Portent of Mental Illness

            My childhood was a portent of my fight with mental illness.  A toddler lies on the floor beside his bed feeling weak and fades into his surroundings.  A kindergartner hides in a tent while friends engage in pretend battles.  An elementary student tells his younger uncle that he would commit suicide today if he knew he would go to heaven.  A child spends his evenings vomiting and crying from migraine headaches.  A junior high student’s cousin asks why he spends all his time inside the house reading.  A varsity wrestler is thrown to the mat, and then watches from above as his opponent takes control on top of him.  A high school student takes a personality test in class, and is chagrined but not surprised that it labels him an extreme introvert. 

This is my story but not my whole story.  I attended family picnics.  I played with neighbors and enjoyed competing in sports.  I loved fishing and hunting with dad.  Boy scouts, church activities, and summer camp were fun activities for me.  My biggest source of pride was my high school jacket sporting my letter for wrestling.  This is my story too, but even in moments of fun, achievement, or activity--- sadness, alienation, and fear were always near.  This was especially true at night when re-occurring dreams disturbed my sleep and jarred me awake sweating, trembling and screaming. 

Work is the Prescription

I first entered counseling and saw a psychiatrist in the Air Force.  I entered the military after completing one year of college.  I thought it would “make me a man” and that I would be part of something proud and honorable.  However this was the Vietnam War era and morale was so low that even the career enlistees were just putting in time to collect their pensions.  Worst of all “I was still me.”  Nothing had changed.  So I tried marijuana to “free my inhibitions” and “connect with myself and others.”  This did not work so I dropped a tab of acid, and saw myself as a little gypsy boy, and watched my heart explode.  For the next month walls looked shiny and plastic and everyone and everything seemed distant.  When the world returned to normal I fled to an old refuge; drank a bottle of liquor; smashed the bottle and glass against the wall; and swallowed a bottle of Darvon.  My roommate, a medic, found me with my “tongue down my throat turning blue.”  He revived me but I did not go to the hospital because he had stolen the Darvon.  Months later I drank another bottle of liquor, and took a bottle of aspirin.  This time I reported myself to my Captain, who sent me to a medical doctor, who sent me to the base psychiatrist.  The psychiatrist instructed me to attend a group session, where he sat with his tie flipped over his shoulder and a smirk on his face.  This struck me as strange and the conversation was even stranger.  I returned to the medical doctor for weekly sessions.  One day I told him about a family crisis that occurred right before my suicide attempt.  He then diagnosed me with situational depression; instructed me to keep busy; and discharged me from treatment.

This worked, sort of, for two decades.   My Air Force duties demanded an average of 60 hours weekly; I worked part time in a Children’s Hospital; and spent my free time in the gym jogging, lifting weights, and playing handball.  This made it easy to stop illegal drug use.  My Captain promoted me to staff sergeant and asked if I wanted to go to Officer’s Training Institute.  I chose instead to accept my honorable discharge, and took a job as a Lab Technician for the State of Ohio.  For two years I worked forty hours weekly; completed another year of college; purchased and remodeled a house; raised old English sheep dogs; and spent my free time at the YMCA.  However, the desire to change persisted.  This time I looked to the faith I had learned as a child.  I began to read the Bible, and prayed;

Jesus if you are real.  If you are who you say you are.  If you can do what you say you can do.  Please help me.  I have made a mess out of my life and I cannot help myself.

            Several remarkable events followed.  Within three months I decided to follow Jesus and He changed my life.  Finally I felt free and confident, and I stopped drinking alcohol.  Nine months later I entered the Salvation Army School for Officer’s Training.  Two years later I graduated Magna Cum Laude, and was ordained by Commissioning as an Officer in The Salvation Army.  The college student who could not read a five minute speech without trembling and stuttering now spoke publicly on a daily basis.  The laboratory technician, who avoided people, now performed the duties of a pastor and executive director of a religious charitable organization.  But sadness, isolation, and fear invaded my new found freedom and confidence, and they were intensified by guilt because I did not reflect the love, faith, hope, joy, and peace of the God that I served. 

