Some days you wake up and something surprising happens. Something that makes you think. You aren’t sure but, as you noodle it around in your head, it begins to pick up steam. You say, “is it me?” Or you say, “deja vu, who?” Because, strangely enough you feel like you have done this before and you think, “why is this happening?” Is this a cosmic thing? Or is it just a suggestion. Innocent. I think about it, then it will fade into an “unimportant” pile…or not.
By design? By intent? How things creep into your consciousness… Things that make you go “hmmm…”
My Mom often referred to people she knew who suffered from mental illnesses as having “nervous breakdowns”. I would hear her say, “So-in-So, you know, she had a nervous breakdown…” or my Grandmother would fret about a friend who had really sunken down and was struggling – what could she do, she asked? How could she help? Usually, it was baking something and paying a visit…
Then there were the dark situations that people just went silent about. My great-aunt’s husband went into their barn with a shotgun and blew his brains out. My Dad told me that. Not my Mom, not my grandparents… my Dad – because they wouldn’t talk about it… They were ashamed. The subject was taboo. People silently suffered. Nobody did anything but mostly stayed away from them, as if it was contagious. We kids were never taught about it.
My mother never faced her mental health issues until she was in her late fifties – and that was too late. The damage was done. She couldn’t get my Dad to go with her to a counselor. It was something “other people” had to deal with. After my Dad was early-retired, he suffered from horrible depression. He never addressed it. He lived the last ten years of his life, fully miserable because of my Mom’s and his issues that they never addressed. It wasn’t something that people did. That was what my Dad said. He thought it “marked you”. I worked as a mental health support professional, for ten years and I still could not convince them to get help.
The great-uncle who I never met, driven to suicide, by what? He was married to my grandfather’s sister. At times, people mentioned that she was a pretty difficult person at times. Who knows? The reasons were deeply buried in family history. That is where they remain to this day. That poor man. He was probably in a desperate state that drove him to do that. Depression had likely set in for some reason we will never know. His son, my Mom’s cousin, became an alcoholic – very sociable – married an alcoholic – they obviously fought a lot because they were divorced once, then married again. He was very successful, business-wise, but you know he was self-medicating. It’s what people did. It’s still what people do.
Through time, it is the uncomfortable nature of the mental illness that people have – and most have difficulty with facing it with people outside of their families – sometimes within their families. It is, for some reason, viewed as being “flawed” or “weak” or somehow inadequate. There are shades of it, also. A “difficult” personality – might be what it’s called, but then when behavior gets overtly out of bounds, eventually people say that the person is mentally “unstable” or having issues, others might just say the person is “sick in the head” or some other derogatory term. Some people are not very kind, at times, when something makes them uncomfortable – they just paint it negatively to make themselves feel better.
Very brave people today are changing this for all of us…
John Fetterman, Lina Hildalgo, many others are coming forward out of the shadows to say, “hey, I need to go take care of this illness and get better. Then, I’ll be back to do what I was doing…getting stronger so that I can be…” Those include: a better spouse, a better son or daughter, a better friend, a better public servant, a better parent, a better working person – colleague…
If people do not or are not allowed to do this, they suffer – sometimes they act out – and sometimes the acting out is towards others or towards themselves, and the consequences are fatal.
If people disapprove of them and call them out, those people are the ones who should be put down for doing that. Treating those who are suffering in that way is just plain wrong.
Mental illnesses can happen to anyone. Too much stress. A head injury. A brain tumor or other physical disease of the body. A genetic condition that develops over time. A relationship break-up. A newborn baby. Menopause changes. Middle-age adjustments. Combat exposure to violence. Surviving a violent crime. All of these and more can trigger mental health conditions that are treatable if caught early and addressed by treatment professionals.
For Maureen… For Peter… For Susan… For David… For Tom… For Julia… For Andy…The people we’ve known who didn’t make it. The tragedy exponentially affected people in their lives. Patients. Friends. Work colleagues. Husband. Family. Daughter. Students. Teenage Sons. Family.
