Dear Mr. President,
On my way to work this morning I read a New York Times report on an increase in serious mental illnesses on college campuses and corresponding budget cuts which limit the amount of help students can receive. While my own college experience certainly corroborates this, at least anecdotally, my thoughts went first to a mentally ill man we'd recently caught shoplifting at work. When my coworkers and I stopped him he seemed docile enough (if completely delusional) but once in custody he apparently became quite agitated and made threats against the lives of the arresting officers. A man with a similar illness recently committed a murder in my neighborhood, and so the idea of this shoplifter being released worries me for the safety of those who might cross his path once he's released.
There is an old police superstition about the increase in crime and craziness around the full moon. I've heard it from my parents, from other cops, and from the family of law enforcement. I don't know if I believe this. There is a certain amount of mystery to law enforcement I suppose; there have been times when just looking at a person has told me that they're going to steal. I know my coworkers have experienced this, too. I like to think our brains are perceiving something-the aggressive gait, or the furtive looks- that our conscious minds can't identify. But, absent proof of this, I have to at least consider the possibility that maybe there is some small supernatural aspect to understanding when people are ill-intentioned or dangerous. Maybe the full moon means something. (If so, tonight's lunar eclipse is going to make the whole city nuts.)
I don't think that crazy people can be dismissed as solely a celestial phenomena. Our city (and our state, and our country) need to do more to treat the mentally ill-both to ensure public safety and to help individuals function in society. That this area seems to be the quickest to be cut during budget battles is unsettling. Reading this article about the struggle to keep students in crisis alive, I couldn't help but wonder what could possibly be more important than treating those who pose a risk to themselves or others. As I talk to my peers and appreciate how many of us are frustrated at living life constantly struggling just to get by, I can't help but sympathize with those seriously ill I encounter who aren't even doing that well. Because if it's the economy or stress or the full moon, if it's college kids or homeless schizophrenic shoplifters, we all have an interest in understanding, treating and minimizing the harm of mental illness.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Showing posts with label mental illness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental illness. Show all posts
Monday, December 20, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Day 338-The Moral Lie
Dear Mr. President,
While I am generally opposed to lying, and do not tell many lies, there are certain lies I tell all the time. I don't think this makes me much different from most people, and I usually carry on with little notice of this hypocrisy. The polite constraints we expect of one another in most casual conversations compel a certain amount of dishonesty. I think that most of the lies I tell are for the sake of politeness. But, today at least, dishonesty weighs heavily on my conscience.
I have been staring at this page for hours now, wondering if I have the courage to finish this story. I have written before about stigmas surrounding mental illness, the way a frank admission of depression and its effects can change the way people look at you, the way they treat you and the esteem they hold for you. I have experienced both sides of this disdain and am loathe to subject myself to it. To be honest about my struggle, to be honest about my history would be uncomfortable for me and for those who think they want to know about it. And so I lie, for every one's comfort. Or so I tell myself.
When I was very young, and for years after I was old enough to know better I was troubled with compulsive self-injury. It may ring falsely to those who do not understand this, those who see only the stigma, the cliché, to describe myself as passively affected, the direct object of such acts rather than their perpetrator. And I am theirs to judge, I suppose. My history with it is long and complicated and over. I have shut the book on that struggle, on that part of my life and, most importantly, on that behavior. But the evidence of it remains, and will likely remain on my skin for the rest of my life. I don't think it is fair that I should be judged by the mistakes of my younger self, that I should be defined by this aspect of my past, no matter how far it is behind me. When questioned about these old scars, I tell myself that those who ask really do not want to know the story behind them, and it gives my conscience no trouble lying to them. It is, after all, for their own good.
Today I was asked by some one I have slowly come to trust and I lied anyway, almost without realizing I was doing it. I don't imagine he is the type of person to ask questions he does not actually want the answer to. Because I look for his approval the same way I would look for that of a role model or mentor or even a brother, I realized even as I was in the process of lying that I was doing it for my own protection and not for his. I was lying because it is important to me not to be seen as weak or emotionally disturbed. I was lying because of my own ego, my own fear, and I could not pretend that there was any nobility, any honor, in this fiction.
