Blog: Only the Lonely 

by Henry Boy Jenkins

There’s a joke that goes, “You’re never alone with a schizophrenic,” based on the mistaken belief that having schizophrenia is the same as having a split personality. It’s not. That would be dissociative identity disorder, a rare psychological condition defined by distinct and recurring alternating personality states which control one’s behavior. To clarify: schizophrenia is a chronic and debilitating mental disorder characterized by a breakdown in thinking which significantly impairs an individual’s thought processes. The ability to assess one’s surroundings and to interact with others becomes distorted. Isolation gets to be run-of-the-mill. This is not by choice. This is the illness. It is a lonely place.
Two months ago I attempted suicide. I suffered through a psychotic break, resulting in emergency medical intervention. I’d hoped that my symptoms had abated, but they seem to have left a vapor trail. Residual audio and visual hallucinations persist. I find myself preoccupied with them. I feel ashamed for not recovering sooner. I’m confused and haunted. When questioned, I act as if nothing ever happened. It’s not denial, it’s more like a memory wipe. In psychiatric terms, I am experiencing post-psychotic depression. With an unusual side-effect: I came to believe that I had no friends.
I approached the idea in much the same way that one might act on the notion of Spring Cleaning. I removed numbers from my phone, and I purged my friends list. I was getting things done and it felt good because getting things done always feels good. There’s that sense of completion and renewal. By actively eliminating all those names, I believed I was getting mentally fit. These were just names, after all, and how can a name be a friend? It’s random letters strung together. Meaningless. Without caller ID my phone was a brick. My newsfeed cruised without memes and cat pics. Cleaned out, like the closet. No mismatched socks or tatty jeans. Orderly. Like the hospital.
Days passed. The phone would ring and I would ignore it. A jumble of unfamiliar numbers. A text from the Twilight Zone. I could exercise or write or play guitar or paint, and nothing and no one was there to bother me. Something felt off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I started not sleeping again. I skipped my therapy sessions. I found myself living in a ghost town. I only jogged on days when it was pouring down rain to avoid seeing people at the track. The Brother From Another Planet had become The Boy In The Bubble. I wondered if I was lonely, but I knew that wasn’t possible.
Because you’re never alone with a schizophrenic.
If there’s an art to living with a mental illness it’s learning to ignore the dismissive paint-by-number forgeries hung by ignorance and prejudice as truth. Like in that movie where everyone laughs at the quiet girl with her Goth tapes and black lipstick. At the anorexic geek with his comic books and action figures. At the stressed-out veteran experiencing flashbacks. The bag-lady talking to shadows. Depression, anxiety, trauma, psychosis. You laugh along with the audience because you want to blend in, but it hits too close to home. It’s wrong to laugh, and you know it. You know it because it hurts. Something needs to change. That change begins with you.
It starts with an honest conversation. It continues with active listening. Speak to the words between the words, and to the ones tucked in behind them. Listen to the words that no one will dance with, to the words that never get a goodnight kiss. It really is a two-way street. This is how the conversation starts, and this is where the healing begins. A glass pressed up to the adjacent wall, listening intently for signs of life. Who is in there, and how do we get to know them better? Our words are the trail of breadcrumbs we follow to get out of the forest of loneliness.
It’s up to us to speak our truths and become a part of something bigger. We need to be seen and we want to be heard. We are not ciphers, cute off-the- wall characters in a situation comedy, or newspaper buzzwords when reporters get hasty. We are not punchlines. Mental illness is no laughing matter.
Confronting the stigma head-on, it would be more accurate to say, “You are always alone if you have schizophrenia.” But I tell you what: I am resolved to make - and keep - every friend that I can, no matter how many times I need to humble myself and surrender to the fact that I live a life in a world that no one else can understand. That is, until I start the conversation.

Henry Boy Jenkins is a Seattle artist, writer, and musician living with schizophrenia. He received his diagnosis in 2010 and has been managing his illness with a passion ever since. He is currently writing a memoir chronicling his experiences with schizophrenia and trauma in the hope that people living with a mental illness - as well as those who love and care for them - will find something in his story that compels them to share their own. Publicly open in his advocacy for awareness and change, Henry focuses on education and communication as the most effective tools in any superhero’s utility belt. Honesty and courage work hand-in-hand to combat stigma.

