Mental Health

“What do you think of suicide?” he asked.

“I find it amazing,” I said, “that the mental health profession begs people who are suicidal to get help, but then betrays them.”

“How so?”

“Look. A nineteen year old who doesn’t fit in, who’s full of passion but does not know how to direct it, has been thinking about suicide for a long time. Finally things get so bad he realizes he has to do something.

“So he goes online. He sees the suicide help number. He calls it. When the recording comes on it says that calls are recorded. He slams the phone down and swears. He doesn’t want anybody recording his conversation about committing suicide.

“He’s in a panic. He looks up all the counselling services in his neighborhood, goes to their page, scrutinizes their philosophy, reads the bios of the counselors.

“Then he makes a call and a voice message comes on. He swears again but knows he has to say something. He leaves a message vague and desperate.

“A few minutes later the phone rings. ‘Oh shit!’ he thinks.

“It’s a woman. They say a few words. ‘So you’re thinking about taking your life?’ she says.

“He stammers. ‘I don’t want our conversation recorded. I need to talk.’

“‘Ok’, she says.

“The woman does some juggling of the staff’s schedule, makes an urgent call to a clinic, then calls him back. ‘Can you come in in two hours?’

“‘Yes. How much is it?’

“So he goes down. It’s a woman counselor. She promises not to record the conversation.

“They talk about his social awkwardness, the job he hates, the soul killing society he lives in. ‘No. I’ve never been abused. I had a great family life.’

“‘What do you expect from us?’ she asks.

“‘I want to see you guys one or two more times. I don’t want to come a lot and I do not want to spend a lot of money. I should be all right after that.’

“‘You are not all right now and one or two more times are not going to do it. We need five more sessions to make you stable. Can you do it?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘It’s commendable that you had the courage to seek help. You are less flustered than an hour
ago. More relaxed. So let’s make an appointment for three days from now.’

“He doesn’t like her telling him he’s screwed up. ‘OK,’ he says.

“‘But before you go I need you to promise me something.’

“‘What?’ he asks.

“‘That you will not committ suicide when you get home. If you can’t promise me that, I will call the police to take you away.’

“‘Traitor!’ he thinks. He squirms a few moments. He doesn’t like being insulted or threatened. He thinks it over. ‘I won’t kill myself at home.’

“‘You’re sure?’

“‘Yes.’ Session over.”

“But suicide help lines and local counselling offices have to protect themselves from lawsuits,” he said.

“The message machine should give people the option not to be recorded. How can I trust somebody who is recording my conversation about suicide? Who knows where the conversation will end up.

“The police thing is even scarier. I’m going to get help, then the counselor tells me she will call the police and humiliate me if I can’t promise that I won’t kill myself. It’s especially troubling when women, who are the most vocal about people getting help, and the most trusted by men to give help, put the police threat onto a client.”

“But the family of a patient would be outraged if their loved one was allowed to leave the counselling office without promising not to kill himself, then committed suicide.”

“That may be,” I said. “As far as minors go, I accept that argument. But not as far as adults go.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because that 19 year old I just told you about might never see another counselor again. As grateful as he is for having the woman help him, he doesn’t want the worry about recorded phone calls, the stress of having to choose between lying that he won’t committ suicide when he gets home and being honest then humiliated when the police cart him away like some junkie or a slob living under the freeway.”

“Most people disagree with you,” he said.

“I’d say 60% of people disagree with me. There are lots of people who think that the new suicide hot line really isn’t the great healing thing it was cracked up to be. There is still the threat of police intervention. That makes people like the 19 year old even more likely not to seek help again.

“I want to keep talking about the police. Suppose somebody was betrayed by a counselor and the police are called. So he flips and gets violent and the police kill him.

“The police don’t want him going home to possibly kill himself. But because his fear of them and the humiliation that he feels for thinking he could trust the counselor overwhelm him, he gets murdered. The police would claim it was Suicide by cop, but that’s a lie.”

“You’re too extreme.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s funny that the mental health folks are outraged when a cop kills a lunatic. The mental health people demand that a counselor be required to partner with police when somebody calls the cops about a nutcase.

