Life, Death and Suicide

Life, Death and Suicide

"Burying the Stigma of Mental Illness" by Heather Rorrer

I was so taken with this article by Ms. Rorrer, I wanted to preface my own blog addition with a link.  She is in no way connected to me or responsible for what I say in what follows.

Five years after I got out of the Army (Viet Nam War), oh some forty-five years ago, my first wife, of ten years, took her own life.  For at least forty of those years I have not told anyone, but my very closest, dearest and most trusted friends of how she actually died.  Of course, my second wife (of thirty-eight years at this writing) knew – but then she is my best, closest and dearest friend and has been since the first day I met her.  And all of our children were told when they were old enough to understand and not be traumatized by that knowledge.

Other than those family members and few friends, we have kept it to ourselves.  She did have diabetes AND post-partum epilepsy – so diabetes has been the quick answer and the subject has been closed.  After that quick lie, everybody who asks says, “Oh I’m sorry.”  That’s it  - we move on.  But it’s a lie.  It’s a lie I have told countless times over the years.  Always figuring it’s nobody’s business but mine.  I have also told that lie to the teachers, baseball coaches or other supervising adults of my oldest two children by my first wife.  To save my children from the stigma that almost all adults did, when those two oldest of my six children were young (they are now in their forties) attached to mental illness.

What I have discovered is that almost all adults still do – attach stigma to mental illness.  Once you admit to a suicide in your family, especially by a spouse, people never look at you the same again.  I know this from observing those treasured and trusted friends.  Some I have actually had to stop associating with because it always seemed to come up, that’s how I know.  Those were my best friends, at the time; so how would more casual friends react?  Forget it.  I don’t need that kind of pebble in my shoe every day.

It is true that mental illness is, or often is, genetic.  It does seem to travel in family lines, but it is definitely not always the case.  We tend to loose sight of something I believe is a fact, alcoholism, and most any form of substance abuse and addiction also tend to follow family lines.  For centuries though, millennia truly, at least alcoholism has been seen as a problem, but never as a possible result of self-medication for what is actually a mental illness. 

Self-medication with socially approved substances and behavior, however, does not seem to carry anywhere near the stigma, though, that mental illness does.  Why is that?  (Blog for another day?)

What happened is this; I spent so many decades pushing down the trauma of my participation in a really stupid war, followed by the death, by suicide, of the first love of my life – I wound up with a mental illness.  Diagnosed with PTSD and bipolar disorder in my late fifties.  From my behavior over the previous years, it was pretty obvious I was suffering (under the influence of a brain disorder) for a very long time.  Since I had decided in my early thirties to avoid alcohol and anything else that might affect my ability to react properly in emergencies for the safety of my children, I couldn’t blame what was happening in my own brain on substance abuse.

Something was really wrong.  It became apparent, by my own decision, that I needed help.

It was a very difficult decision to come to and only with the help and support of my second wife, that I just said, “Screw it!  I’m going to a head Doctor.  This is just more than I can handle anymore.”  Having been a professional artist for the first twenty years of my adult working life, I was used to being a social outsider.  I was used to having people think, and sometimes even say, “Oh you’re an Artist.  You don’t work? Or, do you have a real job?”  Two decades of that, and as a person I didn’t really have a personal stigma associated with mental illness.  I knew my brain was fucked up, or sup-di-dooper different and most of artist friends were all pretty weird too.

So, in that sense, it made it easier for me to decide that it had gotten too far out of hand to handle alone in the day to day.  And, I didn’t care what anybody else thought.  I just wouldn’t say anything or simply lie like I had about my first wife’s suicide.  In those times past when other people would ask why my hands we're so shaky or that my voice quivered (on occasion when I'm a bit nervous), I'd say,

“I have a brain disorder.”

“Oh, what is it?”

“Just a genetic thing.  Makes my hands shake and stuff; nothing serious.”

“Well, that’s good.”

I no longer do this.  Now I just say, "I'm bipolar.  It's a side effect of the meds.  Don't worry it's not a big deal."  Then I just let the other person stew on that information.  I don't get into long conversations on it.  Sometimes they thank me for sharing something they interpret as deeply personal.  I don't care if they think it's deeply personal or not.  I just don't care anymore.  If they think it's catching, or communicable, and want to avoid me.  That's their choice and personally if that's they way they feel, I'd rather not hang out with them either.  Take me as I am (these days) or walk away.  This is my life.  I really really don't care about your judgements.

The truth; it is impossible to bury the stigma of mental illness.  It will never happen.  Stupid people will always – as in forever – put a label on the forehead of the different, the strange, the mentally ill.  Until, we who live with these conditions just stop caring what others think.  It is up to us!  This is where all the Fun Runs, the Marches, Rallies, speeches and the rest of that shit where we are only preaching to the choir.  Where the audiences are always just full of people with mental illnesses.

Is of not that much value.

My bipolar disorder gives me a deep deep imagination when I soar up into a manic stage.  Everything is sort of magical.  Creativity flows so smoothly, the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.  My hands work from some kind of broadband wifi tied directly into my soul.  It is not ego, it is not a desperate grab for greatness; it is very very simply that intense satisfaction of making something beautiful, seemingly out of thin air.  A small piece of beauty and glory that wasn't there before.

The depression stages are tough, but, to me, that’s what Netflix and exercise are for.  Best is watching Netflix, wearing headphones and rowing for miles on my erg.  And when the depressions are over, it’s like somebody has stopped punching me in the stomach.  When that pain is gone, it’s almost like pleasure.

If I stop for just a second, I just have to remember that life is beautiful, wonderful; yes; deeply challenging sometimes, but still beautiful.  Hold a baby, pet a dog, sit on a dock on a lake and fish ... watch a sunset.  Life is a miracle.  Get help if you need it and stop hiding.

Sure the medications make me overweight and sometimes a bit shaky in the hands, but truly after all of the Art and other adventures, this roller coaster that is labeled a metal illness has allowed me to do; I think it’s actually a good trade-off.

As has been said, “You can’t be extraordinary if you’re ordinary.”

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