The Sun CAN Shine Again
Last week, two men died by their own hand in our township.
The first was an older man, in his upper sixties. He was married and had two fine daughters, and, I believe, a grandchild. He had been retired for many years, first because of disability, and then because of age. He suffered from chronic depression. I believe he was in treatment, but there must have been times when either the treatment didn't work, or he went off it, thinking he was better. When he was depressed, he would spend days inside the house, sometimes not even getting out of bed. When he was fine, everyone would know, because he would visit his friends at the bars and cafés, and take walks around town. He had not been seen for a couple of weeks, and the news suddenly arrived that he had hung himself.
A few days ago I noticed on Facebook that everyone was bemoaning the death of a young man, only twenty-two. I hadn't heard of any accident and assumed it was a freak illness, such as a cancer. But no, he had also hung himself. Someone told me that his mother had a history of mental problems, and he had probably inherited them.
If in the United States mental illness is still pretty much taboo, here it's even more so. It is considered extremely embarrassing to admit to visiting a psychologist or psychiatrist, or to searching for help for depression, or to suffering from schizophrenia or a host of other illnesses. The psychiatric hospital in Santiago is known as Conxo because of the neighborhood where it's located. It's still used in jokes, such as, "let me call Conxo to have them come and pick you up" when someone is acting silly. An uncle of mine was once an inpatient there to help wean him off his alcohol dependency. The family considered it a shame and kept it as quiet as possible. He was supposedly in the hospital for a different illness and he wasn't allowed visitors. But he did come out clean and didn't touch another drop of alcohol all his life, making life once again joyful for him and his family.
I assume this distancing oneself from mental illness as something that only affects other people, and weak people at that, is because what defines us as persons is our minds. Our personality and its projection is in our minds. If something goes wrong in our brains, our personality might change, and we might change as persons. People no longer know what to expect from us and ostracize us. It's something like, what we don't know is dangerous, let's put it away out of sight far from us. A physical illness will change our bodies, but not us as a person, which is why, though considered a shame and a pity, it's not as stigmatizing as a mental illness.
I have suffered from depression. Most of us do at some time in our lives. I went to the doctor for help, and got it. I am not ashamed of it. It was a reaction to my mother's illness, decline, and death, and I wasn't ready for it. But, with help, I came to an acceptance and let the sun back into my life. At the moment, my father's increasing fragility is allowing anxiety to come creeping into my soul. If I sense it has grown beyond a reasonable limit, I will seek help.
Each year we know more of the brain and how it works. We learn more about what makes us, us. Why should we be scared of it still? Witchcraft has been laid to rest, and demonic possessions are exceedingly rare in these modern times. We should understand that our brain is the same as our heart, and can also suffer. And just the way we have medication for our heart to function correctly, so can we have medication for our brain to let us be us.
Never be ashamed to seek out help.
The first was an older man, in his upper sixties. He was married and had two fine daughters, and, I believe, a grandchild. He had been retired for many years, first because of disability, and then because of age. He suffered from chronic depression. I believe he was in treatment, but there must have been times when either the treatment didn't work, or he went off it, thinking he was better. When he was depressed, he would spend days inside the house, sometimes not even getting out of bed. When he was fine, everyone would know, because he would visit his friends at the bars and cafés, and take walks around town. He had not been seen for a couple of weeks, and the news suddenly arrived that he had hung himself.
A few days ago I noticed on Facebook that everyone was bemoaning the death of a young man, only twenty-two. I hadn't heard of any accident and assumed it was a freak illness, such as a cancer. But no, he had also hung himself. Someone told me that his mother had a history of mental problems, and he had probably inherited them.
If in the United States mental illness is still pretty much taboo, here it's even more so. It is considered extremely embarrassing to admit to visiting a psychologist or psychiatrist, or to searching for help for depression, or to suffering from schizophrenia or a host of other illnesses. The psychiatric hospital in Santiago is known as Conxo because of the neighborhood where it's located. It's still used in jokes, such as, "let me call Conxo to have them come and pick you up" when someone is acting silly. An uncle of mine was once an inpatient there to help wean him off his alcohol dependency. The family considered it a shame and kept it as quiet as possible. He was supposedly in the hospital for a different illness and he wasn't allowed visitors. But he did come out clean and didn't touch another drop of alcohol all his life, making life once again joyful for him and his family.
I assume this distancing oneself from mental illness as something that only affects other people, and weak people at that, is because what defines us as persons is our minds. Our personality and its projection is in our minds. If something goes wrong in our brains, our personality might change, and we might change as persons. People no longer know what to expect from us and ostracize us. It's something like, what we don't know is dangerous, let's put it away out of sight far from us. A physical illness will change our bodies, but not us as a person, which is why, though considered a shame and a pity, it's not as stigmatizing as a mental illness.
I have suffered from depression. Most of us do at some time in our lives. I went to the doctor for help, and got it. I am not ashamed of it. It was a reaction to my mother's illness, decline, and death, and I wasn't ready for it. But, with help, I came to an acceptance and let the sun back into my life. At the moment, my father's increasing fragility is allowing anxiety to come creeping into my soul. If I sense it has grown beyond a reasonable limit, I will seek help.
Each year we know more of the brain and how it works. We learn more about what makes us, us. Why should we be scared of it still? Witchcraft has been laid to rest, and demonic possessions are exceedingly rare in these modern times. We should understand that our brain is the same as our heart, and can also suffer. And just the way we have medication for our heart to function correctly, so can we have medication for our brain to let us be us.
Never be ashamed to seek out help.
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