Work Is the Problem

             The shadows of my childhood darkened and lengthened.   I continued to suffer migraine headaches.  They were not as severe or frequent, but they still debilitated me leaving me drained and exhausted the next day.  Every winter I experienced periods of sickness, sadness, and physical exhaustion.  At social events, as others laughed and talked, I felt distant and alone.  I was not able to handle conflict, and hard work brought growth, which brought conflict.

            Major conflict erupted between me and the lay leadership in my ninth year as a Corps Officer.  I told my superiors that I needed help, and they transferred me to a different Corps in a different state.  I worked harder than ever.  My weekly work day began with early morning breakfast meetings, and ended with evening church meetings.  Saturdays were spent at special events, and Sunday meetings lasted all day.   I founded a Women’s and Family Shelter, Homeless Day Shelter, Pre-school, and After-School program.   I expanded the correctional services, direct services, and children’s troop activities.  And conflict reached a crescendo.  The new administrative leaders at Divisional Headquarters wanted me to scale back the social programs.  The community members of the shelter committee, including a State Representative, resigned over our spiritual emphasis.  A group of homeless people publicly protested shelter policies.  The Mayor of the city, who was up for re-election, jokingly asked me why I was taking all his press time.  Hard work and the success that it brings had now become the problem.

I was physically exhausted, and emotionally drained.  One day, while driving to work, panic suddenly overcame me--- my heart started racing, I broke out in a sweat, and unfocused fear enveloped me.  I began missing work, and spent whole days in bed hiding under the covers crying.  I asked for help and my administrative leaders referred me to a counselor who diagnosed me as suffering from depression due to Clergy Burnout.  My medical doctor prescribed an antidepressant which increased my sadness and tiredness (I have never understood how a medicine that makes you sad and tired helps with depression.)  My leaders again transferred me to a different Corps in a different state, but within several months I was repeating the same destructive behavior, and I contemplated suicide for the first time in my Christian life.  Faith in Jesus Christ stopped me from drinking and acting on my thoughts, but basically life stopped.  My heart still breaks when I remember my three young sons coming to my bedroom, giving me their stuffed animals, and saying, “Get better daddy.”  But I didn’t get better.  I stayed up all night listening to news about the Gulf War.  Once a sound startled me, and I rushed upstairs terrified that someone was hurting my boys.  This prompted me to seek help.  I re-entered counseling and had a complete physical to rule out medical problems. 

 I found it difficult to talk to the Counselor.  I wanted to talk but a great weight buried me under a mountain of silence.  I took Exedrin and drank coffee before the sessions, so that I could at least respond to questions.   The counselor and my wife urged me to admit myself to a psychiatric hospital.  Memories of New York’s Rockland State Hospital flashed in my mind.  I had visited there with a group of Salvation Army Cadets around 1973.  We conducted a gospel service on the first ward we visited.   I preached to patients who sat in a circle.  One young man, whose flushed face, seemed to be in constant motion, sat on the floor with his legs criss-crossed, and he periodically seemed to jump off the floor like a Mexican jumping bean.  Next we visited a crowded ward where people stood or sat staring into space, or flailed their arms and had animated conversations with the air.  Next door a naked woman walked rapidly in endless circles.  The last ward we visited was a surreal scene from a horror movie.  People wrapped in white straight jackets lay on the floor, or sat against a white wall, blank eyes staring into another world.  My mind uneasily returned to the present, along with the childhood fear that I would be committed to a “mental hospital” and never be released.  I asked the Counselor, “If I admit myself, can I sign myself out.”  The answer was not 100% reassuring, but I knew that this was my last and only chance to live.   The counselor told me of several hospitals and I chose “The Saint Barnabas Center for Clergy,” because it was the only hospital which did not advertise itself as using a twelve step model.  Shame flooded my emotions.   Pastors are to be examples of the abundant life of Christ, not “mental patients.”  I had assured others that there was no shame in seeking such help, so I asked myself, “Who do you think you are?” and I made a commitment to fully participate in the hospital’s programs.  I knew this would be difficult, but I did not know how difficult.

