This collage is how I saw Ruby’s struggle with auditory and visual illusions.
mental illness
When an Almost Tragedy Strikes Due to Mental Illness
I do not want to post another report of the incident in Florida involving Ebony Wilkerson who drove from South Carolina to Daytona, Florida with three children in tow to drown them all by driving her van into the ocean. But, I do have to comment on this case because it requires something from us that is most difficult; compassion. Compassion for Wilkerson’s children and most of all, for Ebony herself. I do not personally know any of the people involved; however, I do not believe that under normal circumstances that Ebony would have made this decision to end her and her children’s lives. She was in both a spiritual and emotional crisis.
Ebony’s family were very concerned about the state of her mind and called police for assistance prior to the incident. Law enforcement responded and found her sound enough to allow Ebony to proceed to what they thought would be a women’s shelter because of the tumultuous relationship she had with her estranged husband.
Each day something new is revealed about this story but so far, it seems that everyone did all that they could. In most states in the U.S. it is very difficult to have someone committed to a psychiatric ward unless they pose an immediate danger to themselves or others. Obviously, Ebony Wilkerson was both but there was insufficient evidence to proceed in having her committed. This is one of the frustrating factors for people whose family members are mentally ill until it is too late. The burden of proving that your loved one is mentally ill rest on your assessment which is often not valid enough, until after a mental health professional has made an official diagnoses. Whenever I hear about these situations, I wonder; “What could the family have done to prevent this?”
Now Ebony Wilkerson will become a part of the largest statistics to date; African American and incarcerated (Munetz et al, 2001). She will face charges relating to trying to commit an act of murder-suicide. If convicted, she will spend time in prison and “maybe” she will receive the help she needs. There are folks out there who say, “She needs to go to prison! She should’ve ended her own life and left her children out of it!” However, I have found that these same critics would have dissuaded her or have dissuaded their own mentally ill family members because, “Black folks is always stressed-you don’t need to be seeing no psychiatrists!” Again, Ebony’s family followed the right course of action which shows that there are no guarantees even in an idea situation. In Ebony’s case, it was good Samaritans that rescued them all.
Munetz, M.R., Grande, T. P., Chambers, M. R. (2001). The incarceration of individuals with severe mental disorders.
Community Health Journal, 37(4), 361-372.
That Girl that Comes to See Me
One of the other mental health issues that Ruby was diagnosed with was Dementia. Not Alzheimer’s disease but dementia nevertheless. There have been times when not even the psychiatrist could tell whether she needed more psychotropic drugs or if it was the dementia that affected her behavior.
For example, there was a period of time when Ruby refused to acknowledge me as her daughter. She would never say my name and along with this, she refused any forms of physical affection. My mother has never been a really affectionate person to begin with but during this period it was a lot worse. She was repelled by me. No, nothing had happened at this point between us. It was just the way she felt.
There was really no proper way to resolve her issues during this time. I definitely did not want her to be medicated with more psychotropic drugs. The dosages she was on were pretty substantial already. I chose to accept my new moniker, “that girl that comes to see me.” This didn’t stop her from sending me to the store to buy toiletries or her fast favorite foods. Was I hurt by this? Yes, but I had come to accept that even when things were ugly between us, I would still be there.
Some would say that this was a wonderful thing to do for Ruby. But, I had to implement some type of protocol to protect my own emotional wellbeing. After all, this is not some random patient-this is “my” mother. When she would not take her medications, her behavior became particularly ugly. During these times I would: limit my visits to ten minutes; decrease the visits per week; call the board and care to ask about her condition; make sure that she had the minimum of toiletries; and lastly, screen all phone calls from her.
Some may say, “That was cruel! She was your mother!!” I say that I did fulfill my role as her daughter. First, she was in a safe place. Second, I kept looking for resources to help her. It is very, VERY difficult to find a psychiatrist who specializes in geriatric care but I finally did because of my job (…will explain later). I physically checked on her enough to make sure that she was not being abused or being abusive. Ruby did not want for food or clean clothing. She could no longer be trusted in a house alone. As a working adult, I used the limited options that I had but didn’t relinquish my role as a daughter. As that girl that used to go see her, I learned self-preservation of my own emotional well-being and am the better for it.