Myths & Facts About Mental Health Often people are afraid to talk about mental health because there are many misconceptions about mental illnesses. It's important to learn the facts to stop discrimination and to begin treating people with mental illnesses with respect and dignity. Here are some common myths and facts about mental health. Myth: There's no hope for people with mental illnesses. Fact: There are more treatments, strategies, and community supports than ever before, and even more are on the horizon. People with mental illnesses lead active, productive lives. Myth: I can't do anything for someone with mental health needs. Fact: You can do a lot, starting with the way you act and how you speak.You can nurture an environment that builds on people's strengths and promotes good mental health. For example: Avoid labeling people with words like "crazy," "wacko," "loony," or by their diagnosis. Instead of saying someone is a "schizophrenic" say "a person with schizophrenia." Learn the facts about mental health and share them with others, especially if you hear something that is untrue. Treat people with mental illnesses with respect and dignity, as you would anybody else. Respect the rights of people with mental illnesses and don't discriminate against them when it comes to housing, employment, or education. Like other people with disabilities, people with mental health needs are protected under Federal and State laws. Myth: People with mental illnesses are violent and unpredictable. Fact: In reality, the vast majority of people who have mental health needs are no more violent than anyone else. You probably know someone with a mental illness and don't even realize it. Myth: Mental illnesses cannot affect me. Fact: Mental illnesses are surprisingly common; they affect almost every family in America. Mental illnesses do not discriminate-they can affect anyone. Myth: Mental illness is the same as mental retardation. Fact: The two are distinct disorders. A mental retardation diagnosis is characterized by limitations in intellectual functioning and difficulties with certain daily living skills. In contrast, people with mental illnesses-health conditions that cause changes in a person's thinking, mood, and behavior-have varied intellectual functioning, just like the general population. Myth: Mental illnesses are brought on by a weakness of character. Fact: Mental illnesses are a product of the interaction of biological, psychological, and social factors. Research has shown genetic and biological factors are associated with schizophrenia, depression, and alcoholism. Social influences, such as loss of a loved one or a job, can also contribute to the development of various disorders. Myth: People with mental illnesses cannot tolerate the stress of holding down a job. Fact: In essence, all jobs are stressful to some extent. Productivity is maximized when there is a good match between the employee's needs and working conditions, whether or not the individual has mental health needs. Myth: People with mental health needs, even those who have received effective treatment and have recovered, tend to be second-rate workers on the job. Fact: Employers who have hired people with mental illnesses report good attendance and punctuality, as well as motivation, quality of work, and job tenure on par with or greater than other employees. Studies by the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) and the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill (NAMI) show that there are no differences in productivity when people with mental illnesses are compared to other employees. Myth: Once people develop mental illnesses, they will never recover. Fact: Studies show that most people with mental illnesses get better, and many recover completely. Recovery refers to the process in which people are able to live, work, learn, and participate fully in their communities. For some individuals, recovery is the ability to live a fulfilling and productive life. For others, recovery implies the reduction or complete remission of symptoms. Science has shown that having hope plays an integral role in an individual's recovery. Myth: Therapy and self-help are wastes of time. Why bother when you can just take one of those pills you hear about on TV? Fact: Treatment varies depending on the individual. A lot of people work with therapists, counselors, their peers, psychologists, psychiatrists, nurses, and social workers in their recovery process. They also use self-help strategies and community supports. Often these methods are combined with some of the most advanced medications available. Myth: Children do not experience mental illnesses. Their actions are just products of bad parenting. Fact: A report from the President's New Freedom Commission on Mental Health showed that in any given year 5-9 percent of children experience serious emotional disturbances. Just like adult mental illnesses, these are clinically diagnosable health conditions that are a product of the interaction of biological, psychological, social, and sometimes even genetic factors. Myth: Children misbehave or fail in school just to get attention. Fact: Behavior problems can be symptoms of emotional, behavioral, or mental disorders, rather than merely attention-seeking devices. These children can succeed in school with appropriate understanding, attention, and mental health services.  By Post: SAMHSA ADS Center 4350 East West Highway, Suite 1100 Bethesda, MD 20814 By e-mail: promoteacceptance@samhsa.hhs.gov

A Deaf Recovery Story

By Kevin Coyle 

Losing control of your mind, of your very being is a scary thing. It impacts and influences everything: how you act and what you believe. I never thought it would happen to me. When I was a senior in high school, I thought that I would go to college and perhaps become a writer someday. As a deaf man I have some understanding of what it is like to have a disability, but nothing prepared me for mental illness.