The hospital staff was professionally competent and compassionate.  They administered tests to me for three days.  The psychiatrist, head psychologist, program administrator, social worker, primary therapist, art therapist, recreational therapist, spiritual director, medical doctor, and nutritionist all interviewed me.  They diagnosed me as suffering from Major Recurrent Depression and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and presented me a treatment plan.  Their observations and plan was painful to hear, but I knew they understood me and my illness.  I agreed to the treatment plan, and began to attend the groups.

I hated group therapy.  I hated the silly games.  I hated the ridiculous comments on my childish art.  I hated talking about my family, my emotions, and my problems.  I hated listening to others “wallow in their own misery.”  I hated the regular bed checks with creaking doors and blinding flash lights.  I hated signing myself in and out when I took a walk.  I feared the psychiatrist.  I don’t think it is necessary to say how I felt about the twelve step meetings.  I did not want to resist, but initially I did not participate.  However, I did enjoy the ropes course; the daily walks on the beautiful wooded grounds, and the tranquility of the meeting house on the lake.  When I did talk, and the staff confronted me, commended me, or gave me a new perspective, they were right on target.  They understood me.  They knew how to help me.

Six weeks into my hospitalization I decided to open up fully to my primary therapist.  Shortly after this I recovered memories of childhood trauma.  The terror of my reoccurring childhood dreams, invaded my day, assaulting me whenever I lay down.  I remained in the hospital another five weeks processing the memories, and learning to cope with the flashbacks.  I spent another week in transitional care preparing to return home.  My wife joined me for two days of marital counseling.  The primary therapist referred me to a psychologist in my home town, and suggested that I interview counselors until I found one that I trusted.  I quickly discovered that counselors do not like even short phone interviews, and that life “after hospital” was more difficult than life “before hospital.”  I felt like everyone could tell that I was a “mental patient,” and I felt more estranged from people than ever.  Despite this I began seeing the counselor recommended by my therapist.  He was a competent, caring, professional who referred me elsewhere when necessary.

The Work of Recovery

            I now began the work of recovery. My psychiatrist prescribed an anti-psychotic, but stopped it after one month because it made me drowsy and confused.  He also prescribed an antidepressant for nine months, which helped me resume activity.  I attended a men’s therapy group; saw a Trauma counselor and an Art Therapist; and to my own amazement attended Adult Children of Alcoholics and Codependent Anonymous twelve step meetings.  The work of recovery was a demanding full time job, and one year after returning home I resigned from the Salvation Army, and went on Social Security Disability.  I sought help from New York’s Vocational and Educational Services for Individuals with Disabilities; enrolled in college and earned a Bachelor of Science degree in Community and Human Services; and improved my knowledge of computer software programs including word processing, data entry and website design.  I engaged in extensive family of origin work, and passionately pursued genealogy.  This was my out-patient recovery work. My in-patient recovery work involved scheduled follow up counseling at the Saint Barnabas Center one year, and two years after my discharge. 

I learned at SBC that the first step in receiving help is to ask help.  Three years later I admitted myself to a nationally recognized psychiatric hospital that specialized in trauma care.  I was not in crisis, but I continued to have intense difficulty every winter.   I thought that further processing the flashbacks might alleviate this, and, stated clearly that this was the reason I sought admission.  The hospital gave me a medical exam, one personality test, one interview with the psychiatrist, one interview with a social worker, and immediately put me in groups and activities.  I never saw a treatment plan.  The second time I met with the psychiatrist, he insisted that I take medication, and when I declined he asserted “This is because of your faith.”  I denied this explaining that I wanted to do trauma work, and he kept repeating his assertion.  Finally, I explained that in my last hospital stay, the psychiatrist offered me medication, but advised me that if I faced my pain I could better process my emotions.  He replied, “Don’t interject another psychiatrist between you and me.”  I then asked if I could check myself out.  He said “Only if I do not send you to the state hospital.”  Rockland State hospital flashed in my mind.  I phoned my wife, who picked me up, and I returned home no better, but with a renewed fear of hospitals.