“But it’s the opposite in the situation I am talking about. ‘We don’t trust you so we are going to call the people who we don’t trust and who you don’t trust to drag you to the ER to wait in line with drug addicts and gang kids.’ Then the psychiatrist, who you don’t trust, will decide whether you are stable or crazy or whether you need to take medication you do not want to take.

“If you haven’t lost your cool on the trip with the cops to the emergency room, you can give the psychiatrist a line of gibberish and thank him profusely for his service. But when you get home you’re a wreck. You don’t trust anybody.

“You need to talk to somebody about your betrayal, but what will someone think?

“They might say it’s a good thing the cops took you away. Now what? ‘I just wanted to talk to somebody’.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying lots of things.”

“Tell me.”

“One thing is to leave the police out of it. I wonder how many guys lost their cool when a counselor who they thought they could trust called the cops on them. Calling the cops was a trigger for the person thinking of committing suicide.

“Now he is dead because of the police or on a list of officially deranged people or locked up for resisting arrest. The words from the public service message keep haunting him. Get help.

“We hear that the mental health profession does not want people with bad mental health to be stigmatized. There is a photograph of a positive looking woman who has depression but is celebrated for being ‘a mom’, a professional and an all around wonderful woman who happens to have depression.

“The same thing should be said of people with chronic suicide ideation. This is Steve. He has had thoughts of suicide almost every day since 1991. He gets help when he needs it. There are a lot of wonderful, competent, loving men like Steve who know their suicide thoughts will never go away, but who desperately want to embrace the world. Make arrangements with a counselor to get yourself help when you need it – no shame, no blame – and most importantly – no police.”

“Wow.”

“I’m not finished. The mental health professionals do not want to look bad if one of their clients committs suicide. That is their greatest concern.

“The counselors do not have the maturity to say ‘It’s not our place to tell you not committ suicide. We can tell you that you have a warped brain and that you need to admit to yourself, if not to us, that you have a warped brain. We can counsel you to the best of our ability'”

“That’s it?”

“Almost. People with chronic suicide ideation can leave $1000 with a counselor. Such desperate people will know that they have somewhere to go and someone to trust explicitly the next time and the next time and the next time that they are terrified of their suicidal thoughts.”

The President Speaks: Depression

Because of the seriousness of the problem, I feel it necessary to speak during National Depression Week. I also feel that here at the Golden Gate Bridge is an ideal place to talk about depression.

At the western end of our continent is this mighty bridge, a symbol of hope for those heading to the land of opportunity.

People come here knowing the future will be theirs, that mild success in the middle of the country will be a big success here, that failure in the competitive east can be transformed here in the Golden West.

But things don’t always turn out as planned. Trying with all your might doesn’t always bring you success, happiness or love.

For those born on this magnificent West Coast, they expect to have a grand life. But assumptions do not always turn into reality.

It is no wonder then that people committ suicide from this bridge. They came to the end of the continent and failed. They grew up in paradise and failed. Life passed them by so they could not continue anymore.

Failure. It is a big part of our American experience. This is so because our expectations are very high. Whether one physically heads west, success as a result of hard work and big dreams is expected.

But even without a desire to be rich, Americans dream about greater freedom or a stupendous love life or an awesome something. We always want a lot and we always want more.

It is not surprising we are depressed. If our current assumptions continue to be held as the global marketplace creates a greater number of poor people and a greater number of unhappy angry people, America will have more cases of depression and more suicides.

Reducing depression and suicide is essential. We cannot though, because of our market economy and its inherent unhealthiness, eliminate them.

The federal government can do its part. As I have said before, we are working on affordable health insurance for Americans. We are funding drop-in no-questions-asked clinics for those seeking psychological help.

Equally important, maybe more important, are the efforts of my administration to be a much more honest administration than recent administrations and to focus on peace rather than war. It is common sense that dishonesty in government and a belief in unnecessary violence creates ramifications such as a depressed citizenry.

But Americans also have a big role to play in reducing depression and suicide. You must take proper risks. You must not want more than a job that pays well and one nice house in a nice neighborhood. The high expectations of financial success and gratification that advertising and business bombard our nation with must be rejected.

