Sunday, April 17, 2016

Changing the law

HEALTH PROVIDERS, CAREGIVERS BOTH FRUSTRATED




 Former representative Patrick Kennedy speaks at #IWillListen Day in LOVE Park in Philadelphia to raise awareness and fight the stigma surrounding mental illness in 2014.
(Photo: Mark Stehle, AP Images for TCOPR)
When in doubt, health providers tend to err on the side of withholding information, says Patrick Kennedy, a former Rhode Island congressman who advocates for better care of the mentally ill.
Hospital administrators, accustomed to avoiding malpractice suits, have brought the same defensive approach to patient privacy, Kennedy says. “The medical community’s perception is that there’s a liability if they share any kind of information,” he says.
Tracey Davis-Witmyer  says health care providers have often refused to talk about her brother's care, even when HIPAA allows it.
The Reading, Pa., woman takes care of her 38-year-old brother, who has bipolar disorder and intellectual disabilities. Although he lives with her, her brother often wanders off. Once, he was missing for a week.
Yet when Davis-Witmyer went to a local emergency room to search for him, hospital staff refused to even acknowledge whether he was there. They told her that confirming his presence in the hospital would have violated HIPAA. It would not have.
“Doctors are afraid to say anything because they think the HIPAA police are at the door,” says Manderscheid, of the National Association of County Behavioral Health and Developmental Disability Directors.
In fact, HIPAA fines are much rarer than many health providers assume.
The Department of Health and Human Services, which oversees HIPAA enforcement, has fined health providers just 30 times since 2003, when the privacy rule took effect, for a total of $32.3 million. None of these fines involved the care of people with mental illness or their caregivers.
Caregivers aren’t the only ones frustrated by HIPAA.
The law sometimes can prevent doctors from sharing information with each other, Lieberman says. That has made it difficult for Lieberman to consult on the care of other patients.

James Cornick of Des Moines stands for a portrait in his home holding a binder with information on his son Jeff, who committed suicide in the Polk County Jail.
(Photo: Zach Boyden-Holmes, The Des Moines Register)
Although James Cornick’s son, who suffered from bipolar disorder, went to jail six times, his medical records never followed him, even within the same correctional facility, says Cornick, of Des Moines, Iowa. So when Cornick’s son was arrested in January 2015 for a parole violation, no one put him on suicide watch. He strangled himself in his jail cell at 46.
Health and Human Services has tried to clarify what HIPAA does and doesn’t allow. In 2014, it issuedguidance about when health providers are allowed to share information.
Bills introduced in the House of Representatives by both Tim Murphy, the Pennsylvania Republican, and Doris Matsui, the California Democrat, would require the Secretary of Health and Human Services to include that guidance into regulation, giving it the force of law.
Legislation from Matsui and Connecticut's Sen. Chris Murphy also would provide $5 million this year, along with additional funding in future years, to educate health providers about HIPAA.
But guidance and education won’t be enough to fix a broken law, Tim Murphy says.
Under HIPAA, families are often treated “like the enemy,” Tim Murphy says. “What we’re trying to allow is for families to facilitate care. We call it compassionate communication.”
His bill would allow health providers to disclose a patient’s diagnosis, treatment plan, appointment schedule and medications to a “responsible caregiver” if the patient has a serious mental illness, and if the information is needed to “protect the health, safety or welfare of the individual or general public.”