Maureen. The psychiatric nurse who didn’t show up at work. Never a day at work did she act as if she was suffering. Then one day… She took her own life…
Peter. The employee who was found by his co-workers, after playing Russian Roulette – he lost. Always cocky, always jocular, but underneath, there was something. No one really knew. Until he was found that day…
Susan. The middle-aged well-loved wife, daughter and sister, cousin, and friend – who had struggled since her teens with knowing something just wasn’t right, seeking a diagnosis, and finally, learning that all the treatments she had endured were not what she needed – the errors in medical assessments, that ignored certain very loud clues – were not heeded. In the end, she just couldn’t take it anymore. After fighting cancer, and seeming to have won remission with a positive diagnosis for the future, she had hoarded pills, over years, then taken them all at once, lying down for her final sleep…
David. The employee who was found in the employee parking garage on the weekend with a loaded weapon, who was hospitalized, then returned to work – years later, he succeeded in what he tried to do years before – leaving his nine-year-old daughter to grow up without her dad. This was the daughter he adored – with every day, there were always those times where he would be showing her in her ballerina costume – in her cheerleader outfit – showing her artwork – her cards she made for her Daddy, telling him how much she loved him – and then – he wasn’t anymore. He was gone…
Tom. The guy with chronic clinical depression, at times extremely severe, who in his life had struggled with everything – with his father’s approval – with integrating into the world – during his early 20’s had made suicide attempts, been hospitalized, then somewhat recovered – but, was still struggling – only to, years later, publicly take his own life in a park – found by someone early in the morning on a walk – he was a teacher who left his students and co-workers scratching their heads…
Julia. The proud single mom of two teenage boys – highly competent in her career as a technologist – then one day, whatever it was – she decided it all was too much.
Andy. The son, the brother, the dad, the uncle – fighting bi-polar depression for decades, multiple suicide attempts – finally losing the battle with the disease and succeeding at ending his pain…
They may have suffered silently. With some of them, until the fateful day, we never knew.
Some sent calls for help in different ways. People. Family. Friends. Employers. Work Colleagues…tried to send help and get them help, but no matter what, the disease was too great and too consumptive. Because of the delays in diagnosis, treatment, and lack of support early-on. Because of the shame and the hiding.
We now know that these instances of disease are really diseases of the brain – chemical issues or imbalances caused by many different things – sometimes sudden, sometimes progressive, sometimes there and not even noticed until the critical mass and some stressors push the tipping point. How we didn’t know, at times meant we either ignored the signs or the person was very good at masking what was going on.
The bravery of those in public roles who do disclose their situations – they are heroes to every one of us – to all of those who suffer who fear being judged, or outcast, or left alone as the diseases take them eventually… They are angels.
If someone you know is suffering. Please call your local suicide or mental health hotline. In the UK, call The Samaritans. In the USA, dial 988; In other countries use this link to locate your local support numbers.
Help a friend, a family member, a co-worker, a parent or a child or adolescent be brave and get help. You can be a super-hero for them, if they can’t reach out themselves. Support them. Encourage them. Wrap them in love.
When I was a kid, my mom used to sing the song, “Que Sera, Sera” as it was popularized by Doris Day, a then well loved actress and singer. We had the recording, and Mom played it often. It was one of those songs that basically said, “stuff happens, and it will happen” – along with a “whatever” underlying message in the backstory.
I don’t think that this relaxed philosophy was adopted in our household. I think that it was actually the opposite. Nobody was relaxed and in our family, there was always the underlying contention of subtle disapproval of all sorts of things due to unrealized expectations, dashed hopes, and the like.
In fact, once my dad was promoted into a new job with more responsibility, and we were transferred away from our “hometown” (Mom’s and mine), that came with a slew of mandates from my mom. Her dreams of building a house with my Dad, near ready to break ground when the promotion came about, were suddenly harpooned. The lot had to be sold. The move was eminent.
Upon getting to our new home town, the choices of where they would rent or buy a house very much went many directions as they evaluated available houses and locations based on schools, proximity to Dad’s work, etc. It was the usual dilemma for transplanted families.