Something Sweet
Sweet Moments
There were moments that were akin to a sunset painted in magenta or cold and sweet like the air of a new day. These moments passed quickly and if you blinked, it was like a dream that you almost remember. Ruby would be overcome with something that would solicit affection from nowhere. During those times, she would bestow upon me a trinity of kisses; cheek, forehead, cheek and say, “Sweet sugar baby.” I wanted to wrap myself in those moments and never peak out into the world again. I would say, “Do it again.” But, it was over in one breath. Sometimes, she would do it twice but never more. She would disappear into a menthol cloud like an apparation.
Those times left me so hungry for love and affection. I never really outgrew that hunger and it could easily be seen in the way that I conducted or lack of conducted most of my romantic relationships. I looked and still look at the interactions between my friends and their mothers wistfully knowing that I am forever locked out of forming what I see and saw as normal interactions even when Ruby was here.
As an adult, you have to own your life no matter what happened in childhood; still… there are some things about you that are an intrinsic part of who you are like DNA. It took me over twenty years before I realized that no matter how hard I run, I can’t run away from me. More importantly, I will never find those sweet moments with anyone else.
Every once in a while I will recall these seldom and brief sessions of affection and allow myself to feel. Sometimes, I wish they never happened because their absence felt like purgatory. But whenever possible, Ruby would allow herself to show love and I realize now that I have taken these moments and squirreled them away for the dark times when I cannot see the sun.
Soul History – The Short Version
In times when people feel troubled, most turn to their families or to their church. This was probably true of most Americans across the board especially before families migrated from a rural environment to the cities in search of work. Still, those who migrated to the cities remained within a community that shared a common culture. One example of this can be seen from the film Lakawana Blues where the main character, Rachel ‘Nanny’ Crosby’s boarding house was central to seeking safety and solace within the African American community prior to integration. Many African Americans do not see the utility of mental health and therefore dismiss it as another means for “white people to get paid.” As a result of this attitude, psychologist or other mental health care professionals are not only an aberration within the context of community, they are also unwelcomed and viewed with suspicion. What is the origin of this suspicion?
Prior to the beginning of psychology in the U.S., enslaved Africans who attempted escape were diagnosed with Drapetomania. Dr. Samuel A. Cartwright, a general medical practitioner suggested treatment for slaves who refused to accept their fate should be to have the devil whipped out of them as a “preventive measure” and treatment. Cartwright also believed that enslaved Africans who were treated humanely became too familiar with their masters and as a result, expected some level of equality. Although liberty and justice may be a part of the American Constitution, these same ideas when conceived by African Americans would take on other connotations equating black anger with madness.
Scholar Jonathan M. Metzl’s book, The Protest Psychosis:How Schizophrenia Became a Black Disease describes a period during the Civil Rights era where African American men who participated in the civil rights protests were forcibly hospitalized at Ionia State Hospital in Michigan. Their anger and participation in sit-ins, protests and other forms of civil disobedience classified them as criminally insane. All of these “patients” were diagnosed with schizophrenia.
The history above is not the only reason why African Americans are reluctant to seek help and while most people do not know about this history, the implicit messages have been passed down from one generation to the next: Do not trust doctors especially psychiatrist and psychologist.
In Need of Help
I was asked this weekend, how do you get your loved one help when it is apparent that they are not mentally healthy? This is one of the most difficult topics to cover in mental health because in many states you cannot have a loved one committed unless a.) s/he is a danger to himself; b.) is a danger to others; c.) both a and b.
In the case of Ruby’s first time in a mental health hospital, it was her sister that helped to get her admitted. My mother had taken off with me to St. Louis and at that time we had relatives there. They called my aunt in Arkansas and said, “Something’s not right with Ruby.” She brought my mother and I back to her home and it was there that she was diagnosed. I cannot tell if my mother fought vigorously against being hospitalized or not but that is when she first received help.
One of the hardest tasks to accomplish is getting a loved one help; especially if they are in the 50+ age range and have certain beliefs about doctors in general. I grew up watching people surgically remove their own corns using a razor and rubbing alcohol. This was the norm. Now, when I reflect on those times, I want to scream, “You have medical insurance! Go see a damm doctor ‘fore you kill yourself!!”