Rep. Tim Murphy, R-Pa., chairs a congressional hearing on the shortage of beds for in-patient psychiatric care.
(Photo: H. Darr Beiser, USA TODAY)
According to Tim Murphy's bill, health providers could share information if it’s needed for “continuity of treatment;” if failing to disclose the information would “contribute to a worsening prognosis or an acute medical condition;” or if the patient has a “diminished capacity to fully understand or follow a treatment plan” or could become “gravely disabled in absence of treatment.”
Tim Murphy says his bill doesn’t allow providers to share psychotherapy notes, which are not included in medical records.
Several prominent mental health groups – including NAMI, the Treatment Advocacy Center and theAmerican Psychiatric Association – have endorsed Tim Murphy’s bill.
“It just doesn’t make sense to shut families out of the kind of basic information that they need to serve as caregivers,” NAMI's Honberg says. “Nobody is talking about revealing intimate details of the psychotherapeutic relationship or sexual history or that kind of stuff. We’re talking about diagnosis, treatment and risk factors.”
House Speaker Paul Ryan, R-Wisc., has pledged to move Tim Murphy’s bill forward, citing the need to prevent violence by people who are mentally ill.
The medical profession needs to “fundamentally change the culture,” Patrick Kennedy says. “The best way to do that is to change the law.”
 An alternative approach
EDUCATING HEALTH PROFESSIONALS
Some advocates for people with mental illness say Tim Murphy's bill goes too far.
The proposals have encountered stiff opposition from groups such as the American Civil Liberties Union and the NAACP, which say the bills interfere with patients’ civil rights. They say the bill sets a dangerous precedent that could allow lawmakers to begin stripping privacy protections from people with other medical conditions.
Assurances of confidentiality are critical for people with mental illness, perhaps “more than in any other area,” says the Bazelon Center's Mathis. The stigma of mental illness already prevents many people from seeking treatment.
“Privacy rights are critical for people with mental illness, just as they are for anyone else, to ensure that they get good treatment,” Mathis says. “If people don’t feel like they have privacy, they aren’t going to be forthcoming when they see a medical professional.”
Policy makers have other ways to encourage doctors to engage families, according to Mathis.
Hospitals and health insurers could require health providers to work with families as part of their contracts, she says.
“That would do more than these bills in Congress, which eviscerate people’s privacy rights,” Mathis says.
Some advocates for domestic violence victims also oppose the bills, arguing that they could allow abusers to gain access to a spouse’s mental health records.
Although Tim Murphy’s bill states that health information may not be shared with someone who has a “documented history of abuse,” that may not be enough to protect domestic violence victims, according to a statement from the National Taskforce to End Sexual and Domestic Violence. The group notes that many abusers have no criminal record.
Rep. Matsui, who aims to simply clarify HIPAA rather than change it, says she’s concerned that the exceptions to HIPAA included in Tim Murphy’s bill could create even more confusion.
“If you give that list to a health provider, you are going to have more instances where people don’t share,” Matsui says. “Providers will say, ‘I can’t meet all these criteria.’”
Changing HIPAA wouldn't necessarily change the way doctors and hospitals act, says Mark Rothstein, a former advisor on health privacy to the Secretary of Health and Human Services. He notes that many states have their own patient privacy laws.
Columbia's Dixon says she can usually persuade patients to include their families, in spite of these obstacles.
People with mental illness are often willing to include their families in their care, if doctors take the right approach, Dixon say. More than 90% of the patients in the OnTrackNY program that she directs  — which aims to intervene early, before people have been sick for very long — have agreed to allow contact with families, she says. People often have more self-awareness early in their illness and may be more likely to recognize that they need help.
“We’re all ambivalent about our families,” Dixon says. “Why wouldn't someone with mental illness be ambivalent, too? If someone were to ask me, ‘Lisa, is it OK if I talk to your family members about your care?’ I would say, ‘It depends,’” Dixon says. “I might say, ‘I don’t want you talk to this family member, but this one is OK.’”
If patients are reluctant to include their parents in care, Dixon asks them why. “We ask, ‘What are your concerns? Why would not want your family involved in your care?’ Sometimes, they don’t want to be a burden.” With this approach, Dixon says, “it’s only the rare case who doesn’t give permission. And if you don’t get permission the first time, you ask again in a few weeks.”
Yet family involvement is all too rare. Although early intervention programs like OnTrackNY routinely include families, those programs are the exception, not the rule.
“We’re not anywhere close to where we need to be in this,” Dixon says.
Lisa Powell says she wishes her son's health care providers had worked harder to include her.
Her son, Oscar Morlett, began acting differently just before he turned 19. He stopped seeing his friends; his speech became a jumble. At first, Powell assumed her son was using drugs and sent him to rehab. “I know how to deal with situations like that,” says Powell, of Orange County, Calif., who has other family members who suffer from addiction, “but this was beyond me.”
Her son's condition deteriorated; he became psychotic and sometimes threatened her with violence. Yet no one has ever told her his diagnosis, although he's now 23, Powell says. There were even times when his health providers refused to tell Powell the time and date of his next mental health appointment, even though she was expected to drive him.

Oscar Morlett, who suffers from serious mental illness, as photographed by his mother, Lisa Powell.
(Photo: Lisa Powell)
Her son began to imagine that his stepmother was a spy. On Aug. 9, 2013, Morlett was arrested and charged with killing his stepmother with an ax. After more than two years in jail in Orange County, a judge finally found him competent to stand trial in February, Powell says.
“No one would listen to me,” says Powell, who visits her son in jail once a week. Because he has signed a waiver, health staff at the jail are now allowed to update her on his care.

During one visit, Powell says her son was in despair over his mental illness, and what had become of his life. "He said, 'Mom, I didn't ask for this. Please pray for me.'"

Sunday, April 10, 2016

Mental illness: Families cut out of care


PRIVACY LAW LEAVES LOVED ONES ON THE SIDELINES

                WITH TRAGIC RESULTS


                               Liz Szabo, USA TODAY

A law's unintended consequences
FAMILY STRUGGLED TO SAVE SON



Chip and Gail Angell would have paid any price to save their son.
They weren’t given the chance.
Their 39-year-old son Chris, who suffered from schizophrenia, refused to allow his doctors to talk to his parents, even though they were his primary caregivers.
So the Angells weren’t able to correct their son’s medical chart, which incorrectly listed the young man as uninsured. They weren’t able to plead with doctors not to base their son’s treatment on cost.
“Whenever we tried to get Chris into the hospital, we always ran into the fact that doctors wouldn’t talk to us,” says Chip Angell, of Brooklin, Maine, who says his son’s doctor never returned his calls. “Some doctors think they’re protecting the privacy rights of the patient. Others simply use privacy as an excuse because they don’t want to talk to someone with an idea contrary to their own, or because they can’t be bothered to call someone back.”
Although a federal law on patient privacy was written to protect patients’ rights, the Angells and a growing number of mental health advocates say the law has harmed the care of adults with serious mental illness, who often depend on their families for care, but don’t always recognize that they’re sick or that they need help.

