Nuts by Eric Blumberg

Just a busy little boy, 1950’s Manhattan.

Americans should be very proud of themselves for finally stumbling into the third decade of the 21st century by engaging in a full-throated (if ridiculously contentious by far too many Americans) dialogue about homophobia, transphobia, racism, misogyny, antisemitism, misogyny islamophobia, ageism….the list goes on. 

The question now remains as to whether we have it in our hearts to embark on a separate journey of compassion and understanding in regards to a protected class who strive to obtain our empathy. I’m speaking of  the disability we can’t see. I’m speaking of mental illness. 

When I was growing up, my parents came to the conclusion that I was slightly different than the norm and sent me to see a child psychiatrist named Dr. Friend (seriously). He, in turn, prescribed a popular tranquilizer, Miltown. Consider this foray into the realm of brain science as a foreshadowing of the pain and suffering both my parents and I would have to overcome before I could set out on my life’s evolution. Mental illness was evident on both sides of the family, my father’s depression, my cousin’s suicide, my mother’s neuroticism, and perhaps generational trauma of having escaped the pograms of the czar, and escaped, prior to Hitler, the Holocaust.

Jump cut now to the end of my 2nd year at Beloit, when the right age, and the right genetic components, landed me in two psychiatric hospitals after which time I spent two years medicated by Thorazine and Prolixin while receiving weekly doses of electric convulsive treatments (shock therapy) all with the aim of arresting the illness, then diagnosed as major depressive disorder. Through someone’s grace, it worked. I was then able to recoup my sanity, work six years in a neighborhood butcher shop and resume my college career, which included a 3.87 undergraduate grade point at Hunter College and acceptance into a fellowship in the graduate school of journalism at the University of Texas.

It was during those years in Austin, in my final year, that my true diagnosis became apparent.  I was stricken with a ferocious onset of mania after which I was hospitalized (by myself) and given my true cross to bear, bipolar disorder. It was a cross I did indeed bear well as I was able to become a successful journalist, radio talk show host, a certified peer specialist whose charge it was to assist others living with a mental illness in coming to grips with their own so-called demons and finally a writer and educator.

The aim of this personal preface has to do with the 15-20 percent of the American population that either has or will soon have a diagnosis of a particular brain disorder, such as severe depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, schizoeffective disorder, anxiety disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder or substance use disorder, to name just a few.

People living with a chronic brain disorder exist on the final frontier of societal acceptance. Today, those who live with other chronic conditions such as cancer, diabetes, asthma, epilepsy, AIDS, etc., are not, however, misunderstood in the same fashion. Likewise, those living with brain illnesses are often afraid to let others know of their disability. Why is there so much fear for such a significant segment of the population to disclose its conditions? Why do we still use terms such as “crazy” or “out of their minds” to identify folks who are simply ill? 

There are, I believe, two reasons for this. One is that many people who live with a brain illness have been relegated to the fringes of our society. Many are poor, live in inadequate housing (if they are not unhoused) and must make do with Supplemental Security Income and Medicaid. The second reason rests on the shoulders of those who are frightened by them: lack of education. For conditions that have been so extensively documented, so many Americans are simply ignorant.

It wouldn’t take much for these folks to become learned about these chronic illnesses. However, so many simply turn their backs and live, instead, in their own world of delusions. In that case there is little to be done since there is no way to force knowledge on those who continue to believe that people living with a brain illness have been stricken because they are inherently bad or that God sees them as unworthy of so-called normality, We live in a country where we lose over 50,000 to mental illness a year, for many reasons.

For me, I know who I am: I’m intelligent, non-violent and capable of living successfully in any area to which I put my mind. Sure, I take medications on a daily basis to ensure that all of this is possible. Of course, I continue to seek and receive professional help including psychotherapy. But most importantly, I accept what I have without complaint and strive to minimize whatever effects my illness might present.

Why is it then, I must always live with the realization that when people learn of my condition, I run the risk of being labeled a nut.

Category healthcare, mental illness | Tags: bipolar disorder, healthcare, LSD, mental illness, Miltown, schizophrenia, shock therapy