But for the Grace of God

The first time my mom attempted suicide, I was eight years old and my dad was at work.  My older brother and sister and I were home with her, when she announced that she had just taken “a whole bunch of pills.”  I remember the ambulance being called and my teenage brother getting her to drink mustard water to try to get her to vomit.  She was driven away in an ambulance to have her stomach pumped.  I've written about my mom before in a prior post a few years back, but something happened recently that has her fresh on my mind.

A Family Disease

My precious daughter has a crippling illness that could very well kill her.  It is progressive, and creates chemical changes in the brain and affects behavior.  It has destroyed her ability to parent her children, or have healthy relationships with the people who love her the most.  It has alienated her from loved ones, landed her in jail repeatedly, and pretty much destroyed her decision-making process.  It is destroying her from the inside out, and all we can do is watch this train wreck helplessly.

This disease is called addiction.  It kills countless people each year, yet it's one of the few diseases that carries a personal stigma against the sufferer.  People feel comfortable calling people with addiction horrible names, such as tweaker, doper, loser, piece of shit, and many other hurtful things.  I have even been attacked, as her mother, as it must have somehow been my fault that my daughter has this "flaw."

I'm guessing that nearly every parent of an addict has spent dark hours questioning where it all went wrong, examining every parenting mistake, every slip from perfection that may have caused hell on earth for their child.  It's confusing to vacillate between grief, hope, anger, fear, shock, guilt, worry, resignation, and many other emotions toward that person, often within the same day.  It's hard to look back through old photos and try to pinpoint something that maybe I missed, some clue I should have seen.  It's a very efficient way to slowly go crazy, yet I still catch myself doing it.

I heard a quote on a page called, "I Hate Heroin" on Facebook that said, "You didn't cause it, you can't cure it, and you can't control it."  This has helped some but there's still that "mom guilt," the worst guilt of all.  Defying all logic, a part of me continues to question what I did wrong.

Like any other disease, no loved one wants to "give up" on the sufferer.  We all love our family members, especially our children, and want to help them.  It's a very hard road to find that fine line between helping and enabling; I'm still looking.  What if the one time I turn my back was the one time she would have been ready to get help?  What if I shut down contact and something horrible happens to her?  Addiction doesn't just affect the person who has it; it's an equal opportunity destroyer.  It affects entire families, workplaces, communities.  Everyone who cares about the person is destroyed on some level, and it has changed me irrevocably. 

It's hard when I'm on Facebook, and see memes and photos and jokes poking fun at people with addictions.  I just can't see any humor in kicking people when they are down.  Everyone of them makes me think of my daughter.  The same people who think it's hilarious to put up pictures of "tweakers" wouldn't even think of posting jokes and pictures ridiculing those with other illnesses, such as heart disease or cancer.  I know her children will grow up hearing her called horrible names and ridiculed by society.  It's hard to know how to prepare them for this.  I can no longer see those "funny" pictures without wondering who that person was before their life was destroyed, and if someone out there is hurt that their loved one's illness is being exploited for cheap laughs, or if anyone cares about them at all.

I feel the same way about the "People of Wal-Mart" pictures and other pictures who make fun of strangers in a mean way.  How much intelligence and class does it take to kick someone when they're down?  I don't know that person's story, whether it involves poverty or mental illness, or why they are dressed the way they are, but it's none of my business.  How is this any different from the playground bullies who gather around to taunt others for their clothing and appearance?  Can't we adults do better than that?

I KNOW who my daughter was, and is.  She's a younger sister to two loving and protective brothers, and a kid sister to all of their friends.  As a child, she was one of the most sweet and loving children I have ever met, and she still is one of the sweetest people I know.  She loved everyone, and everyone loved her back.  She was bubbly and funny and kind.  She liked to sing, and had an adventurous tomboy spirit.  She once had a dream of joining the coast guard and doing water rescues and saving lives.  She still has a goofy and hilarious sense of humor, plays guitar, and loves to do outdoorsy things.  She is an easy person to talk to, and someone her friends would often go to for advice, because she was always level-headed, empathetic, and wise.  I raised her to be loyal, and she is; unfortunately, her loyalties are to people who don't deserve it, rather than to herself. 

Last year, her mug shot was posted online, on a Facebook page that seems to exist for the purpose of giving unhappy people someone else to ridicule and hurt.  As if it hadn't been bad enough watching this disease ravage my girl, worse yet was watching people post cruel, mocking comments on her photo as if she were some circus sideshow.  It was horribly painful, and I don't wish it on any parent.  Those people didn't know her, so it was easy to pick on her in her defenseless state.  Yeah, she's not a little girl anymore, and I can't shield and protect her, but that doesn't justify her being persecuted.  Her life is hard enough already, dammit.  Some of her friends saw it, and deluged the site with comments in her defense.  Tears streamed down my face, as I read the beautiful things that were said about her.  They will never know how much that meant to me.