Advocates say privacy law prevents care of mentally ill. Chip Angell lost his son Chris to suicide.USA TODAY
The federal law, called the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, or HIPAA, forbids health providers from disclosing a patient’s medical information without consent.
Unlike patients with physical conditions, people with serious mental illness often need help making decisions and taking care of themselves, because their illness impairs their judgement, says Jeffrey Lieberman, chairman of psychiatry at the Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons and director of the New York State Psychiatric Institute. In some cases, patients may not even realize they’re sick.
Excluding families can have a devastating impact on patients like these, Lieberman says.
Many health providers don’t understand what HIPAA actually allows them to say. As a result, they often shut families out, even in circumstances in which they’re legally allowed to share information, says Ron Manderscheid, executive director of the National Association of County Behavioral Health and Developmental Disability Directors.


Some doctors refuse to even listen to families such as the Angells, although doing so doesn’t violate HIPAA. Others exclude families even when patients themselves don’t object.
While many people in the mental health community agree there’s a problem, advocates disagree about how to fix it.
Three members of Congress  Rep. Doris Matsui, D-Calif., Sen. Chris Murphy, D-Conn. and Rep. Tim Murphy, R-Pa. — have introduced legislation to educate health care providers about what HIPAA does and doesn’t permit.
Tim Murphy also wants to change the law itself, creating a special exception to the privacy rule in cases in which the health of people with serious mental illness would suffer if their families aren’t involved in their care.
When families can’t care for loved ones with serious mental illness, patients pay the price, sometimes ending up homeless, in jail or dead, says Tim Murphy, a child psychologist. “The need for this bill,” he says, “is measured in lives lost.”
Opponents of Tim Murphy’s bill charge that it would trample on patient’s privacy rights. Without the guarantee of confidentiality, some people with mental illness would avoid seeking treatment, says Jennifer Mathis, director of programs at the Bazelon Center for Mental Health Law.
Some say that the medical profession needs to undergo a cultural change, so that doctors are encouraged to reach out the caregivers of people with serious mental illness, rather than shun them.
The Angells say HIPAA denied them the chance to prevent a tragedy.
When their son was discharged from the hospital, a doctor wrote him a prescription for low-cost pills instead of a more expensive injectable treatment, Chip Angell says. That was in spite of the fact that the young man had a long history of refusing to take pills and was “doing very well” on the injections, medical records show.
“If we had been able to talk to the doctor,” says Chip Angell, his voice breaking, “we could have told him that no matter how much this drug cost, we’d have paid for it.”
Their son, a gifted tennis player with a 7-year-old daughter, sank into a deep depression as the effects of the injectable medication wore off.
In April 2012, six weeks after being discharged from the hospital, their son tried to kill himself by attaching a hose to the exhaust pipe of the family Volvo and filling the interior with deadly carbon monoxide gas. The car overheated and caught fire, with their son inside.
He didn’t survive.

Psychiatrists have a long history of keeping families at arm’s length, says Harvey Rosenthal, executive director of the New York Association of Psychiatric Rehabilitation Services. For much of the 20th century, many psychiatrists saw parents as the source of a patient’s problems.
Yet today, a growing body of research demonstrates that families play a crucial role in recovery from serious mental illness, says Lisa Dixon, a professor of psychiatry at Columbia University Medical Center in New York.
Family involvement is “extraordinarily important” for people with serious mental illness, says Dixon, who directs OnTrackNY, an intensive, early intervention for young people who experience psychosis for the first time. “Often, you have family members who are the first to notice that something is wrong, who are there to try to help their child and get their child into some sort of treatment.”
A recent National Institutes of Health study, which focused on such early intervention, found that family education and support were key parts of a package of care. Young people who received this care had better quality of life and were more likely to return to work or school, according to a 2015 study published in the American Journal of Psychiatry.
A British study found that family involvement can be lifesaving.
Deaths from unnatural causes – such as suicide, drug abuse and injuries – were 90% lower among people with schizophrenia whose families were involved throughout their care, according to a study that followed more than 500 patients over 10 years, published last year in The Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease.
Families often provide food and housing for their loved ones, help them apply for work or school programs, drive them to appointments, pick up prescriptions and coordinate the care of countless doctors, nurses and social workers. When needed, families bail them out of jail.
“When everybody else goes home, the families that are the ones that step up and provide care,” says Ron Honberg, national director of policy and legal affairs at the National Alliance on Mental Illness, or NAMI. “They are always there, when no one else is.”
Many caregivers feel unprepared to help loved ones with serious mental illness, which can strike suddenly in adolescence or young adulthood. Many say they get little or no guidance from health providers.
"I never really understood the illness," says Creigh Deeds, a Virginia state senator whose 24-year-old son killed himself in 2013, after stabbing his father repeatedly.
"I wanted to go through some things that I had observed and bounce ideas off them, find out what they thought I should be doing, what their long-term view for Gus was," says Deeds, an attorney who has become a mental health advocate since his son's death. "I wanted to talk to someone to develop a long-term plan for my son.”
Deeds says health care providers refused to provide even short-term guidance about what to do after his son was discharged from the hospital. "Twice, my son came home from hospitals to me," Deeds says "I was never given instructions. I was never given help. ... Without that information, I was wallowing in ignorance.”


