“R” and I sat glued to our conversation, astonished and excited that, by some amazing coincidence, we both had a passionate interest in what we were talking about: how mental distress tends to be handled by the psychiatric or medical professions – not to mention friends and neighbours — with sometimes tragic results. In her case, the result has been the suicide of three people in her life. She believes that all could have been prevented with good therapy. Instead all were prescribed pills.
Her cousin Grayson* was 19 years old when he ended his own life. A budding poet, six months earlier, he had miraculously extracted himself from a serious motor cycle accident “by jackknifing himself up and into a bush” she said . He dazzled people with his gymnastic and diving skills. But her feeling was that in his family, he felt unheard, his father was a “withholder”. At one point earlier in his teens Grayson had decided not to speak for a week – and “no one noticed”. He must have felt very powerless. He was only about 16 at the time.
He had been hospitalized for depression. In the end, he took an overdose of his pills. Within a short time, in grief, his girlfriend also took her own life. His mother was hospitalized for awhile, with a ‘psychotic breakdown’. Decades later, after being told by her doctor that she was a bother to her family, she also took her own life. He apparently told her this, even knowing that she was “manic-depressive”. Would most of us not, at a minimum, find this insensitive? A doctor…?
R and I, it turns out, both feel strongly that there is such a thing as effective therapy, that it should be easily accessed. We both also felt that all of the aforementioned events, as well as most depression and mental illness, are a product of ‘environmental factors’. Regardless of what ‘experts’ say.
I can hear it now: “You can’t say for sure therapy would have helped.” “Maybe different pills would have worked.” “It was probably in their genes.” But to me, her description of the relationships in the family, the “communication styles”, all sound like a certain type of family culture that seems so familiar – a kind of destructive sub-culture: A family in which people don’t talk about feelings. And not only don’t acknowledge feelings, but barely acknowledge each other.
Similar in certain ways to to the writer’s family in ‘What Disturbs Our Blood’ (by James Fitzgerald). The family members don’t even come close to fulfilling basic needs that all family members have: to feel acknowledged, openly loved and accepted, and hopefully some affection thrown in. Instead, there’s an atmosphere of judgmental silence, physical and emotional distance.
Six months after Grayson’s death, his younger brother Jeremy (17) was using marijuana, which appeared to trigger a breakdown (possibly repressed grief, she thought) and was hospitalized, where he received electro-shock therapy. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and has been coping with that for decades. His last hospitalization was 13 years ago. His ‘excellent health and balance’ since that time, R credits to “Feldenkrais ‘body movement’, journal writing, art therapy, accupuncture, homeopathic medicine and a psychiatric nurse and doctor, all of whom act, through him, as a team.” He has also used reflexology, massage and directs his own care. In your dreams, as they say. In my dreams, certainly.
And so the story goes. Who knows when or where it will change, or end. This tragic narrative was one of many I’ve heard since I started talking about my uncle who was hospitalized for twenty years with a diagnosis of “schizophrenia”. When people hear our own story, they often open up. It seems most families have had to deal with some form of mental illness. And the more we talk about it, the more we contribute to reducing stigma.
A few weeks ago, another woman I’ve known for 40 years told me about her niece having a psychotic breakdown and being hospitalized. She would not have mentioned it if I had not shared my thinking. Why? “What would people think!?” Stigma is as simple as that. Stigma. “…a distinguishing mark of social disgrace: the stigma of having been in prison”. And ironically, as a society, are we not imprisoned by our ignorance? People dare not admit to any kind of emotional or mental distress for fear of others’ silent judgments. Doesn’t that just add to the tragedy?
How do we change it? As a society — or as individuals — what changes are we willing to make?
A collection of Grayson’s poetry was put together by his sister and a cousin after his death. Here is one of them as a reminder of his lost potential….
Only a flower in a crystal vase,
But sweet spring freshness fills the air.
Drifting and searching always to give
Steal a breath and feel its strength.
Only the distant pulse of a song,
Beating its echoes on the soul:
A flowing power that seems alive,
Be the music and know its depth.
Only a candle splashing its life
In bounding colour and radiant warmth
Seeking then resting, always aglow
Live the sight and touch its beauty.
*names have been changed to protect the innocent!
Thinking and Dreaming 
Swing dancing 101*
On a recent Saturday night as I watched a crowd of mainly young adults dancing Swing to the strains of the Toronto Jazz Orchestra, I felt a surge of hope for the future. A regular Saturday night event, this dance is where the ‘nerds’ get to shine right along with the “cools” — it’s where the unpretentious rule.
Well into the evening, I commented to my Dance Partner, “Just look at the atmosphere. Everyone is smiling or laughing or twirling around, the voices are babbling. Where else do you see this much fun in one room?”
Not at ballroom dances. Not at tango dances. Not at salsa dances. Not at hip hop dances. Not at most bars or even at most parties. This is the ‘Saturday night reunion” of people who don’t necessarily wear the latest styles, and don’t seem to care what others think. A handful are in ‘vintage’ or ‘retro’ clothing – styles mainly from the 1940s and 50s popular in some circles.
The majority wear running shoes with their endless variety of skirts and jeans and shirts, with some men in suspenders and bow ties, women in anything from tights to crinolines and taffeta. And they’re all wearing smiles.
The dancing! Everyone gets to dance here. People with grey hair can be seen with young partners; fat people bouncing about with happy abandon – a small partner holding them; many who can barely dance, but no one cares.
I watched a young man with a scraggly beard and a too-tight belt on his plump waist holding up pants with a half-down zipper, chatting with a girl who probably spent all her daylight hours in a science lab. Their body language was so animated it was easy to see their enjoyment of each other.
And why should all of this move me at the pleasure of the memory? It must be the contrast to other dance “sub-cultures” I’ve experienced. You can walk into any dance and know which kind it is by the clothing, body language and sounds of the people. Each one is distinct – a mini-culture. They’re not all equally fun or easy for me to relate to.
At a ballroom dance there is order. Dancers circulate in a ‘proper’ way – counter clockwise around the room, careful not to get in each other’s way. No one does a swing dance to fox trot music. Women sit at tables or chairs around the edges, waiting to be invited to dance – some will wait the entire evening. They’ll be dressed conservatively – many men in jackets and ties. In a ‘swing’ dance, a woman would be likely to invite a man (or another woman) to dance, and if he were not enthusiastic, she might cajole him – or even pull him onto the dance floor. He’d probably laugh, and ‘go for it’.
A tango dance has a livelier, more sensuous feeling, with perhaps a sexier style of dress. The atmosphere is not as warm and friendly as swing, and many of the male dancers will only invite the best ‘followers’. This is a tough atmosphere for a feminist like myself – perhaps a reminder of the macho cultures in which the dance originated. I’ve heard many times that in Argentina, the men and women actually sit on opposite sides of the room, and that the women have to wait to be asked – often not dancing for the whole evening.
Salsa dances also have a predominantly macho culture, and a salsa dance often gets louder with each passing hour until it is impossible to talk with anyone. There is only one thing to do here – dance. And a salsa dance, which normally runs for seven minutes, is truly a good workout.
There are very few opportunities left to just “go dancing”. One must choose. To those who enjoy doing more than one type of dance, therefore the ‘swing’ sub-culture offers the best choice because swing dancers don’t care if you dance tango or cha cha next to them – as long as you’re having fun.
Dovercourt House in Toronto is “the” place to go for swing dancing, and sometimes there is a different kind of dance on each floor. There’s a bar and, as if the great atmosphere were not enough, their swing dances have “ambassadors” in red t-shirts to help you with your dancing skills, and make sure you get to dance. (Of course you probably attended the beginners’ dance class at 8 pm!)
What swing dancers add to my feeling of optimism too is that the ones I’ve met are smart and interesting, with a good chance of being part of running our world before long. That such clever, creative young people also accept differences and know how to have a good time bodes well for the future. Saturday nights don’t get much better than that.
* –Only my own personal opinions, perspective, experience, etc.
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