Ideas2Words Words2Minds Minds2Action

I am a strong believer in evolution and, as such, I have always wondered why some of the deadlier mental illnesses have survived the weeding out process. I read one article that proposed a possible answer that also incorporates the link between creativity and madness (documented in very good studies, by the way).

I wish I could find the original article (it is probably one of Redfield-Jamison’s) because I’m going to give a 2nd grader version of the original thoughts. Oh well, better to get the idea out than to wait until I get organized! Just think of this as the trailer for an article you’ll want to find yourself. So, here goes:

Since mentally ill people are generally less concerned with staying “in the box,”* at least when they are most ill, they are more likely to see solutions to problems that others think are unsolvable. I’m thinking here of mania and hallucinations — I have no idea what benefits depression brings; maybe better designs for mattresses. What seems possible, even obvious, to a sick person is way out of bounds for normal people.

Regular Joe: “No, silly, we can’t get across this gorge. It’s impossible. Let’s just go around.”

Sick Joe: “Yeah, but what if there were two massive columns holding up enormously thick ropes that held other ropes, which held up long planks of wood … You’re right; that is stupid. I’m stupid. I have nothing to live for…” Sick Joe’s idea, later credited to Regular Joe.

Therefore, even though a very high percentage of these people end up killing themselves, their usefulness to society could have already been substantial. Maybe that’s also why chicks dig even the ugliest artists — to keep their creative qualities in the gene pool.

I find it interesting that sick people generally kill themselves after reaching sexual maturity, giving them just enough time to make some sort of contribution to society. A moment’s thought will yield the obvious biological explanation for this. I just think it is interesting how elegant evolution solves the problem of species optimization.

*In America, managers are always telling people to “think outside the box.” When we do, though, they quickly admonish you for not being realistic. “It’s all that book knowledge you depend on. You would have learned more if you spent that time working in the real world.” Days later, “Yes, sir. That was MY idea. My trusty employees checked out the numbers to make sure MY idea was workable…”

WHEREAS, I would like to make this blog as close to a daily as possible; and

WHEREAS, Many of you have much experience with suicide, suicidal ideation, suicidality (both acute and chronic); and

WHEREAS, I am in a bit of a funk and am not inclined to get out of bed, let alone write something pithy and profound;

I propose that one or more of you SP (sick people) or FnF (Friends and family) or even one of TDHP (those damn healthy people) write today’s entry. Just enter it as a comment below.  And, thanks in advance for helping me keep this project going through my little “crisis of the week.”

Suicide.  There, I’ve said it.  You can try it to.  Trust me, it won’t kill you.  Nor will it kill the person with whom you associate it.  It’s just a word.  It has no special powers beyond the specific definition it encapsulates.  We hender acceptance of the disease when we use euphemisms such as “ended it all,” “gave up,” and (my personnal favorite) “took the cowards way out.”
The same goes for “depression,” “bi-polar,” “manic depression,” “suicidal,” “attempted suicide,” “mental health hospital,” etc.  These do not need to be exchanged for “feeling down,” “moody,” “mercurial” (although, that word is kind of cool), etc.

When we give the word special power to turn down eyes and stifle conversation, we give up on communication in the most direct and honest way.  No one ever says “heart disease” with a whisper and an anxious look around the room.  Consequently, we can talk openly about heart disease without fear of killing the party or being crossed off next year’s Christmas list.  Heart disease has been normalized as has tuberculosis, broken bones, and cancer.  Indeed, even spinal meningitis doesn’t carry the social stigma associated with “depression” and “suicide.”  Let’s say the words, let’s talk about the problem, let’s discuss the social and emotional implications, let’s get it out of the closet.

Altogether now:

“Suicide” it’s not such an evil word.
“Suicide” not the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
“Suicide” can kill you like a heart attack.
“Suicide” ignore it, but it’s coming back.

“Depression” it’s just another bad disease.
“Depression” say it over till you say it with ease.
“Depression” will get you if you don’t take care.
“Depression” it’s treatable, so don’t dispair.

Keep singing this until the words roll off your tongue.  The next person who calls to check on me had better say, “Hey, I heard you were suicidal.  How’s that going?  Have you found a good doctor yet?”  Well, for now I’ll settle for “Wow, suicide.  Man, that’s tough.  So … how about them Bears?!”

In Cherished79’s excellent account of one of her suicide attempts (http://cherished79.wordpress.com/2007/07/05/suicide-the-taboo-word/), she mentioned how seductive suicidal ideation is. I cannot agree more with her on this point.

I don’t think TDHP (those damn healthy people) fully appreciate the degree to which suicide is not only a real solution, but indeed a very seductive solution to those of us who have been in pain for so long, to those for whom “tomorrow” is a four-letter word. “Yeah, and then I have to go through it all again tomorrow….”

I have often thought of my suicidality as something of an addiction. I use it as a coping mechanism for hopelessness and impotence–-a bad one, of course (right?), but one that is there no matter the circumstance. “I may not have a bright future and I may not have the power to feel better or to change this or that asshole, but I do have power over whether or not I will continue to suffer through it all.”

Recovering alcoholics often say, “One drink is too many, 100 is not enough.” It is the same with my addiction to merciful death. If I entertain the thought for even one moment, it grabs me and holds my attention until I’m walking through the door, keys in hand, intending to drive … well, let’s just say “not into the sunset.” I don’t have the luxury of thinking to myself something so meaningless as, “If I have to listen to him complain one more time, I’m going to kill myself!” As harmless as this one thought is to TDHP, it is one thought too many for me.

I just stumbled across a fantastic blog about mental illness which I found fascinating and very well written (http://cherished79.wordpress.com/). This sparked a thought that I have not had in a very long time: just because I’m sick doesn’t mean I’m incompetent. I have not been much of the Wonder Boy these past six months, but before that, I was quite good at my job and, at the risk of sounding immodest, a great many other things as well. I had somehow allowed my recent crisis to edge me into that most hopeless of places “utter worthlessness.” I was absolutely convinced as recently as yesterday that I had nothing left to offer, that I was simply taking up space in the world, living purely out of habit. At one point I was even trying to decide if my kids would be better off with the money from my life insurance policy or with me for a father for the rest of their lives. Is this not obviously insane? For some, but not for everyone.

I bet many of my fellow patients have had similar thoughts. Those thoughts slip in remarkably easily for the depressed. It’s like that drink that really was “too much.” Not the last one which is rather obvious in its arrival as it is usually accompanied by … well, you get the picture. No, a dark thought is rather more like that drink somewhere between “just grand” and “whew, I’d better slow down.” Certainly much before “I’ll never drink again.” That critical drink, the tipping point, slips in without the slightest hesitation for consideration and judgment. And that’s precisely how it snares you. These thoughts of utter worthlessness are insidious–and deadly.

I have always read that depressed and bi-polar people were more creative and artistically accomplished than the general population. I don’t know if this is true or not. The truth of the matter, though, is irrelevant. I suspect we are at least as capable as the general population when we are stable, but even that is not relevant. Whether we are better or worse than the general population, we are good at something and there is value in that, even if it is only existential. Many philosophers have offered the pursuit of happiness as The meaning of life. Obviously, their conceptions of “happiness” varied substantially, but the point is still valid: it’s the pursuit, the action, the doing that is important. The outcome will be whatever it must be, but we are never worthless so long as we can move our limbs or our thoughts.

So, go forth and add more verbs to your diary; I can tell you from recent experience it is a hell of lot better than staying inside and staring at the walls all day. It costs a bit more, but, as they say, “you get what you pay for.”