Pat Milam looks out the window of his dining room in Harahan, La. Pat and Debbie Milam’'s 24-year-old son, Matthew, took his own life in 2011, eight days after he was discharged from a psychiatric ward in New Orleans.
(Photo: Edmund D Fountain, for USA TODAY)
Pat Milam, whose son had schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, says he begged the doctors treating his son at a psychiatric hospital for instructions in how to take care of someone so sick. When hospital staff ignored his emails, Milam asked them to walk him through the care of a hypothetical adult child.
“I sent a fax to the hospital administrator,” says Milam, of Harahan, La. “I said, ‘We don’t have to talk about my son. Let’s talk about someone who is severely mentally ill who is about to come home from the hospital.’”
No one answered him.
Milam’s son killed himself at age 24 in 2011, eight days after leaving the hospital.
NAMI has long recognized that caregivers need help. Its Family to Family program educates people about the nature of mental illness and ways to provide support, Dixon says. Families who have a better understanding of their loved one’s condition can provide better care, she says.
Family members need information,” Dixon says. “They need to know how to help their child or loved one. They’re stressed out and anxious and terrified and guilt-ridden.”

Sunday, January 24, 2016

My daughter, who lost her battle with mental illness, is still the bravest person I know


By Doris A. Fuller April 20, 2015
I lost my darling daughter Natalie to mental illness last month. She killed herself a few weeks short of her 29th birthday by stepping in front of a train in Baltimore.

The author with daughter Natalie in 2004, soon after publication of their book “Promise You Won’t Freak Out.” (Courtesy of Doris Fuller )

Natalie and I wrote a book together when she was 16: “Promise You Won’t Freak Out: A Teenager Tells Her Mother the Truth About Boys, Booze, Body Piercing, and Other Touchy Topics (and Mom Responds).” The idea of a teenager telling the truth about her secrets was such a startling concept that we were feature-page headliners in the Baltimore Sun and about two dozen other newspapers, went on TV coast to coast, including on one of the morning shows, and got paid to give speeches. “Oprah” called.
In the book, we used a device to signal whenever a wild turn was about to take place: And then . . . . In the introduction, I defined an And then . . . moment as “one of those critical junctures when my cheerful sense that all was right in the world collided with inescapable proof that it wasn’t.”
The book was published to great reviews the week before Natalie finished high school. Amazon named it the best parenting book of 2004. It was nominated for a national prize. It was translated into Lithuanian and Chinese.
And then . . . .
At 22, during the second half of her senior year of college, Natalie experienced a psychotic break. In the span of a few weeks she went from being a dazzling young adult with the world at her feet to a psych-ward patient with an arrest record. Only much later did I learn what a devastatingly common trajectory this was.
Psychotic disorders nearly always emerge in late adolescence or early adulthood, with onset peaking between the ages of 18 and 25, according to Thomas Insel, director of the National Institute of Mental Health. Scientists don’t know why. Many researchers are focusing on abnormalities in the way the brains of people who behave psychotically develop during adolescence. Others are investigating genetics, prenatal circumstances and environmental conditions.
Some consensus has emerged around the concept that psychotic breaks like Natalie’s are not, as they may seem, abrupt but rather are the climax of a long buildup. In this model, they are rooted in molecular changes in the brain that begin as much as a decade before symptoms occur and progress to an end-stage psychosis in which reality surrenders to delusion, paranoia, hallucinations or other forms of disordered thinking. This idea suggests the possibility, both tantalizing and controversial, that children might someday be screened for psychosis indicators the way they are screened for other health risks, with the hope of reducing the onset of psychosis much as we have reduced the prevalence of heart attacks.
Natalie’s symptoms probably began in her junior year of college, but — like nearly every other family member who ever talked to me about their own loved one’s unraveling — I had no frame of reference to recognize them for what they were.
She went a week without sleeping more than a few hours a night and seemed to have endless energy. But she was traveling abroad then and relying on caffeine to stay awake. Our family saw this as jet lag, not mania. A few months later, she reported that one of her friends had begun whispering whenever Natalie turned her head away. But the girls were on the road together in close quarters and having some spats. With no history of mental illness in the family, auditory hallucinations never crossed anyone’s mind.
Only half a year later — when the whisper of her friend grew into a chorus of strangers issuing commands that led to Natalie’s arrests for offenses such as trespassing — did the connection become apparent. Again, commonplace: The average duration of untreated psychosis in America is 70 weeks, Insel says.
Like most people in the midst of psychiatric crisis, Natalie maintained that she was fine and that “everyone else is crazy.” She continued to deteriorate until police officers, responding to still another call, took her to a hospital emergency room instead of to jail. After a series of psychiatric examinations and a court hearing, she was committed to the state’s public psychiatric hospital. She received intensive treatment for severe bipolar disorder with psychosis until she was stable and symptom-free two months later.
