Showing posts with label mental illness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental illness. Show all posts

Monday, 18 June 2012

Stigma and Prejudice: Where do we Draw the Line?



It happened again. I had a conversation a number of months ago and I am still reviewing it my head. This is how my brain works; I write articles and stories in my head like some people experience a song playing over and over again. I know there is nothing to be done other than to write it down and spit it out. Hang on to your hats you might not like what I have to say.


On May 8th I was a guest of WOTCH Community Mental Health at the 2012 Breakfast of Champions here in London. This celebration recognizes individuals who have tirelessly and successfully worked in the field of Mental Health Care. Michael Landsberg of TSN was the guest speaker; he is a consumer survivor, which means he is a working individual who admits he has a mental illness. As he was presenting to the audience he used the familiar phase, “They have stigma and I need to bust through it.” The gentleman who was sitting next to me whispered a response to this statement, “I hate it when they use that term stigma. It is prejudice.” There it was, the remark that I have grappled with since.


            My first course of action was to connect with this provocative man via Twitter to see what he was really trying to say. It was as I heard, he does not see stigma as stigma but as prejudice. Fine. Next I turned to the dictionary, which was maybe where I should have started from. Stigma is a mark of disgrace, a stain or reproach on one’s reputation. Prejudice is an opinion formed without taking time and care to judge fairly. Stigma is an internal action; as is disgrace, so can only be realized through the individual who has a mental illness. Prejudice is the external label attached to an individual who has a mental illness, without time to consider first (maybe to save time or brain cells).


            I can now clearly see that we as mental health advocates are interchanging the two. I am now wondering are we trying to be polite? Do we do this because of political correctness?  I know I did it out of pure ignorance. But I can no more. I must call a spade a spade and I will no longer view prejudice as stigma.


I, as a consumer survivor can still harbor stigma about me, but if I turn my way of thinking onto another mental health consumer, I am prejudiced. This means if I think someone who has suffered through a serious mental illness can not work as well as someone who has not, then I am prejudice. If I think that I need to decide for a mental health consumer how their recovery should look than I am prejudice. Likewise, if I think that I will never work again because I have a serious mental illness than I am dealing with stigma. And if I decide that my recovery can go no further than where it is, it is stigma that is my barrier.


            I have been enlightened; stigma is not the only barrier prejudice is the greatest. From this point on I will draw the line. I suspect that until someone realizes they are prejudice they can do nothing to change. So I invite you to take a long look at yourself. Are you prejudiced?

Monday, 2 January 2012

Break

Alice was crying again. It was only 6 am and she was once more sitting on the floor of her washroom crying tears of heart break. Alice was a dark-haired, chubby, pipsqueak of a women. She therefore could sit quite comfortably on the 2ft, by 2ft square which made up the floor of her bedroom washroom. Alice had been crying like this, curled down on the floor gazing up and out the bathroom window, for days now and she could not for her own life put her finger on why. She just did.
This morning was much like the previous mornings. She got up at 5:30 am, did her shower in the downstairs bathroom (so she would not wake-up her husband Jack), came back upstairs, made coffee, said good morning to Jack as he wondered past her on his way to his den, then went into her bedroom and with in seconds she would like a zombie walk towards her tiny bedroom washroom, close the door and then collapse into tears.
         Alice had always shed her tears in the privacy of a washroom. What an unusual room this washroom was. Five years ago when Jack and Alice had been house hunting for their starter home, they had looked at this house. Jack felt it was in a good neighborhood, with a great back yard, and of course the price was right. Alice felt the bedrooms were too small and that the bathrooms were weird. The house had three. One in the basement with only a toilet, a sink, and shower; then there were two on the first level of the house, a large bathroom located off the central bedroom hall, and then this tiny water-closeting, washroom, with only a sink and a toilet, which was connected to the principle bedroom.
Jack had insisted, “When the time is right and we have enough money saved we will fix things up more to your liking Alice. But the price of this house is good; we should just purchase it right away.” And so they did.
Alice had come to love her little washroom; it was her hiding place, her crying place, a place to hear herself think.
         As Alice sat on the floor and shed her morning tears she looked out the washroom window. The morning sky was so blue and lovely. She could see the many branches of the trees which canopied the house’s back yard. What Alice could not see as she gazed through her tears was why. Why did she marry Jack? Why did she go to work every day? Why did her gut feel so awful? Why did her limbs ache? Why could she not read a book anymore? Why could she not eat anymore? Why? Why? Why?
         Alice sat on the floor of her little washroom and wondered these things for the umpteenth time: still no answer came to her; just heart broken tears. Then she heard the familiar thump of Jack’s feet as he walked around the kitchen, and she knew with in minutes he would be in the bedroom getting ready for his work day. So Alice got up, ran the cold water, and splashed it on her face.  
Jack came in the bedroom. He was talking to her now, but Alice had stopped understanding what Jack said a long time ago. What she had discovered about her husband is that he was always happy when she said yes to him and always angry when she said no. Alice had decided she would no longer say no, she did not like it when Jack was mad.
         That morning, Jack noticed nothing unusual about Alice when she came into their bedroom from the washroom. To him she looked as she always had. Her hair was already up in its bun, and her face was nicely washed. Alice was not a raving beauty but that was the way Jack liked it. She wore no make-up and her clothes were simple and not flashy, again that suited Jack just fine.
Jack was ready for work first, “Alice I feel like a good beef stew tonight for dinner.”
As Jack left the bedroom Alice smiled and answered “O.K.”
Alice was alone again in her bedroom, but she knew she could not go to the washroom now for she had to get to work. 
         For many years Alice had been a receptionist at a social service organization. She never did like the job. She meant with so many strangers all day long. It frightened her. What were they thinking? Were they able to hear her thoughts? Her thoughts were very loud you know. Some of the strangers at her work looked at her as if they could hear her thoughts. But she would not let on that she knew this, it was just better not to. Her boss did not like it when she did, so she had decided it was best to do just what her boss wanted her to do. To ask the strangers who they wanted to see and then to tell them to have a seat as they waited. Sometimes though; the strangers that Alice knew could hear her thoughts, would sit and stare right at her. She did not like this and wished her boss would tell them to stop.
         So upon first glance, it was just another work day for Alice; eight hours of sitting at the front desk, trying hard to listen to her boss, her co-workers, and the many strangers. But Alice would not make it into work that day. And she would not call into work to give reason for her absence. This day was different then the rest. Alice just knew she would never go back there again. It was not that she was angry; it was just that she was done. So instead of going to work, Alice went to the park. She found a bench and sat down. There was where she spent her work day. No one bothered her. No strangers listening to her thoughts. No boss getting upset with her. No co-workers telling her all the things they thought she should know. She sat, watched the birds flutter around the pine trees. There seemed to be hundreds of trees in this park, Alice decided she needed to know for sure. She spent that day counting the trees. There were 105 trees exactly in the park where Alice sat on the bench for her work day.
         At dinner time Alice was back in her weird house, Alice undressed in her room. She hung up her work cloths and put on her house clothes. Jack said he wanted beef for dinner tonight. Alice began to brown the beef chunks. She hated the smell of browning meet, always had. She stood still and watched the cubes of meet brown, and began to see the face of the cow who supplied this meet for Jack’s dinner. There it was, in the middle of the pan, mooing at her. She understood what it wanted. She turned off the heat so then the cow would be able to reclaim the chunks that had been taken from her body. Alice did as the cow told her to. Jack needed supper. Alice would suggest he eat some cereal. It was filling and nutritious.
         Jack and Alice spent that night fighting. He wanted beef stew for supper not cereal. But Alice knew the cow had already reclaimed her cubes. She was whole again and Jack would just have to get over his disappointment. Besides, he should not eat cows, or pigs, or fish, or lambs, or birds, or dogs, or cats, or rats. He should be glad that Alice saved him from all those dead animals that would come back and ask for their flesh to be returned. Jack should take her advice and eat cereal. But he would not. He left the house angry, and went to grab a burger. Alice went to bed and as she lay in her bed she realized she had not yet cried. She always cried after work, after cleaning up supper, and before she crawled into bed. But tonight, she simply went to sleep.