            I kept working on my recovery, but life was harder.  I isolated myself for the next four years by rarely leaving the house, and only answering the phone when absolutely necessary.  Our family income was two thirds less than when I was an Officer.  We moved eight times to three different states in eleven years.  I was emotionally absent from my loving wife and precious children.  The guilt over not supporting them financially or emotionally was overwhelming.  I strived to keep up with the housework, cooking, and driving the boys to activities and school events, and eventually began attending Sunday morning meetings at a Christian and Missionary Alliance Church.  A few of the members were friendly and showed they cared.  They would talk to me, and listen to me each week.  They invited me to take part in activities, and their friendliness and interest encouraged me do so.  The Elder’s asked me to teach Sunday School, and when the pastor resigned, they hired me to do the work of an Interim Pastor.   The church Elders and I worked together to reconcile and reorganize the church, and within one year we called a senior pastor.  The church achieved its goals, but I realized that Pastoral work was too emotionally demanding for me.  I concluded that I needed to change careers.  This decision, though a good one, created a void in my life, and when I could not find work life stopped again.

I asked for help and checked myself into a faith based psychiatric hospital.  I clearly stated that I wanted to be stabilized on medication, so that I could continue my job search.  Their program was a “one treatment fits all” approach.  They did not understand me or connect with me as a person.  Their favorite phrase among many tired slogans was “if you work the program the program works.”  The spiritual director identified sin as the cause of my depression and berated me for being in the hospital.  I entered the hospital on a Saturday and did not see the program psychiatrist until Tuesday.  He took me off the antidepressant that the on-call psychiatrist had prescribed.  The old medicine took two days to clear my system, and the day before “my week” was up I began taking a new antidepressant.  This time I returned home with a huge hospital bill and dramatic side effects from the medication.  I felt extremely irritable, and shaky, and I erupted in uncharacteristic fits of anger.  This was listed as a side effect of the medication so I stopped it, and went to a local psychiatrist for help.  I was all talked out.  I had processed emotions.  I had learned coping skills.  I no longer cared why I was ill.  I just wanted to find a medication that would jump start me and help me return to work.  I found a local psychiatrist who prescribed an antidepressant that had previously helped a little, but this time I had an adverse reaction.  He then prescribed an herbal remedy which I took for several years.  For the first time I began to stagnate and not move forward in recovery.

Loss of Hope

            We moved out of state but I still could not find work.  My job search became more sporadic with every non response or rejection.  I did little recovery work.  I attended church sporadically. I left the house only when necessary, but I generally performed my household and family taxi duties.  Four years passed before I took strong action to change.  I then saw a counselor so that I could be referred to a psychiatrist.  He prescribed different combinations of antidepressants but either they did not work or the side effects were not acceptable.  He then prescribed an atypical anti-psychotic, which made me so drowsy and disoriented that after one pill I threw the bottle away.  He offered to prescribe Xanex to alleviate anxiety, and I declined at least three times referring to my past substance abuse history.  Eventually I did say yes and one evening the anxiety was so high that I took a double dose.  That did not help so I took another double dose.  Then I took the remainder of the bottle and all I remember thinking is, “I will either feel better or I will die.”  My wife and middle son found me passed out on the floor beside the pill bottle.  I woke up in the hospital and learned my stomach had been pumped and I was Baker Acted.   A policeman escorted me through the hospital to his cruiser, and all I wore was a hospital gown which was open in back.  He made conversation and treated me respectfully as he drove me to the Crisis Stabilization Unit, but the humiliation of this moment was eclipsed only by my experience on the CSU.  I felt like an object---not like a person.  I received no treatment.  The staff spoke to me only when they called me to meals.  People sat in their chairs staring into space or watching TV.  The surroundings were stark and prison like.  I spent one night there and the next morning two men interviewed me in a formal legal way.  They asked me where I got the Xanex.  When I told them they said they would check out my story.  One of the men asked if I wanted to stay or go home, and that was the easiest decision I ever made. 