Natalie came home sane, revived and seemingly her vibrant old self. She moved in with me for the summer and taught me how to like grilled tofu and make egg scrambles. She concocted the best mixed salads of my life. She filled my house with her original art, her friends and her irrepressible spirit. Mental illness was not a theme. She returned to college to restart her senior year. I saw her off with an emptier stomach but oh so much optimism.
And then . . . .
Three months later, Natalie abruptly stopped taking the medications that had kept the manic swings and auditory hallucinations at bay. Within minutes of walking through the door for a weekend at home, her delusion-loaded thinking and behavior made it obvious that what I eventually came to think of as “the demons” were back.
Natalie’s relapse was worse than her first break: the psychosis and hospitalization longer, the recovery harder to achieve, the eventual medications more complicated, the resulting future not as bright. Her second commitment to the hospital lasted 10 months, an eternity in an era where the average psychiatric stay is about five days and most people who are psychotic never get a bed at all. Thanks to the intensive care, she rebounded again, albeit more slowly, and finished her bachelor of fine arts degree. Her attending psychiatrist from the hospital and several staff members drove 75 miles to attend her senior art show. It was a triumph for us all.
But, as is true for far too many individuals and families and professionals who live with or around untreated severe mental illness, the And thens continued. While Natalie seemed happier and more productive on meds, she missed the high of occasional mania and she hated the weight gain that is a common side effect of the drugs she was taking. Stable, she would sometimes declare that she wasn’t sick after all and didn’t need medication — another very common reason people give for quitting their meds.
Yet if she even inadvertently missed a few days of medication — even while receiving therapy and other forms of treatment — the demons would return, and one of the first things they would tell her was to stop taking her medicine. The second thing they would tell her was not to talk to her mom, the most powerful other influence in her life. Each time she obeyed and relapsed, she plunged into a longer free fall, hitting the ground harder, recovering more slowly and returning at a lower plateau.]
The final time she entered this cycle was last fall, when Natalie became convinced she was among the 1 in 4 people with psychotic disorders whose symptoms improve only minimally or not at all with medications. There were no apparent signs of psychosis, and she seemed happy and healthy to everyone around her, but she said we couldn’t see inside her head. In November, six years after her first break, she announced that because she was going to have hallucinations anyway, she was giving up meds for good. Now 28 years old, she stopped the injectable antipsychotics and oral mood stabilizers that had helped her rebuild her life, and her mind began its final, fatal unwinding.
Natalie was a believer that treatment worked and that the mental health system needed to be reformed so other people received the kind of care she had when she was in crisis. She told her story in a documentary short last year about the criminalization of mental illness. She dreamed of being a peer counselor. She said she wanted to help others as she had been helped — until she became convinced that she was beyond help.
In the weeks since Natalie’s death, the outpouring of sympathy and grief from legions of people who have fought demons have made me keenly aware that the pain I feel from her loss is but a drop in the ocean of pain created by untreated mental illness. Wrote one woman, “I have bipolar disorder and can’t even begin to tell you how many people over the years have said to me, ‘Be glad that is all you have.’ ‘It could be worse, you could have cancer or some other terminal illness. . . . ’ It saddens me that so many people do not realize that mental illness, while treatable, is not a curable disease, and can lead to death.”
My daughter lived more than six years with an incurable disease that filled her head with devils that literally hounded her to death, and she did it while laughing, painting, writing poetry, advocating and bringing joy to the people around her. She was the bravest person I have ever known, and her suicide doesn’t change that.
“Natalie will help our society to move forward,” a postdoctoral fellow at Johns Hopkins Hospital wrote me upon learning of the suicide. “She is helping us to look at mental illness with the respect, the compassion and the dignity it deserves.”
I hope so. Natalie would have loved that legacy.
Fuller is executive director of the Treatment Advocacy Center, an Arlington-based nonprofit dedicated to eliminating barriers to treatment for people with the most severe psychiatric diseases.
This poem was written by Natalie Fuller in December 2013 during a period of repeated hospitalizations when she first considered suicide to escape psychosis. Fuller killed herself in March, soon before she would have turned 29.
Hope
There is a little piece of glitter following me around
I see it on the carpet and I see it on the ground
that’s been following me for quite some time
guess I never noticed it before
But I know what it means, that little glitter on the floor
It’s hope.
It’s not coincidence, nope, it’s hope.
And I know that I’ve failed you
yeah I know I’ve been untrue
but that glitter on the floor
tells me it doesn’t matter any more
Cuz’ no matter how many times I fail
I’ve got hope.
This time, I’m gonna be better
and I know there’s stormy weather
Please believe in me
I will solve this mystery
and I will show you
to have hope.
It’s not coincidence, nope, it’s hope.
Someday that glitter will shine
Gonna write my rhyme until the time.
My heart’s beatin’ outta my chest
I wanna rest but that don’t impress
I gotta fight this urge
gotta get the electricity surge
I know I can do it
Beat my demons
appreciate the seasons.
I hope, hope, hope I can do it too
make all my wildest dreams come true.