©Holly Ballantyne  December, 2011

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

In Consideration of Mental Illness

Sometimes, those of us who suffer with mental illness take some perverse comfort (perverse because; who should really wish their fellow human beings ill) in the knowledge that we are not alone. I am no different. When I was first diagnosed with chronic depression I needed to see what that illness looked like. As is my nature, I began to ask lots of questions which lead me to books on the topic.

Did you know that the author of the nineteenth century novel Frankenstein, Mary Shelley, was chronically depressed? She wrote the following in her personal journal,
“ My mind slumbers and my heart is dull—is life quite over? Have the wreaks and storms of the last years destroyed my intellect, my imagination, my capacity of invention—what am I become?”

Mental illness was treated very differently in the mid-nineteenth century. Patients were tided down, kept in the dark, or worse. Back then, mental illness was a subject that was never spoken of for the fear of what would happen to the ill person. Unlike our own experience, Mary Shelley had no one to model what mental illness looked like. She suffered in silence, in private, and only confessed her fears and conditions to trusted friends,family, and in her very private journals. I am grateful that mental illness is not so stigmatized (though there is still room to grow). All I can say is thank goodness for books.
©Holly Ballantyne 2011

Thursday, 19 May 2011

Onset


Schizophrenia is a devastating illness that affects hundreds of thousands of Canadians each year. The cost to the individuals and their families is extensive. The onset of the illness can be rapid, with the start of the symptoms over a few days or weeks; well others will develop their symptoms slowly over many months or years.

In 2004 Angus began to exhibit behaviors that were unusual for him. A young man of 20, he was a caring son and brother, a student studying at the University of the Fraser Valley, with the hope of entering into a social work program. But the gradual onset of schizophrenia grounded his hopes for a number of years.

The following selections come from journal entries and letters written by me; Angus' mother, through-out the gradual onset of his mental illness.

Dr Seiman: G. P. 
Diagnosis: Depression 
Effexor 100 mg.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

February 10, 2005
Angus never sleeps anymore. Awake day and night. For days! He wanders in circles at home; he wanders in circles on the streets: always with loud, angry music playing on his Ipod with the head phones on. The look in his eyes is so different; my son has become a stranger to me. What is happening?


March 11, 2005
I am a wreck! My ability to focus on my daily tasks is challenged minute by minute. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture and none of us sleep these days.
Angus and I spoke today; he admitted he is not doing well but is not ready to get help. He does not wash or change his clothes, he hardly eats or sleeps. He spends a lot of time alone in his room having heated discussions with the voices in his head. As a result, his voice is raspy from all the work he gives it.  When Angus looks at me, a stranger looks into my eyes. Clearly he does not know who I am. I can no longer touch him, I miss being able to hug him. I miss his company. I miss my son.


Please remember that this is original work that can not be reprinted without the consent of the author. Blog entry Copyright 2011.