TheBanyanTree: Today's blog post

[NancyIee at aol.com]

If you  live with someone who has mental illness, or if you know someone  
with
mental illness, you know it's not a picnic. It is not entertaining in  the
least, no matter how unintentionally funny they may be. 

Certainly a post to ponder.  When Charlie goes off the tracks, we  scoff, 
and say, he's got money, fame, talent, blah blah, what's he got to get  wacko 
about. We watch like those watching a terrible accident. We crane our  
necks to see the wreck so we can say, Isn't it terrible. I'm not there, thank  
God.
 
Why is it that when the rich/famous meltdown, we have something to say, or  
observe with pitying glee, and think he can do whatever he wants because he 
can  always get out of the jam, and the poor slob next door who sits alone 
in the  dark and fondles a loaded gun gets lost?
 
There is nothing I can do to help Charlie. He has family, co-workers,  
friends, and his own entourage, if they care to help.  I cannot help  Charlie, 
but perhaps I can notice the slob next door.  Maybe I can't help  him, 
either, but, maybe I can check on him, notice him, see if he has family or  
friends who give a damn.  I am not a mental health worker, but mental  illness has 
touched my life. It's the unseen ruins beneath the smile.  My  past as a 
teacher of mentally challenged children is nowhere near knowing how to  help 
someone having a meltdown. I do know that love, compassion, enabling are  not 
answers, are not enough.  I wish I knew what  was.