Saturday, January 23, 2016

9 Reasons Why You Need to Stop Stigmatizing People With Mental Illness


     12/16/2015 07:25 am ET | Updated Dec 16, 2015
    • Rachel GriffinComposer/Lyricist, Singer/Pianist, Teacher, Graduate Student, Mental Health Advocate
                        


    LUNA4 VIA GETTY IMAGES
    It's 2015. Come over to the cool side and stop stigmatizing people with mental illness. Just like when you sold your tapes, cut off your mullet, and canceled your MySpace account, you need to say goodbye to your stigma, stereotypes and judgment. They are out of style and mean. 
    We all have to stop, because the consequences of mental illness stigma are devastating. 
    You might say, "Wait... me? I don't stigmatize people with mental illness! Why am I even reading this right now?" Well, you might be surprised at how our culture and the media's view has seeped into your consciousness in ways you don't even realize. (That sounded creepier than I meant it to) Very kind-hearted friends have said things to me about mental health to "help" that felt like more like a punch in the stomach. Even I need to work on the way I see myself and others who have mental health conditions (Hey, I'm calling myself out here, too!)
    Here are nine reasons why you (and I, and every else) need to stop stigmatizing people with mental illness.
    1. It makes people resist getting help.
    I remember how hard it was to admit that I needed help. When the words finally escaped from my mouth, they were disguised in a lot of, "I thinks" and "maybes." When we make people feel like there is something odd/shameful about struggling with a mental health issue, we make it extremely hard for them to ask for help. When they finally do, often the effects of the illness have already wreaked havoc in their lives. When getting help should have been their first step, it's their last resort. Adding shame, guilt and fear on top of already unbearable emotional pain is theworst thing we can do. When people don't ask for help they continue to suffer and suffering is exhausting. It can lead to suicide.
    2. It makes people feel like monsters. The stigma can cause people with mental illness to feel like scary monsters instead of the awesome human beings that they are; human beings who should be celebrated for their courage and resilience! The media falsely links mental illness with violence and never shows you all the people with mental illness that are doing phenomenal things in this world. Fear gets higher ratings than brilliance so the positive stories aren't shared. The media does such a disservice to those to suffer with mental illness and continually misrepresents who they really are. Studies show that people with mental illness, as a group, are no more violent than the general population. They are more likely to be victims of crimes. Stop shaming. Shame is poison to the human spirit, both to those who shame and those who internalize shame. Shame, guilt and fear corrode our dreams that need to be nourished to become reality. (Sorry, I get really Indigo Child sometimes) 
    3. It makes you accidentally hurt people you care about. (And you look uneducated about the topic) Recently I heard a professional joke, "Someone didn't take their meds this morning!" I was offended because this joke always describes someone acting like a total tool. People who forget to take their medication don't suddenly act like the people you're insulting for acting "crazy." No one jokes about medications for physical problems, because it's not funny. Think of all the people you interact with and care about in your life. Ok, so one out of four of them have a mental illness. You never know who is listening and how your joking or comments affect them. Educate yourself about mental illness before you make hurtful jokes or get on your soapbox. All the cool kids are not stigmatizing anymore, so you don't want to look like a goober. (All the cool kids are also not saying goober... Opps) Anyway, you don't see me writing an article about astronomy because I haven't read any research about it and I'm not an astronomer... Don't preach about what you don't know.
    4. It makes people feel alone. Person 1: (tentatively) Well, I've been struggling with depression.  Person 2: (awkwardly) Oh.. Cheer up! You've got a great life. You shouldn't be (whispered) depressed. Try thinking positive. Well.... I have to get going!  When people don't talk about mental illness (or whisper it like the word itself is dirty and ugly) it makes people feel like it's uncommon and that they are a total anomaly for not being cray-cray happy all the time. It makes them feel like freaks because they can't, "Just smile!" and like they are the only ones who have ever felt this way since the beginning of time. It's isolating, when community and connection are so important in healing.
    5. It makes people go off medication. I heard so many lame comments from people that I trusted (with no medical background) about medication, that I went off of my medication many times. I tried every alternative therapy known to man and gave 100 percent each time, but I always ended up in the same position without the medication. Each time I had to go on again I felt guilty and like a failure. As I mentioned earlier, I'm a hippie-indigo child. I did not want medication! It was a brilliant, compassionate psychiatrist who sat me down and said, "Stop it," who finally changed my life and my attitude. She said it wasn't weak to take medication; it was strong. It wasn't cheating at life by taking it; I was cheating myself and everyone else by continuing how I was. She explained to me intellectually what was going on and why I need it. She changed my life. 
    6. Mental illness is not just sadness or experiencing negative emotions.
    You can't give someone advice about their treatment if you are comparing it to your own sadness. You don't know what it's like to be legally blind because you wear glasses, and you don't know what it's like to be depressed because you've been sad. Yes, some people use diet, exercise and alternative medicine but never shame or act like someone is weak if they need medication. It can have devastating consequences. Before you tell your cousin Mary to go off her meds and try berry smoothies and yoga, think about it. Before you tell your BFF that your friend Joe eliminated gluten (but he has amazing willpower) to cure his depression, think about it. It's inappropriate. 
    7. It makes people feel weak. Person 1: I had depression once.. but I was just so strong and cheered myself up with positive thinking and by reading The Secret. You attracted your depression and with strength and being diligent about your thinking you can get over it.  Person 2: I would like to stop talking to you now. Good-bye. When we shame people for needing to ask for help and get treatment, it makes them feel weak and embarrassed. We need to change our perception of this because it's wrong and super old fashioned. It takes tremendous strength to ask for help and stay with treatment. It takes so much strength to go through the nightmare of figuring out which treatment will work, read magazines in waiting rooms from 1998, tell your story over and over, have people treat you like you're the Hunch Back of Notre Dame, feel like you have a war inside of you, and keep up with the care that goes along with having a chronic illness. It's bad-ass. It's not three little kittens lost their mittens, it's warrior status.
    8. It makes people get crappy care. Resident: (pumped) Hi! Great to meet you. I'll be here about a month so I think we can develop a really solid relationship. I can meet with you for about 5 minutes today to hear your entire history!  Patient: (sarcastically) Super.  Care for people with mental illness should be top-notch (I mean.. wait... we are talking about the brain, here, right?) and it's so bad. It's expensive, crappy or just completely unavailable. We get treated like we're kids, talked to in condescending manners, and treated like we are subhuman. The insurance companies put us on hold and play music from an elevator from the 80s for 45 minutes to then just deny our claims. Their favorite line is, "There's nothing I can do, ma'am/sir!" (Is it in their manual or something?) The only doctor in our network is Dr. McDoesn'TGiveACrap. The psychiatrist sees us for 10 minutes and then expects us to take and stick with medication for the brain without any hesitation. The secretaries tell us nothing is available for three months but we can try the ER. Compassion and humanism are missing, and they are everything.
    9. It makes people not know what's wrong with them.
    We have to educate kids, teens, and adults about mental illness or they may not even know that what they are going through is common, treatable and has nothing to do with their character, who they are, and all that they can be. When we are silent, they stay suffering and silent. They mirror how we feel about it.
    Stop trying to decide for people who they are, what they are capable of, and what their treatment should be. Stop defining them. It's not your job. We have to have compassion for people with mental illness and compassion for ourselves. We have to have compassion for what we don't understand. We need stop stepping on people and see their potential. People are like flowers. They aren't meant to be crushed, they are meant to bloom. I hope you'll join me and: #stopstigma #letshamego
    ___________________
    If you -- or someone you know -- need help, please call 1-800-273-8255 for theNational Suicide Prevention Lifeline. If you are outside of the U.S., please visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention for a database of international resources.
    Follow Rachel Griffin on Twitter: www.twitter.com/rachelgriffin22