But what about those other people, those who don't have anyone?  Are they worth any less?  Why do we have to be so unkind, just because it's a stranger?  Maybe you don't know that person who's in the People of Wal-Mart line-up, or in that mug shot.  Maybe it makes you feel better not to know.  But what if you did?  Would you still post it?  If you are ridiculing someone with a disease, what does that say about you? 

I'm not doing it to "out" her, or to evoke sympathy.  Our entire family has been devastated by her disease for over two years, and kept fairly quiet online, for the sake of her feelings.  But it's not just about her at this point.  It's a family disease.  I don't feel I'm doing her any favors to tiptoe around this, when I feel her life is on the line.  I'm writing this in the hopes it will help others to understand.  I also hope that someday she will look back and read it and know how very much I love her, and I DO understand.  With one out of twelve people in our society suffering from this disease, I know our family is not alone.  There's a lot of us walking wounded out here.

Just like mental illness, addiction is seen in our society as a character flaw.  There are genetic components to addiction, just as there are to eye and hair color, and diseases such as cancer and heart disease.  In 50% of people with addiction, genetics plays a role.  Some people can dabble in a substance and walk away; my daughter apparently couldn't.  I've been trying to learn and understand the very complex facets of addiction, the physiological effects on the brain and body, and the chemical changes that take place in the brain that make a loving, warm person walk away from those she loves.  And then the hardest part: applying t hose facts, not to some nameless statistic, but to my daughter.  Here's some myth dispelling for starters:

www.psychologytoday.com/blog/where-science-meets-the-steps/201305/5-myths-about-addiction-undermine-recovery

Numerous studies show unequivocally that shaming people does not result in lasting, positive behavior change.  So calling addicts weak, worthless, losers, etc., isn't going to give them the impetus they need to turn their lives around; it's only going to affirm what they believe about themselves to begin with, perpetuating cycles of self-destructive behavior.  There's no "magic bullet" for addiction, but there is plenty of evidence to show that punishing people doesn't help.  Rehabilitation can be very effective, if they are ready to take that step.  Certainly calling someone horrible names is not a proven or effective method to help someone get straight.  For that matter, even the word "addict" is a label and can hurt.  A person is more than their addiction; it's like calling someone in a wheelchair a "cripple."  Words can hurt.

I don't know what my daughter's future holds; everyone is different, but I will never give up hope.  I plan to remind her at every opportunity that her family loves her and we are here for her.  When she is ready to combat this beast, she won't be alone.  Even in moments of deepest grief, I believe with all my heart that eventually she will find recovery and create a healthy life.  So do the other people who really know her.  I will not allow myself to lose sight of her real self, and I see glimpses of it in our sporadic conversations, and in pictures and moments, and I hold on tight to those.

But for the sake of every addicted person out there, and their families, let's please all be kind.  Remember that person who looks terrible, whose picture you posted on your Facebook page, who everyone laughed about and said things like, "gross," and "what a loser," etc., is another human being less fortunate than you.  Consider that they may have no knowledge of, or did not consent to, that picture being online at all.  Think of some of the lowest points in your own life, and ask yourself how you'd feel if they were exploited as online entertainment.  A little empathy goes a long way.

An Unpeaceful Mind

The 1962 novel, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” was written by Oregonian Ken Kesey; it was later made into a blockbuster movie, starring Jack Nicholson.  It was filmed right here in Oregon, at the Oregon State Hospital in Salem.  The grim hospital, with its dark, decrepit, smelly atmosphere, made a perfect setting for the film featuring a mental hospital, with very little modification.  I know because I was there.

My mother’s first hospitalization was in OSH in 1969, when I was five.  She was rehospitalized when I was eight, and instead of being shielded from the gory details, I was brought to visit her there.  To this day, I vividly recall the dark, smelly hallways, the silent drooling stares of those strapped into chairs as I walked by, the smell of urine and disinfectant, and the tiny windows in steel doors, which did little to muffle the sounds of screams.  Nobody smiled, not the patients, not the families, not the staff, nobody.  Behind one of those steel doors was my mother, strapped to a table for her safety.  To this day, even after the exterior has had a facelift, those buildings are very hard for me to look at.  I still picture hell inside.

The other night, as I was scrolling through people’s facebook posts, I saw a status that started with, “You are in a mental hospital…”  It turned out to be a “joke,” with a list of things like, “the person licking the windows is…” and you tag your top seven friends to assign them their role in the situation.

