“Another one lost.”
My brother-in-law, who always spoke softly, murmured this as he drove. I was a passenger in his car, and when I looked out of the window to find the subject of his comment, I had a good idea about what I would see. We both worked as attendants at a psychiatric hospital, and he had a cruelly humorous way of referring to those he saw on the street exhibiting signs of mental illness. I worked at the Western Psychiatric Institute and Clinic in Pittsburgh for four years, starting when I graduated from high school. I saw the true face of mental illness, and learned how different the disease was from the cartoon characterizations in the movies and comic books I was exposed to at the time. But I had some personal exposure to mental illness long before I worked at WPIC.
Mental illness is a part of my family history. My uncle, a talented jazz musician in whose band many of the era’s pre-eminent musicians played, spent a lot of time in Mayview State Hospital. I don’t know what his diagnosis was, but I remember going to see him with my mother and father. I also remember hearing of aberrant behaviors which were precursors to his hospitalizations. But it would not be until long after I had left the employ of the hospital when the illness would bloom in a body much closer to me: my youngest brother.
In September of 2016, my brother slid off the rails of reality and once again, into the dark waters of schizophrenia, the disease that had set up camp in his mind sometime in his early teens. My sister traveled from her home in Maryland to Pittsburgh, to fish him out and talk him into the hospital; I went to Pittsburgh to stay with him as he readjusted to his medications. I visited him at the hospital, traveling to his floor on the elevators whose doors had opened and closed for me long ago. I had an odd sense of déja vu as I sat on the other side of the white coat I had worn in the hallways of that building. After his discharge, I accompanied him on his follow-up visits to his doctor and therapist and met his case worker, and helped him to re-settle into his routine of competence, comfort and independence.
The subject of mental illness is prominent in the public discourse now, because some are seeking a way to deflect attention from the means, to the motivation, of those who enter our public spaces and murder us in great numbers. Specious arguments have grown like fungi in a soggy yard, but a healthier conversation should also grow in that ground. I remember seeing pins on the clothing of the hospital professionals who cared for my brother, with “NAMI” on them. I did some research. The National Alliance on Mental Illness notes on its website that it is “the nation’s largest grassroots mental health organization dedicated to building better lives for the millions of Americans affected by mental illness.” NAMI works to “educate, advocate, listen and lead” on matters related to mental illness. Dr. Mary J. Gilliberti, the CEO of NAMI writes, “although most situations do not end in violence, … we … only pay attention when violence does occur.” My brother has never demonstrated violence toward himself or others, but he does need help and understanding. We don’t have to wait for the sound and fury of gunfire to wake up our slumbering cares.
We can’t just shake our heads and murmur, “another one lost.”