She is Me

Why are Americans so reluctant to talk about mental illness?  Why is it kept a secret?  Why is it most people’s first reaction to look away quickly when confronted with someone exhibiting behaviors that appear like symptoms of mental illness (or worse yet, stare…)?

I wonder if it is because we know that we, too, are mentally ill.

I mean, aren’t we all?  Don’t we all experience depression, anxiety, racing minds, isolation, suspicion, or “different-ness”?  Maybe not to the point of diagnosis or medication, but if we do a thorough, honest self-assessment I tend to think that the vast majority of us would find things in ourselves that concern or embarrass us.

This is not to downplay the seriousness of mental illness.  Someone who talks out loud to themselves but recognizes it is their voice and not that of a stranger (me) has a much simpler row to hoe than a person diagnosed with schizophrenia who hears and speaks to voices often.  Rather, thinking about mental illness this way may normalize it some.  May make it less “other” and less spooky.

What brought me to this concept and realization today was watching my Chinese artist friend (who is mentally ill) out my window.  She visited the Little Yellow Pantry to get groceries, and then she bent down.  I thought perhaps she had dropped something, or that a treat had fallen out of the pantry and she was picking it up.

But no.

I watched as she very carefully picked up a bright yellow daffodil that had fallen over.  The stem was not broken, but just very bent and the poor flower could no longer stand on its own.  She righted the bloom, but as she let go, it fell again.  And even though it was cold, she took the time to gently lift it again, this time tucking it behind the post of the fence to give it support.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I said to David, “David, she is me”.

You see, I, too had seen that injured flower.  I had walked carefully around it on the sidewalk, not wanting to harm it further.  But I had seen it.  As did she.  We noticed.

But she went out of her way to care for it.  It didn’t matter the temperature.  It didn’t matter that passersby (or me) were watching her.  What mattered was she saw a creature in need.

I have realized in the last few years that I see the world differently than others.  I see details.  I see what my heart wants to focus on.  I can look past the huge pile of clutter to narrow in on the beauty.  My Chinese artist friend also sees the world differently.  She sees art.  Others see a metal can – she sees art.  Others see a rock – she sees art.

Maybe we all see the world differently?  I could dig that.   Maybe we can never ever understand another person’s perception. 

But maybe we can try to squint our eyes a little bit.  Change our focus.  Squat down, stand on tippy toes.  TRY to peek into another person’s world. 

Because maybe if we all gave that a go, we would understand that with all of our differences, we are also all the same.

 

*Note - These are my own thoughts.  I am not a mental health authority or expert.  I am just a woman with a tender heart, and many musings in my head.  Please accept my apologies if I have used incorrect terminology to express myself.  I would appreciate feedback on how to be more well-versed in discussing mental health and illness.