I was diagnosed with a mental disorder after my first breakdown that occurred at an intense academic seminar. A chemical imbalance in my brain distorted my perception of me and my environment. Eventually I recovered enough to return to college. Only through regularly meeting with my psychologist and psychiatrist and taking my medications have I been able to maintain some level of stability. Even with all this help, I had several other smaller breakdowns that forced me to leave school for a few weeks at a time. Unfortunately, my peers could not understand what I was going through. Socially I felt very alone. I felt like I was hiding a big secret that I couldn’t let others know. My deafness made me feel even more alone. I could hear in one-on-one conversations in a quiet setting, but in the loud dining hall packed with people I was lost.

Fortunately my academic adviser did understand my situation. A funny and light-hearted person, he always brightened my day. He worked creatively with me to figure out how I could pass the requirements, despite my illness. He allowed me to take a lighter load when four or five courses proved to be too much. Even then I had to take many extensions on assignments just to get by. Finally, in May of 2007, I graduated with a self-designed degree mainly in philosophy and politics.

After I graduated I plunged to a new low. Although I earned a degree, my self-confidence was still crushed. I had no friends, nor did I have many contacts. I was scared of the world and God was nowhere to be found. I felt hopeless and in the dark. I didn’t bother to go to church. I slept most of the day and went through the motions of things without meaning or purpose. During that year I hit rock bottom. I saw no future in my life. Yet, my mom assured me that God loved me and there was a brighter future ahead. I didn’t believe her at the time, but it turned out she was right.

By the end of the year I was accepted into a program for deaf individuals who are mentally ill. All the members there were very nice and supportive. While living at the group home, I have made many friends, something I never had before. There I could understand people and be understood. The fact that we all have mental illnesses allows for a still deeper bond than deafness alone. We are like a family. We look out for one another and cheer up our fellow members when they are down. In their kindness and goodhearted jokes, I can see God working through them. Through friends, God has answered my prayers.

Another organization that helped me immensely is On Our Own, a nonprofit organization that is for and by people with mental illnesses. I will never forget the first time I entered the building nervous and shy. The staff member there listened to my story and helped me submit some of my poems for their annual publication, The Fellow Traveler. That was three years ago. Since those first steps into the building I have joined a writing workshop, attended annual conferences, served on the consumer council board, and participated in a mental health rally in Annapolis. For the first time in my life I feel a part of something that is making a difference in the community.

I have lived in the group home for two years now. The program is not perfect, but it has allowed me to slowly regain confidence in myself. I now attend a swim practice class at the YMCA. Recovering from the crushing blow my illness had on my self-esteem, I am rediscovering my passion for performing. Recently, I did a juggling and magic show for a local coffee company for their open-mic night.

My struggles humbled me and allowed me to appreciate the small victories in life. I have come closer to God and my spiritual side. I began to attend church regularly again, after a long hiatus. In the past, the words were empty and void. Now the Bible’s lines speak to me on a much deeper level than in the past. Church service makes me feel spiritually refreshed and ready to tackle another week.

Another thing that has helped me get through dark days is the comic strip Calvin and Hobbes. Calvin reminds me of the playful, creative part of me that I sometimes lose sight of when I am depressed. By my bedside I keep a copy of one of my comic strip books entitled, “It’s a Magical World.” On the face of it Calvin and Hobbes are trudging through the snow. Whenever I look at this cover I am reminded that life is full of wonder, beauty, and magic.

When I was a senior in high school I never dreamed that I would have a mental disorder, but sometimes good things come out of a bad turn of events. My mental illness, although unfortunate, has brought me into a warm and caring deaf community. Now I am so blessed with what I have. I am thankful for my friends who warm my heart, for my adviser who believed in me, for my family who stood by my side through thick and thin, and for the staff and doctors who work with me. Without them I would not be where I am today. I am thankful, but I still dream of a better life. I hope someday to move on to graduate school. How I will do this I don’t know, but I have faith that if I work at it, God will provide somehow, someway.

Kevin Coyle

http://promoteacceptance.samhsa.gov/publications/mystory/story_kevin.aspx

Have you seen my brother standing in the shadows?

A lack of services and the intractable nature of mental illness make for a bleak scenario.

By Sarah Dusseault

January 5, 2014

My brother John called me last summer to tell me that he had finally figured out our family secret. I was his mother, he said.