            My release was conditioned upon seeing my psychiatrist and attending a follow up meeting at the Community Mental Health Center.  My psychiatrist said that he did not remember prescribing Xanex.  I replied that I had the prescription bottle, and he flipped through his notes, and said, “Oh, yes, I see it now.”  When I went to the follow up meeting a peer specialist talked about her struggles with schizophrenia, and her recovery.  This reminded me of a core belief of my faith--- where there is life there is hope.  I aggressively pursued my job search again, and resumed the work of recovery.  I transferred to a Veteran’s Administration psychiatrist.  He listened to me, and his response was caring and pointed.  Finally, after over a decade of treatment, someone prescribed the recommended antidepressant for people who also suffer from PTSD, and it helped with minimal side effects. 

Work as Recovery

I renewed my job search but met the same old silence and rejection, until I read a newspaper ad for a peer specialist on something called a Florida Assertive Community Treatment Team.  I researched FACT on the internet, applied for the job, and was hired.  I am grateful to all who gave me the opportunity to return to work.  FACT Teams serve people with severe and persistent mental illness who have histories of long or frequent psychiatric hospitalizations, and help them live in the community.   I took great satisfaction that my prior work experience, education, skills acquired while disabled, and my experience with mental illness all enabled me to do this work.  However, one evening, after doing the work for about three months, with sobs I told my wife “I cannot do the job anymore.”  The next morning, I told my team leader the same.  She made some adjustments to my job which alleviated stress, and increased my contribution to the Team.  Many difficult days followed but everyday that I worked, I grew stronger.  I no longer needed medication as work had become the best medication.  This could not have been the starting place in my recovery, but it was a great place to be.

I related to team members as equals while maintaining professional boundaries.  My Team Leader gave me permission to transport willing team members to a NAMI Peer to Peer Education class conducted on Sunday afternoons.  Two underlying philosophies of the class are: 

We have more in common than not.
We respect individual experiences and individual choices. 

We discussed the isolation, stigma, trauma, loss, and grief that is common to all who experience mental illness, and how the onslaught of mental illness completely disrupted our lives.  Prior to this I portrayed myself as emotionally ill, and saw myself as different from “schizophrenics” who “were not rational.”  But the more we talked the more I realized that our issues, fears, and thoughts were the same even though our diagnosis and symptoms were different.  I stopped making a distinction between people with mental illness and people with emotional illness.  Today I often hear people with mental illness say, “I am not like other people with _________.”  We do this to protect ourselves from the stigma of the pervasive stereotypes of people with mental illness.  We are all distinct individuals, but we are all in the same boat and we need to vigorously row together to move forward in our recovery.

            I identified with the devastating loneliness, isolation, and boredom experienced by many FACT team members.  They were no longer imprisoned in locked hospital wards or locked behind bars, but some were prisoners in their own homes, and others were repeatedly victimized in the community.   I grew deeply convinced that friends, productive activities, and caring sensitive social groups are as important to recovery as therapy or medication.  I could, as a peer specialist, be friendly but I could not be a friend.  I could routinely transport people to groups or activities but this was a drop of water in an ocean of need.  I could share how not working became my biggest problem, and how work became the best medicine, but finding work can be the biggest challenge that people with mental illness face.   