I want my fellow Americans to think for a minute. My recent predeccessors often talked about patriotism while doing little or nothing for the average American. To them patriotism entailed unblinking allegience to disastrous and dishonest government actions.

I ask you to think of patriotism in a different way. I ask you to think what you do to your country when you are greedy, when you want three pieces of property, several vehicles and unlimited freedom to be selfish.

I want you to think of what you do to yourself and your family when you accept the exhortations of the advertising industry to buy more than can make you happy and more than you can afford. People are depressed because they want more than can make them happy and more than they can afford.

I know Americans complain a lot about unjust practices of business. This is a great time for Americans to put their money where their mouth is. Spend a lot less money on people who have gotten rich on your willingness to be unsatisfied.

The real problem is a question: Do Americans want to be happy? Does America want to be satisfied with necessary comforts as it seeks tremendous happiness with an ordinary spouse and ordinary friends?

I hope by the end of my term there is a lot less depression and self-inflicted death in America.

I hope that thirty years from now the suicide barriers on this glorious bridge have come down, because we as a nation have stopped committing spiritual suicide.

Friday, June 15

Dear Jim,

How are you? I’m sitting outside at my favorite coffee shop. I just said hi to a young Asian women who sat down across from me. I was looking at her sleek expensive computer that is as attractive for a computer as she is for a woman. She was amused by my gaze at her PC. We made good eye contact.

There was another young woman sitting at the table to my right. She was tall and white. She was wearing shorts and sandals and had backed her chair away from the table to face my table. Her legs were stretched out and her feet up on the seat of the chair in front of her.

When I glanced at her feet, her toenails had horrible baby blue polish. I thought ”Oh Christ!”. It’s the shade of the season, so for the rest of the Summer I’ll be seeing toenails of women who have no sense of color.

Before the Asian woman sat down, two cute 18 year olds stood across from me. They were talking.

You know how we used to wear worn out jeans? We wore through the denim so that white threads of the material were visible. The more knee there was the longer the white threads of material were.

Well, one girl had really short shorts. The front covering her pockets was so worn and the threads so long, that you could see the whites of the pockets. I could have peeked at her undies if I wanted, and if she was 28 I would have. But 18. I cringed.

Remember the term root huggers? It always cracked me up.

What was great about the Asian women was that she was dressed modestly not sexually. I could have looked at her all day.

There’s been sad news in the world of famous people. A week and a half ago a celebrity writer and a celebrity fashionista killed themselves. They were boomers.

The media is talking about depression and getting help, about staying connected to your family and friends and neighborhood. But nobody has mentioned that these two were boomers.

We boomers took ourselves too seriously. We still do. We isolated ourselves even further from our stifling Godless culture when we claimed to know all the answers and to have the right to do anything we want.

When I saw the news I thought ”What’s wrong with us boomers?” I wonder how many people made the connection?

You should have seen the photos of the writer. He was very striking, very handsome. He looked like a man of the world- sophisticated and successful, somebody who would attract attention as soon as he walked into a room; somebody you would look to for wisdom; somebody who made you wonder how come you aren’t like that.

I was afraid when I saw the news. I had envied his success – a cook who became a great and famous writer. Now he’s dead. Am I supposed to be happy?

Another thing the media hasn’t mentioned is that boomers have contributed to the destruction of America and Western Civilization. So you can say it serves the boomers who kill themselves right, for boomers have insisted on destroying western culture. Or you can say the boomers have led the nation into the sewer, but they are not mature enough to face their shit so they kill themselves.

Ten years ago I read the beginning of his most famous book. He was working in a restaurant in the seventies. He talks about how the staff used to steal from the owner.

He told a story about the time the crew was cooking for a wedding reception in the dining room. The bride came into the kitchen, said something to or looked at the chef, then they went outside. The chef pulled up his apron, pulled down his pants, then fucked her against the dumpster.

I put the book down. I was disgusted. Like I wrote to you in July, “My generation!!”

Sunday is Father’s Day.