Which brings me, once again, (and rather oddly,) to Wikileaks. As I hear each new story, as each new lie is revealed, I find myself wondering not at the government's dishonesty but at its justification for this dishonesty. The gossipy diplomatic cables I understand. I don't care if a US diplomat thinks Vladimir Putin is Batman and doesn't want the world to know. (Honestly, I'd be more surprised at this point if Vladimir Putin wasn't Batman, but I can see how it might cause some discomfort.) These are polite obfuscations that help every one save face. The body counts in Iraq, the corruption in Afghanistan, the 22 dead children in Yemen, however, are not lied about because they are impolite topics of conversation. These are lies of ego, lies of fear, lies born of the greater self-delusion that they are kept from the American people for our own good. Even the idea that bringing these crimes to light will put American troops in greater danger is, I believe, misguided. The people of Iraq and Afghanistan (and Yemen. And Palestine. And God knows how many other places.) know who is killing their children and empowering their corrupt leaders. This information is only secret to the American people, and it is kept secret from us not to protect us but to protect our government from our reaction to this knowledge. And there is no nobility, no honor, in these fictions.
My past is full of dark things and terrible stories and many people will not want to hear them. But I cannot pretend I hide the past for the protection of others. I hide because I am ashamed and I hide because I am afraid. And so do you. So does this government. Our greatest lie is not when we hide the truth from others but when we tell ourselves that we lie for a greater good.
I did not write this letter to call you out for these lies. Clearly, I have no moral high ground to claim. We are both liars and we are both deceived by our own lies. I wrote this letter because I have been quick to condemn your dishonesty while slow to notice the same tendency in my own life. I understand why you lie, and why you convince yourself it is the moral thing to do. I just don't think that you really believe it any more than I do.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
While I am generally opposed to lying, and do not tell many lies, there are certain lies I tell all the time. I don't think this makes me much different from most people, and I usually carry on with little notice of this hypocrisy. The polite constraints we expect of one another in most casual conversations compel a certain amount of dishonesty. I think that most of the lies I tell are for the sake of politeness. But, today at least, dishonesty weighs heavily on my conscience.
I have been staring at this page for hours now, wondering if I have the courage to finish this story. I have written before about stigmas surrounding mental illness, the way a frank admission of depression and its effects can change the way people look at you, the way they treat you and the esteem they hold for you. I have experienced both sides of this disdain and am loathe to subject myself to it. To be honest about my struggle, to be honest about my history would be uncomfortable for me and for those who think they want to know about it. And so I lie, for every one's comfort. Or so I tell myself.
When I was very young, and for years after I was old enough to know better I was troubled with compulsive self-injury. It may ring falsely to those who do not understand this, those who see only the stigma, the cliché, to describe myself as passively affected, the direct object of such acts rather than their perpetrator. And I am theirs to judge, I suppose. My history with it is long and complicated and over. I have shut the book on that struggle, on that part of my life and, most importantly, on that behavior. But the evidence of it remains, and will likely remain on my skin for the rest of my life. I don't think it is fair that I should be judged by the mistakes of my younger self, that I should be defined by this aspect of my past, no matter how far it is behind me. When questioned about these old scars, I tell myself that those who ask really do not want to know the story behind them, and it gives my conscience no trouble lying to them. It is, after all, for their own good.
Today I was asked by some one I have slowly come to trust and I lied anyway, almost without realizing I was doing it. I don't imagine he is the type of person to ask questions he does not actually want the answer to. Because I look for his approval the same way I would look for that of a role model or mentor or even a brother, I realized even as I was in the process of lying that I was doing it for my own protection and not for his. I was lying because it is important to me not to be seen as weak or emotionally disturbed. I was lying because of my own ego, my own fear, and I could not pretend that there was any nobility, any honor, in this fiction.
Which brings me, once again, (and rather oddly,) to Wikileaks. As I hear each new story, as each new lie is revealed, I find myself wondering not at the government's dishonesty but at its justification for this dishonesty. The gossipy diplomatic cables I understand. I don't care if a US diplomat thinks Vladimir Putin is Batman and doesn't want the world to know. (Honestly, I'd be more surprised at this point if Vladimir Putin wasn't Batman, but I can see how it might cause some discomfort.) These are polite obfuscations that help every one save face. The body counts in Iraq, the corruption in Afghanistan, the 22 dead children in Yemen, however, are not lied about because they are impolite topics of conversation. These are lies of ego, lies of fear, lies born of the greater self-delusion that they are kept from the American people for our own good. Even the idea that bringing these crimes to light will put American troops in greater danger is, I believe, misguided. The people of Iraq and Afghanistan (and Yemen. And Palestine. And God knows how many other places.) know who is killing their children and empowering their corrupt leaders. This information is only secret to the American people, and it is kept secret from us not to protect us but to protect our government from our reaction to this knowledge. And there is no nobility, no honor, in these fictions.
