Two Stories About the Keys & Doors Method (One from Crisis, One from Chaos)
Dearest Plague Rats,
Perhaps you've heard about the Keys & Doors Method, or you’ve even downloaded the free KDM Mini but haven't yet opened the workbook sitting on your desktop. Perhaps you've printed it but haven't yet made that first mark, unsure whether you're ready to meet yourself with such unflinching honesty.
Let me share two stories from my own history—one from the depths of crisis, one from the heights of creative (potential) chaos—to show you how the KDM can be your best friend whether you're striving to survive or to thrive.
A Month Unmedicated (And On Tour)
Not too terribly long ago, I found myself once again denied life-preserving psychiatric medication, but this time it wasn't because my doctor wouldn't renew my prescriptions, or because I simply couldn't afford it, as had so often been the case in the past—it was that I was only allowed a 30-day supply at a time, and my foreknowledge that I would run out somewhere between Denmark and Poland convinced absolutely no one that this might be a problem worth solving.
The refill would have to be sent to wherever I was in the world at the time and that's all there was to it, never mind the inevitable gap week even with expedited shipping.
I think we all know what happened next.
The drugs never came.
Were they lost in the mail, an international casualty?
Why, no—my refills were being held at the German border without any resolution being offered. And because that refill had already been issued, the brilliant minds still in power over mine were unwilling to send another supply. (And I'm the crazy one?)
Three days off medication and the dizziness was already debilitating. Three weeks and the withdrawal was graciously giving way to what lies beneath the drugs...confusion, paranoia, mania, terror.
Oh, and there were several shows across Europe still to come.
Yet within this impending crisis, I discovered something profound: I began unconsciously employing what would later become the KDM. Though I had no names then for Heart, Door, or Key, the last embers of my survival instincts were already mapping the method.
I locked myself in the bathroom of my hotel room and sat with my back to the door.
And, like a stranded climber calculating how long that precious canteen of water will last, I put my hands on my heart and felt what I had to work with.
My Heart was beyond Tender—palpitating between the desire to not let my Plague Rats down and the terrible knowledge that thousands of miles from home, completely medication-free with no solution in sight, I was perhaps one sleepless night away from complete psychological dissolution.
To keep hold of reality, I must set myself upon one small action at a time. (Yes, this idea was the instigator of "One Foot In Front Of The Other").
What could I do? What would keep me in the here and now when my brain was determined to take me somewhere very far away, and very, very dark?
I pulled myself off the floor, went to the desk, and picked up the pen branded with the hotel's name placed upon a tiny notepad.
Words had saved me before, hadn't they?
My Door: Document everything exactly as it happens to keep myself tethered to linear time. The act of writing in the moment became my anchor to the world I knew I needed to stay in.
My Key: Preparation—pens in every pocket, paper in any form I could find it, notebooks in each bag and suitcase. I had to ensure that no word would go uncaptured, no event undocumented, for if I let go of the rope for one second, I wouldn't be able to find it again.
I knew it wouldn't be that easy—that I would need a boundary to protect my plan—so I went further.
My Leech: Social interaction had begun to feel excruciatingly overwhelming, even threatening, and I couldn't trust the words coming out of my mouth to be in a language anyone could understand.
My Gate: Only absolutely essential public commitments—no optional appearances, no group socializing (the girls could go to an after-show dinner without me and know that I still loved them). I guarded my solitude so that I could write when I wasn't on stage.
And when I was on stage, something extraordinary happened: I let myself be held up by the power of the Plague Rats who spoke different languages from me and yet sang the same songs. If I forgot a lyric, they remembered. If I screamed so hard I lost my voice, they sang in my place.
I was safe up there, bathed in vanilla-scented fog and flashing lights, strengthened by the incredible beings who had once told me that my music—most of which was written in the midst of one manic phase or other—had given them strength.
My unconscious implementation of the KDM didn't solve the problem of being bipolar off medication, but by giving me a framework to function when functioning seemed impossible, I was able to get to week five, when, in a remote German village, a doctor who spoke no English understood what my American doctors could not and gave me the drugs I needed before the situation became truly life-threatening.
When Lightning Strikes: Harnessing a Full Heart
This brings us to just last week.
My Heart was Full—thrilling with creative electricity. A film I wrote is entering pre-production, and the music I've been composing for it is all consuming (have I got a surprise for you!). The secret Asylum community I've been building is nearly ready for Sir Edward to welcome you inside. The full KDM Workbook launches in mere weeks, and with it comes the strangely delicious vulnerability of sharing survival tools I've never spoken of publicly, illustrated by stories I've never even whispered to you, and, believe it or not, this isn't half of what's going on in Ward A these days.
And this is where the KDM became crucial in an entirely different way.
When I love the work I'm doing—when I'm literally obsessed with what I'm creating—the temptation is to sacrifice the most crucial medication for a bipolar brain: Sleep.
And I know from brutal (and formerly frequent) experience that even a few nights of sleep deprivation are a direct shortcut to mania, even when properly medicated. Will I make some super cool things under the manic spell?
Almost certainly.
Is it worth the dangerous side effects and the deadly crash that will inevitably follow, not to mention how it will affect those close to me?
Not anymore.
So, that morning, assessing my situation honestly, I chose the Door I needed (not the one I wanted).
My Door: Be in bed with a blackout mask over my eyes by midnight, no matter how inspired I feel in that moment. If I could accomplish this one thing, I could stay on my high-speed track as long as I wanted instead of crashing into the wall. (That was my first and last car metaphor).
My Key: Start my wind-down process early to decrease resistance to sleep, paired with the promise that a quick transition to bed means a quick return to work in the morning. (If I had to brush my teeth at 8 in order to accomplish this, fine.)
My Leech: The seductive whisper that I could accomplish even more if I just worked a little later, pushed a little harder, slept a little less.
My Gate: No creative projects allowed in the bedroom—it would remain a sanctuary for rest only. (If there is a notebook on my nightstand, I will wake up to use it.)
And, guess what, fellow Inmate? It worked! It's still working. I am, at this very moment, operating at near-manic level productivity while staying stark raving sane (i.e. healthy).
The KDM allowed me to harness Full Heart energy and capacity while protecting the delicate neurochemical ecosystem that keeps me alive.
The Method and the Madness
These examples span years and vastly different circumstances, yet the KDM adapted perfectly to each situation. It met my Tender Heart with gentle doors and accessible keys. It channeled my Full Heart's power while installing the safeguards that prevent self-destruction.
Ready to try it yourself? Download the free Keys & Doors Method Mini Workbook and discover what Door you'll open today, what Key already lies within your reach, and what Heart beats within your chest, waiting to be acknowledged not as weakness or strength, but simply as your present perfect truth.