I am not, of course.
My brother is 38 years old, but I will always think of him as he was in his early 20s, when he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. His good looks landed him work as a model, and he was a math whiz.
Today, he is still attractive and wickedly smart at times, but his skin is weathered from years of homelessness and he is missing half of a finger on his right hand from one of his "stays" in a county jail. He is unmistakably homeless but still charming enough to persuade passersby to give him clothes or a beer, or to play a game of pool.
His homelessness always starts with stopping his medication. Eventually he gets into trouble, usually from self-medicating with alcohol, and bounces from incarceration to forced hospitalization. It has happened over and over. He spent Thanksgiving locked up in Twin Towers for stealing a $4 strawberry Budweiser.
His latest round of homelessness began last spring after his landlord lost his apartment building to foreclosure and all of the tenants were evicted.
John had stopped taking his medication a few weeks before he lost his home, blaming the fact that yet another Valentine's Day had passed without someone to share his life. Since then he hasn't accepted offers of help because he has stopped thinking rationally.
Not being able to help him is immensely frustrating. In my professional life, I have worked to build housing and create programs to end homelessness. But the system is broken, especially for homeless people with severe mental illness, like my brother. My family and I just keep hitting dead ends trying to get him help.
It's not that money isn't being spent on him. Study after study from across the country has demonstrated that the cost of dealing with people like my brother, who ricochet from the streets to hospitals and jails and back, is exorbitant. I estimate that, in the last year, the federal government, several counties, the state and local communities have spent more than $1 million on John.
And all of us — taxpayers, my family and John — are getting nothing for that money. The government could have bought him a cute single-family home in Pasadena with a full-time social worker and spent less.
My older brother Steve has tried to get appointed as John's conservator, but each time the matter has come before the court, John has convinced a judge that he is capable of managing his own affairs. John passes his days in conversation with imaginary people, but he is still capable of repeating a few memorized sentences that a judge accepts as proof he can care for himself.
For weeks at a time, he goes missing. Then he turns up in an emergency room, police station or hospital. He's been picked up for throwing himself at cars or belligerently talking to himself. He spent July in a hospital where he imagined that family members were with him. The hospital released him to a board-and-care facility, claiming he'd been stabilized, but he stayed only briefly before leaving.
In September, a friend found John asleep at my house. I called an outreach worker from Housing Works to try to get him help. They came and worked out a plan with John for housing and healthcare, but he changed his mind later in the day, walking away from the social worker, back into homelessness.
I found him again but couldn't persuade him to accept help. He says that I don't understand his profound loneliness and that my "options" are not what he wants. His appearance has deteriorated. He is thinner and his skin is blistered from sun and cold. I tried to feed him, but he wasn't able to sit still long enough to eat much.
A few days later, he was forcibly hospitalized for a couple of weeks but wouldn't allow the social workers to contact me. I again lost track of him until I checked the police records on his birthday, Nov. 13, and found out he was in jail.
There are programs that work to interrupt this kind of cycle, but there are far too few of them, serving far too few people. As a result, stories like my brother's are not unique.
I know from my professional experience that progress has been made to end homelessness. But I have also seen firsthand the overwhelming failures in parts of the system. Discharge plans after imprisonment or hospitalization are required, but they are rarely useful. And gaining access to programs that work remains extremely difficult. For most of the chronically homeless mentally ill, we waste large sums of money on ineffective interventions.
My family and I live in dread that one day we will get "the call" informing us that John has lost his life. But my brother never gives up hope that he will find a girl/job/apartment.
We had breakfast together recently.
He had been released from jail the night before and walked through the night to Pasadena. He called at 6 a.m., and I went to meet him.
We made big plans about getting him a place to live and connecting him with services. I left him at a barbershop about to open because he wanted to get cleaned up. I went back after dropping the kids off at school, thinking things might get better. But by the time I returned, he was gone.
For the next few days, I drove around with a full duffel bag of clothes and supplies looking for my brother. I found him eventually. His medication had been stolen and he was holding on to a brick wall, talking to himself, on Colorado Boulevard.
Sarah Dusseault was a senior policy advisor to Eric Garcetti when he served on the City Council. She was deputy mayor for housing and homelessness in the administration of Mayor James Hahn.

http://www.latimes.com/opinion/commentary/la-oe-dusseault-homeless-brother-20140105,0,4599082.story#ixzz2qBPfrfJY

LA Times Opinion pages answering "Have you seen my brother standing in the shadows?"