My past is full of dark things and terrible stories and many people will not want to hear them. But I cannot pretend I hide the past for the protection of others. I hide because I am ashamed and I hide because I am afraid. And so do you. So does this government. Our greatest lie is not when we hide the truth from others but when we tell ourselves that we lie for a greater good.
I did not write this letter to call you out for these lies. Clearly, I have no moral high ground to claim. We are both liars and we are both deceived by our own lies. I wrote this letter because I have been quick to condemn your dishonesty while slow to notice the same tendency in my own life. I understand why you lie, and why you convince yourself it is the moral thing to do. I just don't think that you really believe it any more than I do.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Day 321- A letter I will surely regret writing
Dear Mr. President,
This morning my American Indian Law class had a guest lecturer from our University's law school. He gave an interesting talk on local water rights disputes, and I asked several questions, trying to place the local issues in context with the international water disputes I study in another class. After the bell rang and students lined up to shuffle out, I thanked him for the lecture. My professor began speaking to him and, before I was totally out of earshot, began telling him about me. As much as my ego enjoys overhearing complimentary descriptions of my academic abilities, I hurried out, knowing exactly what would have to come next. This professor, who has encouraged me to consider law school and who has praised my engagement in her class, does have a significant reason to be disappointed in me. I'm often absent from class for no legitimate reason. Her class is not unique in this respect- I have skipped many of my classes this quarter (and over the course of my long college career.) While I have often formed a close bond with professors, or at least a significant rapport, all of the most encouraging and supportive instructors have had the same complaint about my attendance.
For years, for probably my entire life, I have struggled with anxiety and depression. I won't blame my poor attendance entirely on illness, mental or otherwise, because there have been plenty of times when I just sleep too late to make it to class. More often, however, the idea of getting out of bed, or leaving my apartment, or even going through the doors of the classroom has just been too much for me. I will stare at my ceiling, or the door, and I will give myself permission not to go. I will try to rationalize this behavior, claim that I'm not prepared, or that I don't need to go because I've done the reading, but the truth is I often just can't get past the physical anxiety or despair.
As it is now, missing class is pretty much as bad as it gets. There have been times in my life, especially as a very young person, when my depression got so out of hand that I was not functioning at all. I've tried therapy and medication, finding little success with either. One constant, however, has been my inability to discuss these problems frankly, even with professionals. I'm usually the type of person who can narrate the struggles in my life like they happened to some one else. I'm pretty comfortable telling a perfect stranger about my last awkward crush, (partially because it makes for such a good story) but I won't talk to my closest friends about the way depression can paralyze me, make me withdraw and unable to do something so simple as get out of bed.
Part of my reluctance to talk about it is certainly related to cultural stigmas about mental illness. Once close friend who used to struggle with similar problems now works for the defense department and was refused a post outside of the US on the basis of her mental health issues, despite years of very successful treatment. Celebrities who come clean about eating disorders or suicide attempts are called brave, while a politician must carefully hide any hint of similar problems in their past for fear of being viewed as unstable or unqualified. I say I'll regret writing this letter because, even more than my radical leftist politics, revealing this aspect of my life to the unending memory of the internet is damning to any future in which I might wish to be taken seriously.
