Out of the Last Closet – On Living with Mental Illness

Some readers may remember a piece I did on social worker Donna Sue Johnson a few issues back. She’s an amazing person, and the first twenty minutes of the interview provided the information on which the article was based — a chronicle of her lifetime of service to the mentally ill and chemically dependent, as well as to the LGBTQ+ senior community.

After this part of our phone conversation was over, I couldn’t resist revealing to her that I was speaking to her from the basement recreation room of a group home for the mentally ill and chemically dependent. She laughed and correctly guessed my diagnosis: schizoaffective, bipolar type.

This diagnosis is, to my best self-evaluation, correct. It means, in my case, that I hear voices that, coupled with the instability of my mood, alternatively assist me in carrying out the tasks of daily living and impede my efforts to accomplish them. I have, in more clinical terms, difficulty in organizing my thoughts and actions, though I am “high functioning” for a nut job. Hence, I can write a little.

How does it play out? Let’s say I want a drink of water. The voices will probably encourage me to get to the sink and pour a glass, but they might insist that I first make my bed or do some other tasks. This can go on for some time while I’m thirsty, but as these tasks multiply (mania) I might eventually fall into a funk, realizing that this is ridiculous, and why can’t I get a drink of water (depression)? If all this doesn’t really make sense to you, you’re lucky. You’re not crazy.

Medical professionals feel that the voices I hear are probably the result of an imbalance in brain chemistry involving, most importantly, the neurotransmitter serotonin. I therefore take a variety of psych meds, the most important of which are Lamictal (a mood stabilizer) and Rexulti in combination with Seroquel (the first of which, in further combination with Prozac, helps address the voices and some of my bipolar symptoms).

Frankly, I also swallow down a few tranquilizers such as Ativan, when necessary, and I’ve been known to self-medicate with food and compulsive behaviors (like binge-cleaning) to get through the worst of what the voices throw at me. Accusations and recriminations from the voices (usually baseless) can lead to paranoia, confusion, guilt and fear. Sometimes, I lie in bed and weep. If necessary, I go into the hospital for a few days: they throw the I-Ching and reshuffle my meds and I get back home and try again. I mean, what the Hey — it’s only torture. You can’t let it ruin your life.

More than the pills, God helps. God is very real to me, and some people, including medical professionals, feel that some of the voices I hear may be spiritual rather than strictly psychological in origin. My own spirituality finds its basis in the Christian tradition, particularly the Catholic denomination. I consider myself Catholic (and I’m abstinent, as the Church proscribes for observant gay members, though even if the church decides to bless gay marriages, I’d still be abstinent — I just don’t need the drama). I also find spiritual support coming from Christians of every description, Buddhist, Jewish and Muslim friends, and compassionate atheists who believe God is “imaginary” and my and anyone’s faith-life is a delusion.

On the contrary: when I pray, my prayers form a conversation with God (“real” or “imaginary”) which often can be revelatory and comforting, and sometimes can assist me in counseling others. A deeply sane but faith-filled friend of many years has referred to me several times as a “mystic” (she believes one of the voices I hear sometimes is God or is inspired by God). A priest once called me a “prophet” (he believes I am ecumenically loopy). First and foremost, I consider myself a damn, fat old man who just turned 59, known as “Geezer” in my group home.

My work at this group home is small in scale, but important to my mental health as well. I have what I call a “Peanut Butter Ministry,” which involves gathering up my scant personal needs money to provide PB&J sandwiches and other snack food to people who miss meals or are hungry between meal times. Through donations, I also provide house coffee between meals. Most of the 31 residents here are younger people, (primarily men but a few women, too) and they always have the latest phones and video game consoles, but never anything to eat when hungry, and rarely winter clothing or a pair of shoes when whatever they’re wearing gives out (I’ve given away more Goodwill-cheap clothes than I’ve bought for myself in the past few years … don’t get me started on the lack of care given to the mentally ill when it comes to basic, physical needs).

Donations of games, especially cards, are gathered, and notebooks, pens, drawing materials and other recreational supplies find their way here through my efforts as well. Our youngest resident was a cheeseburger in paradise last summer when I managed to get a basketball backboard for the parking lot.

I’ve also been known to break house rules and help residents with cleaning and organizing their space (recall the binge-cleaning I mentioned: sometimes it’s to good use) and getting their laundry done. And don’t forget cigarettes. Most all of us smoke, us crazy people, and countless informal counseling sessions have started when someone asks me for a “square.”    

My emotional reward for this small and inexpensive work is bountiful! “This place would suck without you,” I’m regularly and quite soberly assured. A few months ago, three of the residents approached me on the porch of the house, wished me a Happy Father’s Day, and told me they had decided to buy me a tattoo since they’d noticed I don’t have one, and what tattoo would I like? Kind of a deer-in-the-headlights moment for a religiously conservative old codger like myself. Well, I still don’t have any ink, but it’s the thought that counts.

So: I’m a writer, a nut, a Christian, an impoverished philanthropist and gay to boot. I live an uncertain and sometimes precarious life with people on the fringes of the fringes of society. And I’ve been blessed. I’ve been blessed.

I’ve been blessed.

———

See the pillars shadowing slats

Of patiod spring mornings

Flecks of white drifting by

The smoke from cigarettes

Of unquiet minds

Mixes with moisture

From dew-cool grass

Breakfast coffee is rationed

But plentiful

Toast and cereal, white and sweet

The house awakened by fruitless healing efforts

Turn over in bed

Linger awhile out of the sun

Let sleep the sickness

– Arthur Diggins

The author’s illustrated poetry book, “Houses Without Door: poems on Schizophrenia and living with mental illness,” is available on Amazon.