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When I was a kid growing up in Lawrence, there was a little man who I would see downtown sitting in a little cart that he used to get around. He sold pencils. I think he might have been blind. I’m pretty sure he was physically disabled. His problems didn’t end there. There will be many readers of this blog who could tell you his name. Centron, a local film company did a documentary about him, which I believe won some awards. I have never seen it.

Many people, when they see someone “less fortunate”, stop and stare. I looked away. It was just too painful. Perhaps it was due to embarrassment or fear or even empathy, but I couldn’t look.

As the years passed, I continued to look away. When I saw someone missing a limb or unable to control their muscles or even acting erratically, I had to look away. I just couldn’t deal with those “less fortunate”.

When my little sister was diagnosed with brain cancer, my parents did their best to insulate me from the trauma of her illness, treatment, and eventual death. They could only do so much. When I was told that she had passed away, I guess you might say that I couldn’t look; my first reaction was outright denial. For a few months, I kept seeing toddlers who I thought were her, and I had the odd notion that I could keep her inside me. She was never spoken of in our household for the next 15 years.

Later, I found that I could ignore my excessive drinking, problems in my marriage, problems at work, and overdue bills…even my emotions and other uncomfortable truths. It actually seemed like a good idea at the time, since I saw my worst problems as anxiety and insomnia. And so it came to pass that I became one of the “less fortunate”. I lost several jobs in succession and exhausted my savings, my wife left me and took the children, my drinking got worse, my anxiety and insomnia became overwhelming, and it was getting hard to look away.

I remained in a cycle of depression, intoxication and misery for a long time. I felt that alcohol and prescription tranquilizers were all that kept me from permanent institutionalization. I really tried to pull out of my tailspin, but things just got worse and worse.

My ex-wife had a saying: “If you push your fears out of the light, you’ll be afraid of the dark”. She was so right. I would sometimes make a little progress, quit drinking for a while, get a job, go into therapy, find a little hope, but I was always trying to push my problems away so they would not overwhelm me. And, always, sooner or later, they would overwhelm me and the descent would continue. Fear of fear became my constant companion.

I would like to say that one day the light came on and I knew what I needed to do, but in truth it was a long and tortuous process which took me through repeated treatment centers, homelessness, and even a brief incarceration. I learned what it felt like when everyone turned away in pity or disgust.

I think the turning point must have been when I became aware that others had been here before me and found a way out. That was out was not “away” or “around”, but “through”. I had the enormous good fortune to come under the care of people who could teach me the skills I was lacking, who could provide stability, structure and reassurance, who could address my addiction and mental illness together, who directed me to medications which didn’t just hide my symptoms but eased my way through them.

Winston Churchill said “If you’re going through Hell, keep going”. He suffered deep, unrelenting depression, but somehow managed to give hope and courage to an Empire.

My experience has been that all you need to do to recover is everything you don’t want to do. I had to accept some painful truths. I had to clean my apartment. I had to be grateful for what I had. I had to go out in public no matter how panicky it made me. When I felt terror or profound embarrassment, I had to remember that I was still responsible to take those actions which were appropriate. I wasn’t allowed to wait until something was comfortable or easy. I had to take the actions first and later the feelings would change. The world had no obligation to change to suit me; I had to change myself.

I am a long way from perfection, but today I am teachable. If, through some miracle three years ago, I’d been given all I wanted, I would have sold myself short. I know now that I never need to sink as low as I have been and when I see someone “less fortunate”, I don’t have to look away. Now I can help.

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The Recovery and Hope Network (RAHN) is a small yet wildly successful local nonprofit serving people with severe and persistent mental illness in Douglas County. Written by members and staff of RAHN (it’s pronounced “rain”), the purpose of this blog – Flying Over The Cuckoo’s Nest – is to educate people about mental illness and the possibility of recovery, to reduce fear and stigma, and to reach out to those in need and their families and friends, neighbors and coworkers.

1009 New Hampshire, Suites C & D
Lawrence, KS 66044

Tel: 785-856-1222
Email: info@recoveryandhope.org
Website: http://recoveryandhope.org
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Recovery-and-Hope-Network-RAHN/114529948569741
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