Mental Illness Has Taken, Given Much

I've debated writing this. It's far too personal a piece, and not something I'd normally choose to write. But I have always liked the well known Ecclesiastes passage, "To everything, there is a season".

And I believe the season is now, as we mourn the passage of a great comedian we thought we knew.

Mental illness has been a reality in my family for longer than I know. I didn't really know my grandparents, but I've seen the scars firsthand, in the pain and bitterness that creeps just below the surface at family reunions and events. And I've wrestled with it myself.

I've seen it in my mother, a woman who, in her gentler moments, took us out to dig selenite crystals at the Salt Plains in northwestern Oklahoma, and through Dinosaur National Monument, and places like Clifty Falls in my (nominally) native state of Indiana. Yet I've seen her demons, too, the fits of uncontrollable rage, the utter depression that rendered her unable to function for many days at a time.

And I've seen it in my father, who likewise took us on wonderful family trips, yet gradually let the paranoia creep until it controlled him. I'd like to remember both parents as beautiful people, yet the dark moments always hung like a shadow over the lighter moments. An outing could turn from a peaceful, fun family event into a sinister argument in just a few moments' time. Nobody knew what the trigger would be, and we always carefully measured our words and our tone for fear of awakening the beast.

I always knew in some ways my family was different, and it created a sort of awkwardness that led to my own isolation. We didn't talk about the dysfunction, we didn't dare invoke its name for fear that it would somehow creep to the surface, like an old forgotten ghost.

My teenage years were filled with runaway attempts as I tried to escape my mother to go to my father's house. I didn't say it at the time, but it was the beginning of a wanderlust that I believe is common in people who deal with the demons of mental illness. You know something is not right, but you don't know what. And you flee to the furthest corners of the globe to find it.

The wanderlust isn't bad, it's the running that's harmful. Because you can never escape.

At 18, I left home, with nothing but an imagination and a half full tank of gas in an extremely fuel inefficient vehicle to guide me. Predictably, the gas ran out halfway to Colorado Springs, and I hitchhiked the rest of the way, not knowing what to find, just knowing I wanted to find it.

Through the years I became increasingly self aware, and realized that relationships with people who were struggling through mental illness was harming my own mental health. I separated from them, which I've gradually come to realize is just another form of "dry drunk": it helps, for a little bit, but the problem is ever lingering.

I miss my family. I miss the kinds of close relationships that I see others around me enjoying. And I've lived most of my life in a psychological bubble, meant to isolate me from those around me. It's painful, and yet, in the lack of other options, it's necessary.

I've so long feared to tell my story for fear of judgment. For fear that the people that are dearest to me will be taken away by a society that doesn't understand, doesn't WANT to stand that what I wrestle with is not my creation. It's not my FAULT, or anyone's fault, for that matter. It just is, and it is the consequence of the world we live in.

But the truth is, not to be overly dramatic or anything, but it IS killing me. My health has long suffered because the one thing I can't quit doing is eating improperly, and the one thing I can't start doing is exercise properly. I know what would help immensely, and that's simply a truly close friend, one I could sit down with and play guitar, and create, and who could get up with me and help give me the drive to exercise. To remove me as far as possible from the demons that haunt me, because they will always be there.

And yet, I can't hate this beast, because it's given me much. It's given me an endless compassion, a drive to help others, and a flow of creativity in the lighter moments that is amazing. We all saw it in Robin Williams; he created such an uplifting, creative flow of characters, and yet through them, you could see the darkness, lingering. But what it has given me has come at an incredible, heart rending sacrifice, as it has made it very difficult to effectively communicate with those I love. And it has made me a pretty harsh cynic.

I stated in an abbreviated form that I pray that William's death sparks the debate. In our culture, we punish mental illness, we don't treat it. Those who DO seek treatment are stigmatized, and often suffer the loss of jobs, of family, of property as a consequence. We owe ourselves better.

If you are reading this, and have any measure of sympathy, I beg you to work to destigmatize mental illness. You wouldn't incarcerate someone with a brain tumor; you shouldn't incarcerate someone with a lingering, lasting depression. In addition, we need to fund treatment options, and realize that treatment for mental illness is not a one size fits all solution.

I've wrestled with my demons, and won. But I've done so at an incredible cost. Isolation and introversion only help you cope, they don't treat the underlying problem.

Lastly, understand that someone who has dealt with, and survived, substantial depression and suicidal thoughts is not weak; they are amazingly, incomprehensibly strong. Because it takes a powerful person to stare down that beast and win.