We ended up pretty far out of the town center, by the metrics of the day. Dad had a long slog to work. I attended school in a “top” school district, which meant that they saved bucks on my having to attend a private school, because inner city public schools were apparently not fit to attend. That is not necessarily the case everywhere, but economics had to be right for wherever we lived.
It was not my old school. But, as far as me adjusting to school, that had been an ongoing process. From the time I started attending any sort of group learning, I was likely a handful for the teachers. I colored outside the lines a lot. One early preschool experience involved Mom being asked to visit with Miss Harvey, the owner of Miss Harvey’s School, to discuss my tendency towards “not coloring inside the lines”, literally, when we were in the coloring activities she carefully designed and provided for us. This put Mom in a spot.
She had encouraged my free association coloring and drawing.
Now we had this situation where she would have to explain that sometimes I had to color inside lines, and sometimes not. I was four. Imagine explaining this to a four-year old, somewhat precocious, little girl who was quite imaginative and very busy… and very stubborn. Now I know how stubborn I was based on raising my own children. Likely genetics plays a part in all this.
Referring to past posts, dear reader, you might understand that my Mom was at times challenged with carrying the load of motherhood. She relied a lot on my grandmother (her mother) to help, and on my father when he was off of work, which most families do in some sort of variation. She would have to enlist everyone to help with this situation of teaching me that I had to follow rules, and “color inside the lines” at selected times.
Non-conformist? Moi?
The need for me to begin conforming was apparent.
Whether it was coloring outside the lines at Miss Harvey’s or doing whatever I did in first grade that landed me in the dark closet (time out) for a spell with Mrs. Keys, who was a strict disciplinarian, levying her punishments for breaking the rules, or by second grade, my chatty nature got me in the hot seat… by third grade and our move with Dad’s promotion, I started working on the conformist part of my adaptations.
However, without even realizing it, I was at that time, also at the beginning of my non-conformist development. Later on in life, I discovered that I had to conform, just enough, yet underneath was always the non-conformist base, struggling to get through.
The music did it.
When I follow the thread from these early days throughout my life tapestry, I can see where those days of being an “only” and allowed to just free associate and imagine living in a mostly adult environment at home with bright parents, one very practical, one kind of “out there”, but nonetheless very interested in architecture, engineering, art, and science – my days were likely a montage of watching Captain Kangaroo, going to Miss Harvey’s, then real school, and imaginative play and “artsy craftsy” activities with a healthy serving of being outdoors doing whatever – swinging on the swing set, hammock in my grandparent’s yard, or playing in the water hose.
Gotta ask, why my music preferences are more eclectic bordering on edgy, when I grew up hearing Doris Day? I love rock and roll, but really don’t like bubble-gum pop.
I listen to music from my grandparent’s time especially the old blues and the masters of jazz, and even those tunes and bands that my parents so dearly loved, if not just for the nostalgia. But, skip the fifties, my true roots are embedded in the beginning of the sixties revolutions in rock, psychedelic music, then hop-scotching into the new wave and indie/alternative genres. But, oddly, the Texas roots, and the Texan-folk-rock – that Americana vs. country and western genre. Gotta throw those in.
Roky Erickson, and the 13th Floor Elevators. The early 1960’s. I still look back on that time as one of mystical influence. The whole scene of the psychedelic culture in Texas influencing later generations of musicians. Janis Joplin. The Moving Sidewalks evolved into ZZ Top. Big name bands. All of these musicians influencing each other in the huge revolution in music that this was. Often referencing Buddy Holly and Howlin’ Wolf, Charles Brown, and others, these bands drew from old influences and converted them into new sounds.
Later, it was well known that Roky was diagnosed as schizophrenic, but he was before he deteriorated, a landmark influence in Texas music. After many years in hospitals for mental breakdowns, Roky was released and did perform supported by his wide net of friends and associated musicians until his death. He opened the gate for Texas Music to truly thrive with a huge place in modern music history.
I think about that and just say “wow”, and I think, as detached as our generations were, my parents left me alone in my unique eclectic musical tastes, honored it and even supported it. Embedded in my tapestry are those roots.
The non-conformist conformist. Yep, that about sizes me up.