Love,

Dave

Friday, February 16

Dear Jim,

I’ve got two Fuji’s in the window to finish ripening. Somehow I remember you used to have bowls of fruit on your table. I think you meditated on them. You loved the still life’s of fruit of the old European guys that we saw in museums.

I don’t meditate on the Fuji’s, but I love to glance at them. There is nothing rich or subtle in the appearance of most apples. I remember you telling me that an orchard man in Wenatchee said that when he was a kid, his dad grew apples to taste good; but nowadays he doesn’t carry on his dad’s tradition. He grows apples to look good so they will sell. But that’s just it, they don’t look good. They look flashy. They look phony.

Even though I don’t meditate, I am becoming more centered. When I am doing something, I look at my hand or I look at the door knob as I turn it. I want to get to where I naturally meditate. Just have Fuji’s sitting around so I can contemplate them.

In the seventies or early eighties there was an article in Harper’s. It was about a guy in Vermont who lived in the mountains with his wife and kids. The guy would contemplate for two hours at a time.

Dad used to do that every morning before Mass for an hour. What a great combination – meditating then going to Mass. And of course he prayed before meditating.

I’ve thought of taking a yoga class or doing Tai Chi, but it doesn’t feel right. I would like to go to a meditation group where the leader doesn’t talk about peace and tranquility and all that Eastern shit, but says ”Contemplate Justice, Truth, Beauty, Freedom, Love, Lust, Hate, Fear, Confidence, Youth, the peak of your powers, falling apart.”

You are going to find peace and tranquility whatever you meditate on. It always amazes me that the chic seekers of Eastern wisdom don’t give the slightest shit about Western values. Except Prosperity.

Wednesday was Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday. What an interesting combination.

I didn’t get ashes. I hardly ever have. Dad can’t remember if he got them this year or not. I think getting ashes is an admittance that you are a sinner.

I’m usually self-conscious so I do not get them. Maybe next year I’ll swallow my self-consciousness and do it. It’s a way to acknowledge we are a bunch of sinners without getting hysterical or saying ”I was a…” But we are still sinners even if we don’t have our old bad habits.

Then there is St. Blaise Day. I used to like getting my throat blessed. In these disgusting times, it would be good to get my throat blessed as I ask God to help me not to speak profanely or with hate.

The other day I got together with my friend I lived with for eleven years. She is going through a very difficult time.

She’s a year older than I am but is always sick. Her sister is 73, an invalid. But as pale and stressed as she looked, there was something good I noticed: ”Your eyes look great. The colored parts are real luminous and your whites are really clear.”

She prays and meditates. She prays to St. Anne. She did yoga every day for at least fifteen years, but hasn’t done it lately. She listened to the same yoga tape every day. It broke after I moved out.

February is her favorite month. She loves camellias. They are looking good this year.

February has always been my least favorite month. This year, even with all the sun and wind, I have not gotten as many headaches or been as down as I usually am.

I remember a lot of times coming home in the daytime in February to go to bed because I felt so bad. Do you remember, I guess it was the late eighties, when a friend of mine moved from Sacto to the Marina? You and I and her spent a sunny drought year Sunday afternoon in February on the Marina Green.

I felt like shit. I had a sinus headache all day. I couldn’t eat. When the outing was over, you and I went to mom’s and dad’s. I was in bed the rest of that day and at least all of the next. I wondered what dad thought of me.

Tonight is the crescent moon. I’ll have to step outside to watch it.

I’ve been thinking a lot the last few years about our cousin who committed suicide. It’s something I struggle with. I was too self-important to attend his funeral. After mom died and I was grieving for her by writing her letters, I decided to write to each of our dead family members. I wrote to him. I assume I apologized to him for missing his funeral.

He was a gem like you. Everybody loved him. I’ve told some of the family that the two best of our generation died young.

Mom thought he was gay. She thought he might have killed himself because of it. When I think of him, I remember thinking that something wasn’t right, even though he was a great guy and full of goodness. I wonder if he was pissed off at our aunt and uncle and our cousins.

That was a tragedy. If I ever see our cousins, I will apologize for not being there for them.

That’s it for now Jim.

Thanks for letting me get this off of my chest.

Love,

Dave