The Life of Recovery

I worked for the FACT Team one year, and then accepted a job as the Senior Life Coach with the Florida Self Directed Care Program.  I needed the change.  My work with the FACT Team and Salvation Army brought me into contact with those who were the most severely and persistently mentally ill.  A significant minority of these people had a history of violence; an active substance abuse problem; and repeated incarcerations.  This, along with my own experience, and media portrayals of the mentally ill, had begun to color my perceptions about who the mentally ill are and what they are like.  The job change reminded me that people with mental illness are like everyone else who suffer trauma.  People who suffer trauma to their leg may have a bruise, a break, or an amputation, and unattended wounds can cripple or lead to death.   People with mental illness have been wounded to different degrees, and the wound needs attention, but they can heal; they can learn to cope with mental illness; and they can recover from the trauma.  The lives of FloridaSDC participants have been terribly disrupted by mental illness, but very few have a past history of violence, or active substance abuse problem.  They are either on disability, or are not able to sustain full time work now.  My work also brings me into contact with people with mental illness who are working, in responsible even high level positions.   Many of their lives were terribly disrupted by the trauma of mental illness, but you would not know that they are in recovery, unless they chose to tell you.  The character, personality, and ability of people with mental illness are a microcosm of the human race.  They have the same dreams, desires, and needs as everyone else, and like anyone with any illness they have some needs peculiar to the illness.

People with mental illness need hope to recover.  FloridaSDC participants often say, “Now I have hope.”  Hope can transform the lives of even the most severely and persistently mentally ill.  People with mental illness sometimes say that medication saved their life.  But medication is not enough when the trauma is severe and persistent.  The most important aspect of my job as a life coach is to believe that people can recover, and to convey that belief.  When people suffer debilitating physical injury, years of painful physical therapy may be required to recover.  Who would endure such prolonged pain if there was no possibility of recovery?   Recovery is hard.  Recovery takes time.  Recovery is a lifetime process.  The belief that, “I will recover,” gives hope and hope is like fresh water sprinkled on a wilting flower.  Hope renews desire and purpose, which empowers people to do the hard but rewarding work of recovery. 

People with mental illness need support to recover.  People in recovery from mental illness almost always have someone in their life that supports them through the years.  When trauma is severe and persistent, the support of society is also needed.  Support begins with encouragement.  Encouragement is seeing people’s character strengths, what they are doing right, what resources they have, and pointing this out.  Encouragement is helping people articulate their dreams, set realistic and achievable goals, and being patient and reminding people to be patient.  Support is also tangible practical assistance.  Poverty, social isolation, and idleness are traumatic by themselves, and exasperate the plight of people with mental illness.  When a person lies battered, bleeding, and dazed on the street it would be unrealistic, cruel, and morally if not legally reprehensible to just pass by, or to say “Stop crying, you wicked lazy sloth…. pick yourself up and get on with your life.”  In the same way it is unrealistic, cruel, and morally reprehensible to expect people with severe and persistent mental illness to do the work of recovery without societies support.  The most common words heard from FloridaSDC participants, is “Thank you.”  People are grateful for and empowered by support that affirms their intrinsic value and conveys concern and respect. 

People with mental illness need structure to recover from the trauma of mental illness.  It is a cruel irony that mental illness destroys hope, saps strength, and isolates its victims, leaving them without the purpose or discipline that is necessary to recover.  FloridaSDC participants often say, “It is good to have a sense of purpose again.”  I believe this is because the FloridaSDC program brings structure by placing the responsibility of recovery on the participant.  Participants identify and write out their own goals and steps to achieve their goals.  Participants are responsible to complete their budgets and reports on time.  Participants are responsible to make purchases within the constraints of program policy.  The program creates an environment that renews purpose, restores discipline, and builds confidence.  People with mental illness must take the risk, make the effort, and endure the pain of transforming their own lives, but society must create and environment where this can happen.