Before I go further, I will remind my readers that I do not work in the field of mental health (MH). Nevertheless, my experience in the mental health field is connected to my mother’s diagnoses and dealing with the ins and outs of the MH system.
So to respond to my friend’s question above, I would say try to get that loved one to a medical doctor if they are not in immediate danger. Also, tell the doctor about what has been happening in your home. There are physical health conditions that can manifest in the form of marked changes in behavior to where the person is deteriorating mentally.
Also, seek outside support. One of the major tools that helped me get better care for Ruby and for myself was the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). This organization is located in many cities and states. I listened to other people who were having a similar experience with their loved ones and I learned how to effectively interact with my mother when she was symptomatic. One suggestion I will make is, DO NOT ARGUE WITH YOUR LOVED ONE when s/he is symptomatic. Mental illness turns any logical argument or response to your loved one’s accusations into a never ending cycle. During these periods, Ruby accused me of being in collusion with (everyone) and to her, I was everything but a child of God, let alone her daughter.
Who Do You Turn To?
Who do you run to when you need help and how do you describe the nature of the help you need? The past forty to fifty years have expanded American society in that we discuss more and more issues openly instead of remaining in our dark closets.
One example of the new openness is sexual child abuse. When I was a child during the seventies, there was no public awareness campaigns geared toward children. Few parents discussed the “touch” that would make us feel uncomfortable. There were seldom reports on the news about pedophiles or molesters. Many of the victims of this type of abuse felt ashamed and they remained silent. These feelings were the prevailing attitude up until the past twenty years or so.
Admitting to having a relative with a mental illness or worse yet, being diagnosed with a mental illness is something that still remains taboo, especially in communities of color. When someone does need help, this is what I have heard over the years.
“Naw. Your mamma don’t need to be going to no psychologist messin’ round in her head. White folks don’ did too much of that already.” -From a Personal Conversation about getting help for my mother.
If I want help, I just call on my family. Chil’d, I ain’t bout to talk to nobody’s doctor! -From a Personal Conversation
Even though there are films such as Silver Lining’s Playbook and novels such as the late Bebe Moore Campbell’s 72 Hour Hold, it is still seen as the problem of white folks.
There is more information available online and in printed text about African Americans who have been diagnosed with a depression disorder. Still, it is more difficult to discuss other mental health issues that adversely affect us especially when the symptoms are obvious to everyone around them.
Think about that neighbor, that man or that woman who walks up and down the streets of your neighborhood talking to him/herself. Ruby’s mental illness was easy to conceal because she remained behind closed doors. Our family’s biggest secret.
The Jewel in Our Mist: Ruby and her Mental Illness
In July of 2013, my mother died. As most people who have experienced this know, the death of a child or parent is one of the most devastating events that occur in our lives. This blog does not end with her death but begins with her life and how our family was affected by mental illness. When I was between the ages of a toddler and a small child, my mother was in a psychiatric ward circa late 1960s early 1970s. She was diagnosed with Schizophrenia.
This blog is about having a parent who had been diagnosed with a serious mental illness. It is also about how ones culture and economic background can affects how the family copes with a loved one who has been diagnosed with a mental illness. Throughout the blog, I will touch upon other mental illness diagnoses but the main focus is Schizophrenia.
Disclaimer: This is NOT a first person account of Schizophrenia and is mainly observational. I am writing from an observational and reflective position because I was too young to interpret and understand its impact on our family until later. Family members who were instrumental in getting our mother help are gone; and also like many families, it is easier to get a camel through the eye of a needle than have elderly family members recall painful events from the past.
Also, I am writing from a particular cultural outlook; African American. I do NOT claim that this blog represents all African American experiences but from my own observations and talking to people throughout the years, our family is certainly not alone. There are other cultures that share similar experiences and/or beliefs about mental illness and I cannot speak to how it impacted their daily lives, I invite others to read and share. Nor is this blog a forum for advice but I will definitely have links to the proper agencies to get help.
I Hear Voices-Can You Hear Them Too? 