Let me tell you a story.
My parents are divorced, which is not uncommon in the 21st century. The difference between their separation and others is much more complicated. Fast forward a few years after the divorce, and I am living with my father. My aunt stepped up and helped support our family. One night, my aunt asked my father, older brother, and I to sit at the dinner table. My younger brothers were asleep. She came out and told us that she had colon cancer. The rain pattered on the roof and my brother and I looked at each other with dread, not knowing what would happen from there.
The amount of support that our community, other family members, and friends gave us was overwhelming; every day, I got hugs, people telling me that everything would be okay, et cetera. What I couldn’t believe, and still can’t completely comprehend to this very day, is the difference between how our family was treated when my aunt got cancer, as opposed to my mother and her situation.
When I was a child of around the age of eight, my mother started to act differently. She didn’t have the motivation to get up in the mornings, and she would lash out emotionally at random times.
One morning, my alarm clock went off, and I rubbed my eyes, looked at the mirror, brushed my teeth, and got dressed for school–seemed like any other morning. I walked downstairs to find my mother talking.
“Hey mom, I have to get to the bus stop,” I told her.
She shook her head a few times, back and forth, and whispered “no, no, no” to herself.
I walked to her slowly, and tentatively reached out my hand to touch her arm, saying, “Mom?”
She flinched and started to talk. My living room at the time had a olive green love seat, wooden rocking chair, and a couch. Right in the middle, pushed up against the wall, was a grandfather clock. She started to talk to it, asking who it was. After a while, I remember walking away, getting my little brother, and going to the bus stop, leaving her there.
My neighbors treated us strangely, giving us obscure looks, as if we had the crazy gene and should be avoided. My friends stopped being my friends, because their parents asked them not to. This is what happens in today’s society when someone has a mental illness. This is what happens when a societal issue goes on without reform.
It wasn’t until my parents had started the process of divorce that my father told my brother and I that our mother has Bipolar Disorder and Schizophrenia. The divorce was not about her disorders–but the fact that she was unable to remain with my father in a healthy relationship. She was put in a mental institution shortly after the divorce to receive the help she needed. She lives a happy and healthy life today with my grandparents. One concept to keep in mind is that people with mental disorders are still people. Don’t treat them as other simply because of their afflictions.
1 in 4 Americans have a diagnosable mental health disorder. Only 50% of these are treated. The reason is because they are shoved behind hushed doors, and the people told to snap out of it. The illnesses are treated as character flaws, not chemical imbalances of the brain. This ableism, or the discrimination, stereotyping and prejudice against people who have mental disorders, is a rapidly growing problem in the United States.
If you are reading this and believe that you need medical attention, do not hesitate to receive it, no matter who or what is telling you otherwise. If someone has a broken arm, they go to the doctor. If someone has cancer, they receive chemotherapy. If someone believes that they have a mental disorder, they need to see a therapist or a specialist to help.
If you are someone who does not have personal experience with a mental disorder, don’t give into the stigma. Instead, spread awareness of mental health so Universities, High Schools, and neighborhood communities can support people in need.