Sunday, November 29, 2015

Help is not help if it is not helpful

    Silence: What We Don't Talk About in Rehabilitation

    Patricia E. Deegan Ph.D.
    Presented at SKUR Conference, BODØ, Norway
    June 14, 2005
    Copyright © Pat Deegan, PhD & Associates, LLC.

    For permission to distribute please contact us.

    Good morning. Thank you for this opportunity to speak with you today. I really like the title of this conference: Det Vi Ikke Snakker Om - What We Don't Talk About in Rehabilitation. What a great subject for a conference! In the next two days we will have the chance to explore silences. We will have the chance to examine some of the things society and the rehabilitation professions don't talk about, or prefer not to listen to.

    I think it is significant that we are having this conference about silences in Bodo, above the Arctic Circle in Norway. Ever since I was a young girl, I have dreamed of coming to the Arctic. As a young girl, I would imagine myself standing utterly alone on a flat, frozen landscape of ice and bright light. In my mind's eye I was always a tiny red spec in a white ice field, wearing a red hooded jacket that fluttered like a Buddhist prayer flag against the summits. I would imagine that perhaps I was the first and only human to have stood on that precise spot. And as I imagined myself standing on that ice field, the thing I most wondered about was what the silence of that place sounded like. What does arctic silence sound like? What is the sound of a silence so vast and pristine and still? What is the sound of arctic silence, with me standing in the midst of it, unspeaking, beholding, and being held (beheld) by it? Surely, I imagined, such a silence would be a good and wondrous thing. At church I had heard the psalm (46:10) where God said, "Be still and know that I Am". Even as a girl I wanted to know that stillness and that silence.

    I never did get to the Arctic as a child. Instead, the silence I imagined in my childhood was shattered when, at the age of 17, I experienced the onslaught of distressing voices, or what clinicians call auditory hallucinations. I remember exactly where I was when the distressing voices started. I was a passenger in the front seat of a car that was going down a highway with a lot of curves on it. As each new curve loomed in front of me, a voice would hiss, "Watch out. It's coming." My stomach would clench, a terror would come over me, the car would round the curve and approach the next one. Again a voice would curse, "Killing. Spilling. Watch out it's coming". I remember looking around to see where these voices were coming from, but I could not see who was speaking the words. However, I did notice that everyone else in the car seemed unperturbed, as if they were just listening to the radio. Soon after, I began to notice that instead of being upset by these terrible voices, all the people in the car were glancing sideways at me with their lips turned up in barely disguised snarls. Were they part of it? Were they part of what was coming? What was coming? What did the voices mean? I yelled for the driver to pull over to the side of the highway, stumbled out of the car and vomited as the voices laughed at me.

    Following two weeks of such torment, I was locked in a psychiatric institution and diagnosed with schizophrenia. After a brief interview with a psychiatrist, I was taken to a room and injected with an antipsychotic drug called haloperidol. When I awoke from that drug-induced stupor, I could barely recognize myself. My tongue was thick. My vision was blurred. Saliva drooled and leaked down my face. The medication made it hard to swallow, so food spilled and soiled my shirt. I began to smell of last night's supper. Just weeks before I had been a strong athlete who excelled in sports. Now I was in a chemical straightjacket. I moved stiffly and slowly, as if some old woman had crawled into my body and my bones were nothing but arthritic crutches, propping me up against the wall of a mental institution.

    Drugged on haloperidol I could not feel anything. I did not care about anything. I could not smile or laugh or cry or think. In the distance I could still hear the auditory hallucinations, but they had lost their power to grab my innards and shake me to attention. They drummed like a dull ache in the background and were easy to ignore. Everything and everyone else were also easy to ignore, because I cared about nothing and felt nothing. I had been muted. I had become the muted body. I had been silenced – erased and disappeared under the tyranny of those small green pills.
    It is widely assumed that anti-psychotic drugs are helpful because they suppress psychosis and restore one to a more familiar sense of self. In my experience, antipsychotic drugs at these high dosage levels were not helpful. Haloperidol did not return me to a non-psychotic, more familiar self. Rather, it delivered me into a negation of myself, an absence, a silenced echo of my former self.

