There’s an old family story. Apparently in the steamy New Jersey summers, my great Aunt Mildred used to send her children outside to play, pull the shades and lock the doors, strip down to her birthday suit and clean the house. When I was a teen, having neither children nor a house, I didn’t give the anecdote much thought. In my twenties, I thought she was quirky. Oh, my quirky aunt. In my forties, I thought she was a rebel. Oh, my rebellious aunt. About ten years ago it dawned on me that maybe there is more to this story. Maybe a mental health issue?! Am I doomed? Are we all vacuuming naked?!
For about five years, I have had a title on my list of books to read, called Vacuum in the Dark. When I hear of a good book, I jot it down, without any qualifiers. Just a title. So when I finally ordered the book on inter-library loan, and sat down to read it yesterday, I was completely blown away. As often happens, It was the exact right book to read at the exact right moment. Is it quirky? Yes. Is it rebellious? Yes. Does the book somehow remind me of my great Aunt Mildred? Absolutely.
It’s time to be real. Too many families, for too long, have been sweeping things under the rug. Fact: My brilliant (admitted to Dartmouth) great-great paternal grandfather suffered some kind of social anxiety. He ended up a night watchman at his father-in-law’s shoe factory. We were always told this story as some kind of admonition. Don’t end up like Pop Chase! Never was it presented in a way to wonder about the real issues he might have been facing.
Fact: My father suffered a nervous breakdown, as it was known then, in his mid-forties. He had become so stressed that he lost his job, and developed a painful skin condition. I specifically remember, as a boisterous 7-yr old, tip-toeing around his looming, boxer-clad, ghost-like figure in the living room. Why wasn’t he at work? Why was he in boxers? What an upside down world! Dad was home after school and Mom was hushing us four ….”Shush! No noise! Your father is resting!” Eventually he moved out of our busy home into a studio apartment of sorts while he recovered.
Fact: My ex-partner regularly experienced bursts of anger over trivial matters (how an onion was sliced), and one time boxed me in the ear, resulting in spray of blood. I have seen my living son react like that, changing on a dime. One minute riled up. The next, completely calm. We called them ‘episodes’.
Fact: My niece suffered from Postpartum depression with her first child. Fortunately, her husband recognized the seriousness of the situation and took her to the hospital. She recovered, and now has three beautiful children, two of them teens. A teacher and active mom, she continues to advocate for mental health. When she felt herself slipping lately, she posted her feelings on Facebook. I was at once shocked and grateful. Thank you, millennials, for talking about the tough stuff!
Fact: Hours before my son Lucas died, he admitted himself to an emergency room, thinking he was ‘crazy’. The intern asked if we had a family history of mental illness. “No,” he replied. I quickly corrected the record. “Yes, definitely.” I wondered if the anecdotes we told of his ‘eccentric’ relatives were only stories to him, that somehow didn’t involve him. Young people can convince themselves of invulnerability, certainly. I also knew that he had just commented, a few days before, “Mom, I think I am two different people.” Upon hearing that and several other disconcerting statements, I made an appointment with a psychiatrist so he could discuss his jumbled thoughts with an expert. She recommended immediate treatment. Little did I know the hospital would release him without even a cursory glance by a psychiatrist, give him a bus pass, and basically send him off to his death.
Questions swirl around my brain every day. Would they have taken him seriously if he had looked rougher, like the other patients in the Psych Ward, who mostly arrived straight off the streets? Even in his disturbed state, Lucas came across as calm, well-spoken, dressed neatly in his signature button down shirt (for the pocket) and shorts. Would they have taken him seriously had he been dressed like a slob? Had he been female? Older? Younger? Would they have treated him if his problem had been physical–a broken leg, say–rather than mental? I want to believe the answer to that last question would be affirmative. But I will never know the answers to the other hypothetical questions. And not a day goes by that I don’t ask myself–for the good of society and for my own peace of mind–what is wrong with our health care system and what can we as individuals do to fix it.
Back to my great Aunt, vacuuming naked. With the curtains drawn. Or my dad, in boxers in broad daylight. Curtains drawn, of course. It wouldn’t do to let the neighbors know of his ‘episode’. Or my son, alternately pacing the halls and sitting shocked into silence at his beloved late grandma’s home, while he struggled internally with whatever inner demons had taken up residence there. With curtains drawn and even lights off. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” I asked him. “Are you doing OK?” “Yep. Just thinking.”
What if we turned on the lights? What if we talked about our stress, our fears, our demons? What if we admitted we are not perfect, or balanced, or whole, at least not all of the time? What if we–as my niece did–reached right out onto Facebook to say HELP! Every child knows that dragons and other terrifying evil beings thrive in caves, in darkness, in secrecy. If we stop vacuuming in the dark, if we reach out when feeling overwhelmed and connect with others, will we allow ourselves to heal? There is strength in numbers. There is also strength in knowing you are not alone.
Mental illness. Talk about it.