This isn't to say I feel I should be held to a different standard. Getting out of bed this morning may have been more of a personal victory for me than it would be for most people, but that's not all I'm responsible for, now that I'm awake. I have goals, and I have expectations for myself that have nothing to do with being depressed or not. I don't think that depression is an excuse for me to be satisfied with an ordinary life. Similarly, I think it is completely unfair that any one else would change what they think of me or my abilities because of it. As humans we all have our own struggles, our own challenges to overcome and our own disadvantages. If one of my challenges is to keep depression from affecting my academic performance, it certainly isn't my life's greatest, only the one I have been taught I must be the most ashamed of.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
PS
Our guest lecturer this morning mentioned that your administration, while more ambitious and better at communication than the previous administration, has failed to live up to your promises for improving Native American rights and addressing the social, economic and environmental concerns of many tribes. The Bush administration, he said, wouldn't give tribal leaders a meeting, flatly refusing most requests. Your administration shows up to the meeting, hears the concerns, and then says no. While this may represent a small kind of victory, it sounds to me like you're giving yourself too much credit for making it out of bed. Being better doesn't mean much when the bar has been set so low for so long.
This morning my American Indian Law class had a guest lecturer from our University's law school. He gave an interesting talk on local water rights disputes, and I asked several questions, trying to place the local issues in context with the international water disputes I study in another class. After the bell rang and students lined up to shuffle out, I thanked him for the lecture. My professor began speaking to him and, before I was totally out of earshot, began telling him about me. As much as my ego enjoys overhearing complimentary descriptions of my academic abilities, I hurried out, knowing exactly what would have to come next. This professor, who has encouraged me to consider law school and who has praised my engagement in her class, does have a significant reason to be disappointed in me. I'm often absent from class for no legitimate reason. Her class is not unique in this respect- I have skipped many of my classes this quarter (and over the course of my long college career.) While I have often formed a close bond with professors, or at least a significant rapport, all of the most encouraging and supportive instructors have had the same complaint about my attendance.
For years, for probably my entire life, I have struggled with anxiety and depression. I won't blame my poor attendance entirely on illness, mental or otherwise, because there have been plenty of times when I just sleep too late to make it to class. More often, however, the idea of getting out of bed, or leaving my apartment, or even going through the doors of the classroom has just been too much for me. I will stare at my ceiling, or the door, and I will give myself permission not to go. I will try to rationalize this behavior, claim that I'm not prepared, or that I don't need to go because I've done the reading, but the truth is I often just can't get past the physical anxiety or despair.
As it is now, missing class is pretty much as bad as it gets. There have been times in my life, especially as a very young person, when my depression got so out of hand that I was not functioning at all. I've tried therapy and medication, finding little success with either. One constant, however, has been my inability to discuss these problems frankly, even with professionals. I'm usually the type of person who can narrate the struggles in my life like they happened to some one else. I'm pretty comfortable telling a perfect stranger about my last awkward crush, (partially because it makes for such a good story) but I won't talk to my closest friends about the way depression can paralyze me, make me withdraw and unable to do something so simple as get out of bed.
Part of my reluctance to talk about it is certainly related to cultural stigmas about mental illness. Once close friend who used to struggle with similar problems now works for the defense department and was refused a post outside of the US on the basis of her mental health issues, despite years of very successful treatment. Celebrities who come clean about eating disorders or suicide attempts are called brave, while a politician must carefully hide any hint of similar problems in their past for fear of being viewed as unstable or unqualified. I say I'll regret writing this letter because, even more than my radical leftist politics, revealing this aspect of my life to the unending memory of the internet is damning to any future in which I might wish to be taken seriously.
This isn't to say I feel I should be held to a different standard. Getting out of bed this morning may have been more of a personal victory for me than it would be for most people, but that's not all I'm responsible for, now that I'm awake. I have goals, and I have expectations for myself that have nothing to do with being depressed or not. I don't think that depression is an excuse for me to be satisfied with an ordinary life. Similarly, I think it is completely unfair that any one else would change what they think of me or my abilities because of it. As humans we all have our own struggles, our own challenges to overcome and our own disadvantages. If one of my challenges is to keep depression from affecting my academic performance, it certainly isn't my life's greatest, only the one I have been taught I must be the most ashamed of.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
PS
Our guest lecturer this morning mentioned that your administration, while more ambitious and better at communication than the previous administration, has failed to live up to your promises for improving Native American rights and addressing the social, economic and environmental concerns of many tribes. The Bush administration, he said, wouldn't give tribal leaders a meeting, flatly refusing most requests. Your administration shows up to the meeting, hears the concerns, and then says no. While this may represent a small kind of victory, it sounds to me like you're giving yourself too much credit for making it out of bed. Being better doesn't mean much when the bar has been set so low for so long.
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