    Haloperidol replaced me with the drugged-me. And worst of all, the professionals kept telling me how good this medication was for me. They kept telling me I would have to take this medicine for the rest of my life. They said I should be grateful modern psychiatry had a medicine that could so quickly restore my functioning. The psychiatrist said my hallucinations and delusions were gone. The symptoms were abating he said. I was more in control and I was stabilizing he said. From my perspective, however, things appeared quite different. I did not feel better. The so-called hallucinations were still there although they were no longer a bother to the people around me. I was not more in control but rather, I felt controlled by the medication. I was not stabilizing. Rather I was becoming a shadow of my former self, unable to think or feel. I was not beginning to function. Instead, I was learning to play the game in order to get discharged from that institution as soon as possible. I was not grateful for this medicine. I was not grateful for this help. As far as I was concerned, this help was not helpful.

    What I am describing here is a clash of perception between the psychiatrist and myself. This chart summarizes some of the main points of that clash of perception:

    Table 1: The Clash of Perception
    Psychiatrist
    Me
    You are getting better
    Your cure is disabling me
    Your symptoms are gone
    My symptoms no longer bother you
    You are more in control
    Haloperidol is controlling me
    You are stable
    I can’t think or feel
    You are functioning again
    My life is without meaning or passion

    It is important to remember that this clash of perceptions I am describing went largely unspoken and unacknowledged. The psychiatrist and I did not sit down and have a thorough discussion of our divergent perspectives. It is also important to see there is a terrible power imbalance here. This clash of perception occurred between a psychiatrist and myself during one of my most vulnerable times. Because of his enormous power in relation to me, the psychiatrist's interpretation of me became the only valid story. His story about me became the truth and my story, my experience and my voice were silenced. What I am describing, therefore, is a double silencing. The first silencing was imposed by a therapy (haloperidol) that muted me. The second silencing was imposed when my experience of the therapy was ignored and the professional's interpretation of the outcome of therapy was prescribed as the only truth.

    The silencing I am describing is not confined to people with psychiatric disabilities. Silencing people with disabilities through the assertion of the expert's professional opinion occurs routinely. It is not uncommon for an expert to declare that a person is making good progress in a sheltered workshop while the person with the disability feels like a failure because they are not working a real job. It is not uncommon for a rehabilitation specialist to applaud the progress a child is making in speech therapy, although the child is quite clear they are tired of all the therapy and would rather play with kids in the neighborhood after school. In these and thousands of other instances, the professional's interpretation becomes the official story while the stories, the voices and the experiences of disabled people are silenced.

    Who gets to say if a therapy is working? Whose directives are followed and whose are silenced? Who gets to say if professional help is helpful? I would propose that help which ignores the perspective and autonomy of the person with a disability is toxic help. Toxic help is, at best, a waste of time, money and resources and, at worst, toxic help hurts and may even kill.

    Help, and in particular toxic help, is not a topic that is discussed often in professional rehabilitation cultures. The nature of help is one of those topics about which we are often silent because we are too busy being helpful to stop to talk about it. But we must break that taboo. We must dare to talk about help because power, including the power to oppress, often disguises itself as help. Power-disguised-as-help is used to silence disabled people. Paolo Freire (1989) says that oppressive power submerges the consciousness of the oppressed into a culture of silence. Toxic help oppresses and silences people with disabilities. Just like the oppressive silencing I experienced with the psychiatrist, those of us with disabilities have been the recipients – whether willing or unwilling – of a lot of toxic help. We have become experts at seeing oppressive power cloaked in the disguise of help. * From that silence has emerged the irreverent and emancipated voice of people with disabilities or, as we call ourselves, the dis-labled:

    Perhaps one of the most fundamental critiques that the disability community makes about toxic help is that it is not unusual to find ourselves completely surrounded by helpers yet still unable to find help. Cartoonist and disability activist Scott Chambers (2000) captures the irony many disabled people experience, that is, the irony of drowning in rehabilitation help that is unhelpful.


      
    *Scott Chambers calls this piece, "Tested and Proven Methods of Drowning in Help". * In this first cartoon strip, we see a person in the water who looks pretty distressed. He is calling out "Help!". Next we see the person looking up into the air only to discover that a wheelchair has been thrown to him. In the next slide we see that the wheelchair, having landed on the man's head, is now sinking along with the man, to the bottom of the sea.




    *In the second comic strip we see a man who is also looking distressed, floundering in the sea, and calling out "Help!". Next we see the man looking up into the sky with a smile on his face. Paper money is floating down from the sky. In the final scene we see the man has once again drowned in the sea, with the paper money floating on the surface above him.



    *The final cartoon in this series once again shows a distressed person in the sea, crying out "Help!". This time help comes in the form of a gigantic, heavy book that has the title, "Report on Drowning." The report on drowning comes flying down from the sky and the heavy book hits the man on the head, drowning him under the water while the report on drowning floats above him.

    *The moral of this cartoon story is clear: *There are too many reports on drowning and not enough life preservers! That is, *Help isn't help if it's not helpful. *Help that is not helpful can actually do harm. *Being helpful requires that professionals ask us what we need. But asking is never enough. Professionals must also listen to what we say. In this way *help becomes something that is co-created between the disabled person and the professional. When help is co-created as an explicit agreement between the professional and the individual, then silencing is avoided.