Re "Have you seen my brother standing in the shadows?," Opinion, Jan. 5

Sarah Dusseault's story about her brother' struggle with mental illness and homelessness was heartbreakingly familiar.
My sister with schizophrenia has been repeatedly homeless, jailed and hospitalized. We were fortunate, though, to have guardianship and conservatorship awarded in New Mexico. There is no guarantee of stability, but we have some leverage to help her.
Simply from a state expense view, keeping our mentally ill out of jails and hospitals saves money. But from a human standpoint, who is better to help, support and advocate for the broken? We definitely need the state's help, but its workers have office hours and large caseloads. The state needs the families' help too. Can't we all just work together?
Dusseault's efforts to help her brother sound tireless.
I know she can never give up. I hope her brother finds someone, maybe in group therapy, who understands loneliness.
Diane Wetherbee
Dana Point
Dusseault's estimate of $1 million in public money spent in vain on her schizophrenic brother in just one year is an eye-opener.
The decision made decades ago in California to empty our mental hospitals and basically dump sick people on the streets has led to this mess. Community mental health clinics and counseling to take care of these people have clearly not worked.
Homeless advocates have fought long battles against committing these people to mental hospitals where they actually could be taken care of. Being in an institution would mean that people like Dusseault would know that her brother was not in jail or wandering lost on the streets — and was instead safe and taking his medication.
Robert Newman
West Hills
For those of us who have a loved one with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, Dusseault's poignant essay was hauntingly familiar.
It is difficult enough to help a child with a mental illness, but when he reaches adulthood, forget it. The courts and other parties, as Dusseault demonstrates, tend to favor his rights, to the frustration of his family.
Despite the incredible setbacks that Dusseault's brother has encountered, he "never gives up hope that he will find a girl/job/apartment." That line put a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye.
How can we sleep at night when our homeless brothers and sisters with mental illness wander the streets, withering away, as they rifle through trash cans for food?
David Tulanian
Los Angeles

http://www.latimes.com/opinion/la-le-0107-tuesday-mental-illness-homeless-20140107,0,2689256.story#ixzz2q84xmOdm

Teens' Mental Disorders Often Untreated in U.S., Study Finds

Posted on 2013-11-22 02:00:28 UTC
-- Robert Preidt

Shortage of child psychiatrists partly to blame

THURSDAY, Nov. 21, 2013 (HealthDay News) -- Less than half of American teens with mental health disorders receive treatment, and those who do get help rarely see a mental health specialist, a new study indicates.

The findings underscore the need for better mental health services for teens, said study author E. Jane Costello, associate director of the Duke Center for Child and Family Policy in Durham, N.C.

"It's still the case in this country that people don't take psychiatric conditions as seriously as they should," Costello said in a Duke news release. This remains so, despite a wave of mass shootings in which mental illness may have played a role, she and her colleagues noted.

The analysis of data from more than 10,000 teens aged 13 to 17 across the United States also showed that treatment rates varied greatly for different types of mental health problems.

For example, teens with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, conduct disorder or oppositional defiant disorder received mental health care more than 70 percent of the time, while those with phobias or anxiety disorders were least likely to be treated.

The researchers also found that blacks were much less likely than whites to be treated for mental disorders, according to the study, published online Nov. 15 in the journal Psychiatric Services.

In many cases, teens received treatment from pediatricians, school counselors or probation officers, rather than mental health specialists. This is because there are not enough qualified child mental health professionals to handle the demand, said Costello, who is also a professor of psychology and epidemiology at Duke University.

"We need to train more child psychiatrists in this country," Costello said in a university news release. "And those individuals need to be used strategically, as consultants to the school counselors and others who do the lion's share of the work."

As many as one in five children living in the United States experiences a mental health disorder in any one year, according to a U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention report.

More information

The American Psychiatric Association has more about teen mental health.