I found it hard to find humor in this.  My mother’s mental illness colored my entire childhood, and made finding my way as an adult very challenging.  Not only did she attempt suicide twice, once right in front of me, but her ongoing behaviors were confusing, frightening and embarrassing.  After her shock treatments in the early 70’s, she was no longer the poet, artist, musician and den mother my older siblings knew.  I grew up with a different mom, a strange, sedated, mentally absent mom.  I grew up hearing snide remarks from strangers and seeing people roll their eyes around her, and my violent alcoholic father was unable to help me understand her illness.  Nobody thought to explain to a small child that to “commit” someone meant to put them in mental care, so when family members said they were going to commit her, I was kneeled by her side, sobbing and screaming.  I thought it meant they planned to kill her.

Over the years, other family members have struggled with mental illness and suicide attempts, and each time has brought unimaginable grief to our family.

So when I saw this post, I felt like I had been punched in the gut.  I had to say something; not to would be a betrayal of everyone who has felt this pain and grief.  I will never be able to find humor in jokes about mental illness, no matter how many times I am told to “lighten up,” “get a sense of humor,” etc.

My comment on this post was, “This is about as funny as a concentration camp or a child sex abuse ring.  A mental hospital is a sad and horrible place.”

This drew a flurry of horrified remarks about what a sick person I am and an idiot with no sense of humor, and HOW COULD I??  Comparing it to child sex abuse?  Why that’s horrible and there’s no comparison.

My point was that nobody jokes about child sex abuse.  It’s not funny, and it’s traumatic.  Are concentration camps funny?  No, they are not.  There are just some lines our society won’t cross because it’s hurtful and horrible and minimizes the experience of the victims.

Instead of understanding this, people lambasted me as some sort of pervert.  Since I don’t know them and they don’t know me, I’m not losing a whole lot of sleep over it.  They apparently didn’t see the irony of them attacking me for pointing out something was offensive, because my comment offended THEM.  The person whose post I commented on was hurt and puzzled by my remark.  I felt bad because she is a friend and it was never my intent to hurt anybody.

Perhaps child sex abuse wasn’t the best example, but then again, maybe it was.  As a child sex abuse survivor, I feel a little qualified to understand the pain involved in that situation.  If someone posted a joke about molesting children, I would be the first one to say, “That is not okay, and not funny.”  I hope I would not be told it’s just a joke, and to lighten up or get a sense of humor.

Maybe the best analogy would be a cancer ward.  How many people think cancer is hilarious?  Cancer is something that could strike anyone, at any age.  It’s not contagious but can be hereditary.  Some forms of cancer are particularly difficult to treat, and very deadly.  In any family affected by cancer, the entire family is affected.  It leaves a path of destruction, death, and sadness.  People die every single day from cancer.  EVERY ONE of these statements can also be made about mental illness.   Two major differences: cancer treatments are more likely to be covered by health insurance, and cancer victims don’t suffer the stigma and blame for their illness.  With mental illness, sometimes it’s very hard to separate the behavior from the illness and marriages and families are completely destroyed. 

As with cancer, nobody asks to become mentally ill.  People aren’t made fun of for having cancer, or called names like crazy.  You won’t see people joking about the behaviors of patients in cancer wards, even though the patients in mental wards cannot control their behavior.  Mental illness carries a very unfair stigma in our society, so much so that I was treated like a pariah for speaking out when I saw people laughing about hospitals treating these patients.  Apparently, it’s perfectly acceptable and funny to make fun of others who are sick… if it’s a mental illness.

As a child, I was unable to help my mom, but I can speak up now.  It’s not funny, it’s never been funny, and it will never be funny.  I was disappointed that not one person “got it.”  They were all fixating on my comment about child sex abuse and missed the whole point.  I was the bad guy because I pointed out that the post wasn’t funny, and they didn’t like the way I did it.  While I might have taken more time and more thought to use the cancer analogy instead, they didn’t take time to think about the main point I was trying to make, because they were too busy worrying about how I said it.  They certainly didn’t take the time to worry about being offensive themselves.

I want to stress that this person is a very good person, who helps at-risk kids, and has worked hard her whole life.  Her own family has been impacted by mental illness.  She never meant to offend anyone, and uses humor to deal with her past.  I understand that.  She felt hurt and attacked by my comment, which was not my intention.  I’m not sure I was heard, but I don’t regret saying what I said.  My only regret is hurting a friend.  It wasn’t my intention to embarrass her; I felt I needed to say something.  While my comment wasn’t graceful, it was well-intentioned.

I just hope someday as a society we evolve to the point that we can all have a little more respect.  I might post something I think is hilarious, but if someone points out to me that it’s offensive, I will at least be willing to look realistically at it and be open to criticism.  I might change my mind or remove the post, or rethink the situation.  I know it wasn’t posted with the intention of meanness; it was just thoughtless, and I’ve certainly been guilty of that.  In the meantime, this is a passing fad that will make its rounds and go away.  I look forward to that. 

If you’d like to learn more about mental illness, what it REALLY looks like, here is a great link to a list of common stereotypes about mental illness and the actual facts. 

http://thyroid.about.com/library/news/blmentalmyths.htm

Education is a great weapon against ignorance.