“Labels Make a Difference”

 

            The news of Robin Williams’s suicide sent me spinning. I recalled his interviews where he admitted his struggle with substance abuse and depression. The two often go hand-in-hand because many people with depression “self-medicate” with alcohol or drugs. I don’t want to go into the biology of the brain when considering both addiction and depression, but I do want to talk about the label “Mental Illness.”

            Why do we treat individuals suffering from brain chemistry disorders as though they are second class citizens needing to feel shame for their differences? We section off mood and psychotic disorders into an entirely separate category from the rest of our bodies, and that differentiation impacts how our society views wellness. We cling to a mindset that illnesses that affect the brain and personality are personal weaknesses.  

            No one blames the patient who slowly slips away with Alzheimer’s disease, nor ridicules the Parkinson sufferer for not controlling his motions. Instead, we run marathons to find cures for these diseases. And yet we treat patients with depression as though they’ve done something wrong. They are somehow responsible for the malfunctioning within their brains. If they really wanted to, they could “snap out of it” because they have good lives—people who love them, care for them.

            By labeling an entire range of disorders as “Mental Illness”, we’ve fooled ourselves into a belief system that these diseases aren’t as important to treat or cure.  Every time a tragedy rips through a family—like with a suicide; or a society—like with a mass killing, we pretend to care. For a week or two our media bombards us with signs, symptoms and treatments. But nothing really changes.

            And so sadness envelops us the day after another loss. I’ll read all kinds of articles about “Mental Illness” and feel frustrated because the label itself carries its negative connotations. And labels make a difference to that fourteen-year-old girl starving herself to shed another five pounds, to that seventeen-year-old who cuts herself just to “feel something.” Labels make a difference to that mother who cannot bond with her baby, to that alcoholic grandfather who must drink just to function.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

           

 

"Padme"

            Padme, Princess I’m A Dolly Kitty curls next to my laptop. Her spots for snoozing move around the house, changing periodically. I don’t know if the warmth from my computer draws her to my side, of if she enjoys the indulgent head rubs and chin scratching I throw her way as I write. Either way, she now spends a chunk of her day dozing by my side.

            I love telling the story on how Padme joined our family. We’d gone out of town for Memorial Day weekend, and had left my son’s iguana in his cage by the back patio doors so he could have light. I’d placed a book on the top, just to make certain he didn’t pop off the screen. However, I didn’t think about our cat, Sassy, deciding to free the iguana. When we returned home, the cage sat open and empty.

            We spent days searching for the iguana with no luck. I’d warned my son that one day we’d move something in a closet and probably find his mummified corpse. Not a pleasant idea, but part of life when you have small pets like reptiles and rodents. After a few days of searching, we decided to head to Polly’s Pet Shop and pick out another iguana.
 

            Of course, no one can enter a pet store and not swing by the puppies and kittens. We’ve stood outside those windows hundreds of times and never felt the urge to bring one home, but on that day two kittens wrestled in a tangle of newspaper. My son fell in love with both of them. Since we already had another cat and a dog at home, I told him he could only bring home one. It broke our hearts to know that we would separate the kittens, but . . .

            Padme entered out home in a non-descript brown box. We wanted to surprise my husband, who expected us to return with an iguana, not a kitten. His surprise to find a ball of fur instead of something sleek and green made us laugh.

            We quickly realized that Padme’s small size made her an easy target for moving feet. One night, my husband stepped on her head, sending her into convulsions. One of our guests for dinner that night had experience as a vet tech, and he felt certain she was fine, but we rushed her to the pet ER just in case. After that incident, she always wore a bell!

           Our Padme’s very outgoing. Many people thought we only had one cat because our other cat tucked herself away whenever company came. But not Padme. She’d stroll up to someone, bat them with her paw, or head bump in affection. Her wild mane drew everyone’s attention, her personality kept everyone under her spell.

           

 Last year, when our other cat died, Padme stopped eating. Her grief worried all of us. I moved her bowls into the kitchen to monitor her eating. By this summer, I headed back to the same pet shop for their advice on the best foods for elderly cats. She nibbles on dry Instinct—rabbit, duck, or chicken—throughout the day. And her special treat comes in lamb, pork or pheasant three times a day. She’s desperately thin, even after months on this diet, but she is gradually regaining weight.
            So I take full advantage of Padme resting next to my computer because I don’t know how many years she has left. At nearly fourteen, she’s “getting up there.” She still loves to play and still draws attention to her when company comes since she is such a princess.   

 

 

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Background Noise”

 

            Sometimes, when I sit down to write, I’ve no idea what words will appear on the page. My diligence to my craft means I put pen to paper every day (or in this case fingers to keyboard) and simply write. Many of my journal entries recount mundane trivialities of a simple life, some dip into a distant past while others slip into a hopeful future. My thoughts may focus on something currently in the news, but it’s just as likely for me to focus on the fact that it’s Friday—again.

            Then those days come where I shove aside all of the ideas that pulse in the forefront of my attention and spend time concentrating on sighs, the impatient pant of the dog laying at my feet, the distant drone of the dryer as it whubs—background noise that lets me transcend the ordinary.

            Then I hear the words whispering to my subconscious. Soft. Seductive. Evasive. A whiff of perfume that lingers in an empty room. And I hold my breath, fearful that the slightest movement would frighten my words into flight. Send them scurrying back and deeper into darkness.

            So I hunker down on my haunches, hand held outstretched with palm open in supplication. I practice patience. Wait motionlessly, head cocked to the side so I can perceive the words surrounded by heartbeats.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

“Lizard Brain”

A clear objective—survival       
Tuck head down and traipse through desert sands—       

            An Arrakis boiling with religious certitudes,     

                      ancient political nuances   

Multitudinous paths leading to destruction       
Ignore the razor winds that slice through reason   
And only hone instinct   

Survive   
Clutch the knife of insanity in your righteous fist   
Rip into the enemy’s flesh   
Retaliate—an eye for an eye—until all are blind   
Blades become bombs   
Homes reduce to rubble housing mutilated families   

Logic stumbles through the wreckage   
And gets lost in the stench of decay   
Becomes overburdened and overrun by molecular rage—   

            (Passed down from evangelist to fanatic     

                       to zealot to extremist)   

Until it dries up and dies   

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

 

 

"Tone of Voice"

I’m okay, fine       

she whispers without eye contact       

I’ve got it handled       

Don’t worry       

He misses the hollowness of her words        

overlooks her subtle cues—       

her Woman Speak       

She tucks her feet onto the couch,     

pulls herself into a tight ball under a red throw       

stares at the television without seeing       

sighing deeply       

Oblivious, he flips the channel       

to his station       

assuming—       

all’s right       

content to listen to her words       

instead of her tone of voice       

Her annoyance and sadness battle across her features       

surreptitiously, she wipes her silent tears       

waits for him to notice her heaviness       

His attention rivets on the game       

its motion mesmerizes him      

takes him away and isolates her     

She grabs hold of anger over sorrow       

indignation throws her off the couch       

propels her into their bedroom       

fuels the door slam        

He sits with bewilderment      

lost         

Cautiously, he approaches the closed door     

tentatively tapping       

Can I do something?       

No. I’m okay, fine        

I’ve got it handled       

Don’t worry       

He opens the door anyway       

pulls her into his arms       

In tenderness, he wipes the tears from her face       

We’ll handle it       

he soothes and reassures with understanding       

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman