Long Suffering

Photo by Pascal Meier on Unsplash

Black smoke pours from the chimney on the roof of the Vatican and in it demons come forth upon a leaderless church. Questions of moving forward or turning back time dog the Conclave, as we pray in Mass for the former Pope’s soul and for present wisdom of choice. Our daughter was the cantor for the May Procession, and we settled into the comfort of the ever-repeated service, the same anywhere you go, from country to country, knowing when to stand and when to kneel and when to say the Our Father.

The church is for the suffering, and few suffer more than the families of those with severe mental illness. Ever surprised by what demons show up in a home meant to be safe, but riddled with the emotional violence of mixed episodes and psychotic breaks.

I told my wife about my bipolar disorder before I proposed, and she did research before she said yes. But no one who welcomes mental illness into their home truly knows what they’re in for. The years have worn her down, with justice for her part, but we made vows we aim to keep and we each do the best we can during the worst of times. Like now.

The days are terrible for me, but I get doctors and meds and disability insurance. The days are bad for my wife and daughter, too, and they get little from anyone. Like any good Catholic I feel terribly guilty for this, because even as I give them grief they give me shelter and love. On good days I am very good, and this is what most people see, but on bad days I am very bad, and no one sees this but my family. And yet they steadfastly support me, stand by me, and help me heal.

Despite the lost people muttering on the street, homeless and alone, there is a certain affection for the mentally ill. Everyone knows depression and despair, so everyone can identify with at least part of what the bipolar stricken experience. Among the first crowded into trains and sent to camps by the Nazis were residents of asylums, but pushback and protest by the public not given for the Jews stopped the killing of psychiatric patients. People really do care. And none care like my family. And none pay a higher price.

Having those with severe mental illness live at home and undergo outpatient treatment rather than be locked away is a relatively recent thing. After a suicide attempt I was admitted to Pennsylvania Hospital, co-founded by Benjamin Rush as the nation’s first psychiatric hospital. Back then, there was a trench around the ground floor where the curious could peer through the windows at the fits and screams inside, and when the inmates marched through the trench for exercise crowds could stand and watch to pray or to taunt. Few of those kept inside ever saw freedom again.

Today you’re kept in the hospital for as short a period as possible, until the health insurance company kicks you out, and then you’re sent home to burden your unprepared family for succor and grace. All while you suck the security and joy from the house. But we are bipolar, at times irresistible, at times insatiable, at times ever fascinating, at times worth it. As we can bring our families down we can also bring great joy. So we all stay together.

We seek solace from the horror and we elevate the commitment of love that inevitably heals all. Over and over again. My favorite part of the Mass is when the priest asks us to offer each other a sign of peace. People turn and shake hands, smile, wave, or nod to each other. If only for a moment everything lightens and people smile. I hug my wife and place my hand on our daughter’s shoulder, embody peace and mean it. “Peace be with you.” I offer my wife and daughter a profound thanks as well.

At any moment the smoke in Rome will turn white and the demons will dissipate and the church will turn, ever so slightly, again. I pray that the smoldering in our house made black by this intransigent episode will turn white as well. Then we can be pure again, and safe, and above all else, still loved.