People with mental illness need the power of choice to recover.  Most American’s take choice for granted, and do not realize the power that choice gives.  New FloridaSDC participants sometimes say, “You mean I get to choose?”  Many take money that could be used for social activities, education, clothes, or housing and spend it on a psychiatrist or counselor of their own choice.  When people follow their own dreams they find the motivation and energy to pursue them.  When they set their own goals and achieve them, they have the satisfaction of knowing that it is their success.  When they fail it is their responsibility and not the fault of the coach, the program, or the system.  The coach is there to congratulate their success, and to remind them that failure is a learning process, but the success or failure belongs to them.  The last thing people with mental illness need are social mores or program policies, which relegate them to prisons, hospitals, or the shadow world of the homeless--- without choice---without social interaction--- without meaningful activity.  The last thing people with mental illness need are people who blame and berate them for their plight.  The last thing people with mental illness need are professional helpers who compel, condemn, or criticize.  This drives people deeper into their isolation, and smothers their desire, purpose, and hope.  People with mental illness need someone to come alongside and help; to give encouragement when life is hard; to give practical tangible support when resources are exhausted; and to believe in them enough to allow them to make their own decisions; to be responsible for their own lives; and to embrace the enjoyment of their own achievements. 

A Healing Community

            Thank God that we live in a society that has a system to care for the mentally ill,  but everyone who is mentally ill; or who has mentally ill family members; or who works with the mentally ill; knows that there are gaping holes in our Mental Health System.  We need to develop new programs, and revamp old programs, and we need to adequately fund these programs so that they can succeed.  But we will never be able to fund enough programs to meet all the needs of the mentally ill.  We need families, clubs, and social groups of all kinds to include the mentally ill as a natural part of their life. 

The segment of society which I believe has the most to offer people with mental illness is the church of Jesus Christ.  A healthy church is a Christ centered community that provides friendship, social activities, volunteer opportunities, and belief’s that foster hope and respect.  The healthy church does not need special ministries to meet the needs of the mentally ill.  People with mental illness simply need to be included in the daily life of the church community just like everyone else.  Everyone needs unconditional love.  Everyone needs to know that they are valued.  Everyone needs respect.  Everyone needs social activities.  Everyone needs a purpose.  Everyone needs to know that their life can change for the better.  Everyone needs to know that people believe in them.  Everyone needs to know that people care for them.  This is exactly what a healthy church offers, and this is exactly what people with mental illness need.

The church also needs a little wisdom about the needs of people with mental illness, and that wisdom begins by understanding the importance and power of its own role.  The segregation of different people groups in the stew of American culture is isolating us from one another, and prevents us from developing the empathy and respect that fosters mutual understanding and support.  This exasperates the plight of the mentally ill, and is a giant obstacle to the recovery of people with mental illness.  The role of the church as a loving Christ centered community is vital to American Culture, and this is especially true for the mentally ill. 

Living Life

When I wrote about my early life and experience with mental illness, my mood was dark and depressed and my words stumbled onto the paper.  When I wrote about recovery I felt light and hopeful, and the words flowed.  This portrays my journey of recovery.  Sometimes I ask myself if life would have been different if someone had reached out to me in childhood; if the Air Force doctors had prescribed medication and therapy; or if The Salvation Army had helped when I first asked for help.   Sometimes I ask myself where I would be today if my wife had not stood lovingly beside me; if I had been committed to a state hospital; if my first mental health workers had not been competent and caring professionals; or if I had not been given choices all along the way.  The longer I was severely ill the less society valued me and invested in my recovery.  What would my life have been like if mental illness had kept me from ever working or developing social relationships?   The answer does not matter for me.  What matters for me is that I cope with the symptoms of mental illness, and fully participate in life.  The answer does matter for people whose lives are now being dominated and defined by mental illness. 

By GoRdon A. Magill, First Published in "Common Threads: Stories of Survival & Recovery from Mental Illness" Edited by Patrick Hendry 2007