. Living on different army bases, I would constantly seek the companionship of all types of creatures: snakes, bugs, stray dogs and cats. But there was always something about horses that dazzled me. As a little girl, my father took me on pony rides at local carnivals. Then, when I was around six or seven, he decided we should ride on some “real horses.” Plopping me on an adult-size thousand-pound horse, then mounting his own horse, my father rode alongside me. It was the perfect Kodak moment, until suddenly my horse jolted and took off like a shot. My father did his best to follow, but not being that much of a rider, he couldn’t keep up.

Flying across a grassy field and hanging on for dear life, I didn’t cry. I loosened my grip on the reins and instinctively clenched harder with my thighs; then, and to this day I don’t know why, I let go and stretched my arms out to the side as if they were wings. I felt like an angel flying through the clouds. I never felt safer, or more free, than at that moment.

When my father caught up to me, he was amazed that I was so calm. “How did you do that, Sylvia?” I guess he meant, how had I managed to stay on the horse without falling. All I could do was shrug.

“You’re a natural, I guess,” he said, but still, he took the reins and led us back to the stables.

Since then my father and I had talked about horses, but after my mother scolded him for putting a little girl on a “wild” horse, I thought it could never be more than talk. Yet here we are, standing outside a fence looking at a horse who is looking at us.

We stand there, silently admiring the horse, who moves closer to make sure he has our attention. The suspense is killing me: Why are we here? I look at my father, who just smiles and intentionally looks away. I look back at the horse, who is now snorting, his head bobbing up and down. Is he trying to tell me something? I wonder.

Finally, the man who looks like a cowboy says to my father, “You going to let her know?” I quickly look toward my dad. He seems to be mulling it over. I can take it no longer.

“Daddy! Is he for me?”

“Hmm. Could be.”

“Stop teasing her,” said the cowboy, “and let her get up on her very own horse.”

I scream and hug my daddy. “Thank you, thank you, Daddy. What’s his name?”

“Laredo,” replied the cowboy. “He’s a quarter horse.” I didn’t care what he was; I just knew he was mine.

Daddy and the horse that got away with me on it (Sylvia Harris)

For the next few months, I couldn’t wait for each school day to end so I could bike to a stable not too far away and bond with my Laredo. I was sure he spent all day just waiting for me to show up and tell him all about my boring day at school. It didn’t hurt that I sometimes would bring carrots for him.

One day I raced to the stable, as usual, only to find that Laredo was gone. No one at the stables had an answer for me, so I biked home as fast as I could. I found my mother cooking dinner and begged her to tell me what had happened to Laredo. She wouldn’t talk about it, and told me to speak to Dad. I discovered my father had sold Laredo. It was too expensive to take care of him. My father suddenly needed the money, which I couldn’t understand. After all, my family was living the American dream on a quiet cul-de-sac in Santa Rosa. I took piano and dance lessons and went water skiing. I thought if we just got rid of all of those lessons, there would be more than enough money to take care of Laredo. I begged my father to get Laredo back, but he turned a deaf ear.

“Horses aren’t important,” he told me. “Go do your school-work and stop bothering me about this nonsense.”

I went to my mother, hoping she might influence my dad. “Can’t you get Daddy to change his mind? Please, Mom. I won’t need any Christmas or birthday presents—ever,” I said.

“Your father knows best, Sylvia,” which was code for they weren’t speaking. I may have only been twelve turning thirteen, but I knew my parents barely talked to each other. There always seemed to be something going on between them. My mother was little, like me, and hadn’t been healthy for years. She had Crohn’s disease, a chronic, episodic, inflammatory bowel disease that at times caused her great pain and forced her to undergo several surgeries. At one point, she even went down to seventy pounds and couldn’t lift herself out of the bed. My baby brother and I would try to help, but most of the load fell to my father, and he seemed to resent it.

There was nothing left for me to do about losing my horse but to cry on the shoulder of my best friend, Gidget. Yes, that was really her name—Gidget Harding—and she lived across the street from me. Where I lived was truly a slice of American idealism. And even though we were the only African American family around, everyone was friendly and supportive and race never seemed to be a factor. Not only did I cry on Gidget’s shoulder but also on her lavender-flowered bedspread and the teen magazines she tried to show me to get my mind off of losing Laredo. Before long she was crying too, and we consoled each other by promising to one day get our own horses. We then calmed down and began to think of names for the horses we would have one day.

“Alice,” she suddenly blurted out.

I told her that was kind of a plain name for a horse.

“No,” she said. “I’m talking about Alice Patterson. She lives on a farm. They must have horses. Maybe she’ll let us ride them.”

My excitement over this idea brushed away the sadness I was feeling, and we immediately called Alice. The next few months I consoled myself with visits to Alice’s farm, where there were beautiful working horses. The three of us were like Charlie’s Angels on horseback. We would ride bareback through the farmlands by her house. “I’m sliding off! I’m sliding off!” I would cry, but I never did. Riding always came naturally to me.

It was only a few times that we got to ride the horses at Alice’s. They were needed for other duties. Eventually, my parents tired of me hounding them about another horse. To divert my pleading, they made me take ice-skating, piano, and dance lessons. I enjoyed the diversions, but I never stopped longing for a horse.

I was always athletic and enjoyed sports. I became quite the star in gymnastics and track, winning meets and even participating in the state championships. The competition and success I had helped to distract me from the growing tension between my parents. The strain of my mother’s illness and her needs were taking a toll on their relationship. Always a heavy drinker, my father began to indulge more and more. Violent arguments between my parents soon became standard fare.

“Did you fall and get those bruises, Evaliene?” he would ask innocently the next morning while she cooked him breakfast. She’d nod dutifully and serve up his bacon and eggs. I sort of knew what was going on but never fully acknowledged it, preferring a loose sort of denial. As an adult, I now know that when he hit my mother, he was in an alcoholic blackout, but as a child it threw me. Not just his questions about what had happened, but the way these periodic outbursts—coming after days of binge drinking—contrasted with the life we projected to those around us … just a normal middle-class family.

We made the most of the natural splendor unique to Northern California. We would escape to the local parks and lakes for waterskiing or camping. It was hard for my mother to travel with us when she was ill, but somehow the four of us would drive to Lake Tahoe for mini holidays. On those vacations, as we sat at restaurants, we seemed like a regular, normal family enjoying each other’s company. For a few days, we would play the roles of loving husband, father, daughter, and son. But there were still few signs of affection between Mom and Dad. I rarely saw them holding hands, and hugs were not the norm for any of us.

I liked school but became a bit of a loner. Except for class or participating in school activities, like track, I wasn’t very outgoing. Even my relationship with Gidget and Alice waned. I felt more comfortable around my pets—dog, cat, whatever creature I might be befriending at the time—than around other kids. My place of choice at home was in my room, reading or doing experiments with my chemistry kit.