              

Eddy - The Mayor of Montauk Manor

By Beverly Maher

I had just closed my chicken and rib restaurant. I am not a person who enjoys sitting idly. I found an ad in the paper to be your own boss and sell a product that was advertised to be the best product for your skin. The company was Newskin. I liked the idea that I may be able to work from home. I contacted the promoter, he invited my partner Bob, and I to come to his home, meet his wife, and see what the company could offer me to promote the product. They were in West Babylon, not far from my own family. When we pulled up to the house, there was a farm stand just to the left of the house. It was dark, so we were not able to see much. They were a nice couple. Joe was younger than Joanne was. He was promoting Newskin she was supporting his venture. In our conversation, Bob and I learned the farm stand was a mutual venture. We were also informed; Joanne owned and operated five adult homes on Long Island as well. Ambitious and interesting people. I liked the product. I told them I would try it and signed up. I had been doing it for a few weeks when I mentioned I was looking for part time work to supplement my income between sales. Joe mentioned his wife was looking for an administrator for one her homes in Lindenhurst. I called Joanne and she told me to come down the next day to find out the details. We walked around the huge house and she told me what she expected of an administrator. I met the residents they seemed gentle enough. They greeted me with smiles. The cloud of smoke that greeted me was surprising. The main door, which was actually the back door, enters into the smoking room. They had coffee cups and there was not much conversation going on. Most of them looked disheveled, whiskers on their chins. Some could use a shower. Joanne explained how the state regulated the home and everything had to be to the state's standards. The state regularly visited the home to ensure the safety of the residents. The house had a capacity for 29 beds, meaning 29 residents could occupy the home at one time. Joanne had 24 filled and it was very important to fill the rest. That would be the administrator's responsibility. I met the cook, who doubled as the aide, and I met the housekeeper. It was a good feel. I wanted to take on the challenge and asked Joanne when I could start. I had not mentioned to Jim or Joanne that I was leaving Bob. I was considering living in Suffolk County to be near my family already. I was waiting for the School year to be finished for Lauren, my special needs daughter. I started the next Monday. The last state visit was posted on the wall and I took it to my desk. There were 80 violations on it. I knew that would be my priority, both to learn the violations and to fix the violations. I left the door open to be able to listen to goings on outside my door. The smoking room was right outside the door. While I was reading, I heard a faint knock at my door. A man's head peaked in and asked if I had a minute. Sure, come on in. "I'm Eddy." He stated. "I'm Beverly, come in and have a seat, I replied." Eddy went on to tell me how he became a resident of Montauk Manor. His substantive demeanor was impressive. I certainly was curious as to why he was here. He was a man of about 60. Too young to be one of the elderly residents. Montauk Manor was diversely mixed with elderly residents, some Vets that were elderly, but most of the residents were mentally ill. Eddy told his story.

"I was married for 25 years. I got depressed a lot. I kept losing jobs. One day I broke down and did not want to do anything. They put me in a hospital and put me on Lithium. It started to get better, but my wife did not want me back. We had a daughter. She is such a good daughter! She lives in the neighborhood!" His voice had a pitch, one you would hear if someone was from the city. "I go to her house and I get to see my grandkids, we have dinner together, it's great!" "That is nice Eddy." He was clean, he was shaved, his matching outfit seemed out of place at Montauk Manor. I found out the residents called him the mayor. I could understand why.

For the next couple of months I was very busy. I found a book for case management and found out that I would have to write about all the residents and keep up to date any and all issues corresponding to them. I would take some time out of my day to leave the office and talk to the residents. I informed Joe and Joanne that I lost interest in selling Newskin. I was excited about the new venture. Rob was 25 years old. A handsome young man. He was clean and never had to be reminded to take a shower. He wore very nice clothes. As I would learn he would receive a package from Florida, where his parents lived. His mother made sure he had everything he needed to keep up with his appearance. Rob was one of the few residents who did not need to borrow money for cigarettes and coffee right after they received their allowance. That was a common theme. I would see this throughout my adult home experiences with the exception of Merryville. Merryville was an adult home that specialized in Alzheimer's and Parkinson victims. Rob paced; he walked with a tempo. He did not speak. He knew how, he just chose not to. He would answer if spoken to, but only single syllable answers. He would awaken at around 8am, have breakfast and start pacing. He would go to his room walk to the end, turn around and walk to the living room. He would get to the end, turn around, and walk to the smoking room. He would have a cigarette standing and start pacing again. He did this all day long only stopping to eat and nap. His mother would occasionally call to speak to him. He simply answered in one syllable, yes, no. I spoke to his mother on a few occasions before I handed him the phone. She told me the medication he was on now was a miracle med. He used to be uncontrollable, at least now he was calm.

Josephine was a gas. She would walk all over town. All she wanted to do was work and earn money so she could buy coffee and cigarettes. She worked for Joanne. Joanne had a flower stand right next to Montauk Manor. When she needed Josephine at the farm stand next to the house, Josephine would walk the distance and work for the day. She was very small and frail looking. Her work ethics were extraordinary. She had the ability to work long hours even on hot days. Josephine was outgoing, very friendly. My sister came by once with a couple of her daughters and they loved Josephine's banter. She told them how beautiful they were. She shared a few funny stories with everyone. We all chuckled. Josephine was on medication for depression and anxiety. At that time, she was compliant with her medication and she was able to function in her day-to-day life. In private, she would tell me stories of her many mood swings and why her family was not anxious for her to live with them.

We had a few vets in the house. They were sweet, soft spoken and polite. They smoked and drank coffee throughout the day. The aide had to guide them to take showers and change their clothes. She would also shave them when she was not cooking. The housekeeper was good. Montauk Manor was a mansion and she was expected to keep up with all the residents' rooms. I discovered through the violation sheet how important it was to make sure the residents were not doing anything like using extension cords irresponsibly. The cook and I would help Helena, the housekeeper in the afternoons, after lunch. Helena would assist with the lunch. After we changed all the curtains in the living room and had it painted we started tackling the bedrooms. If they needed painting, we had Joanne set up the painter. We would do curtains and drapes, depending on the need. Before we knew it, Montauk Manor was looking like a real home.

That summer I decided to create a garden and grow the vegetables for the residents. Joe came over and roto tilled the grass covered area that would be our garden. I chose the area in the back, outside the smoking room window. I wanted the residents who did not go out to watch the progress of the garden. I worked hard to clean out the grass and get the soil ready. Eddy would be smoking his cigarette and watching me. The vets would be outside watching, smoking, drinking from their dirty Styrofoam cups. Eventually the garden was ready for planting. I planted tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, string beans. I planted anything we could use in the day to day cooking. The garden started to look like a vegetable garden. The plants were growing and we were all able to see nature grow. Eddy was watching me pick the weeds one afternoon and he announced, "We have a real victory garden!" His daughter was picking him up that day and while he was waiting, he said, "I am going to buy you a new pair of sneakers. Those sneakers you are wearing are all worn." I smiled at his thoughtfulness. I always wore white keds in those days. 

A couple of weeks later Helena ran into my office. She told me that Eddy looked sick and to come immediately to his room. After seeing Eddy, I called 911. They rushed him to the hospital. His daughter called and kept us abreast of his progress. He was having thyroid problems because of taking Lithium and would no longer be able to take it. When he returned to Montauk Manor all were very happy to see the mayor home again.

The state came in and inspected our home. I received a few violations and I had fixed all the old violations. One of the violations was that I was not a licensed administrator. I applied for my administrative license. I had all the qualifications except one. I did not have the experience in adult homes. This was my first and only experience. I would need five years to fulfill that goal. I was at Montauk Manor for one and one half years. I counted this towards my license. I had a long way to go.

I worked in a number of adult homes after that. Some hired me to assist with bookkeeping or general assistant to the administrator for helping with correcting violations. One hired me as a coordinator because they would not replace the incompetent administrator they had. Sometimes I worked as an aide, just to get the time in.

Two years after my time at Montauk Manor I was visiting my own daughter in Brunswick Psychiatric Hospital. Lauren had started exhibiting signs of schizophrenia while I was at Montauk Manor. It was difficult to find the right medication to keep her from experiencing the strange world of mental illness. As I walked to the back where the entrance was, I saw a man sitting on the stone bench with the sun beating down on him. He was squinting and I kept staring to see why he looked familiar. As I got closer, a smile started forming on my mouth. He was covering his eyes with his hand to block the sun, but it was unmistakable. As I got closer, I noticed he had at least a week of growth on his face, his clothes were dirty and he looked disheveled. He was wearing a pair of sneakers. They had no shoelaces; they were well worn and dirty. He noticed me. We smiled together, when our eyes met. "Hello Eddy." "Well hello there!" he said with that pitch in his voice. I did not ask why he was here. "Nice sneakers Eddy!" I said. He looked down at the white keds and said, "They're yours, I bought them for you that day I went with my daughter shopping. Do you want them?" "No thank you Eddy, you keep them for me.""Ok" he replied "Take care Eddy." I answered. I walked into the hospital to visit my daughter, my eyes starting to well up. He was gone when I came out. It is a sad world for the mentally ill.