talking about the void

While windexing some bell jars at work today, I thought about writers and depression.  I often think of chronicling my own experiences, fictionalizing as needed, and putting it all in one place: a book.  But every time I sit down to start it, I know it's not what I'm supposed to be focusing on.  I'd rather write shorter pieces somewhere else, like in a magazine piece or a blog or something.  It's just so....permanent to put something in a book.  And my opinions on certain facets of mental health are still developing.

During this Mental Health Awareness Month, I have been reading a plethora of articles.  I have been reading stories from experienced patients opening up and sharing their thoughts.  It seems there are a few different philosophies or approaches to mental health out there:

1.  There are those individuals who are not ashamed of their mental illness and openly engage about how wonderful medications are and how happy they are to have found their cure.

2.  There are angry, troubled individuals who have had really bad experiences and want to voice it every chance they get.  In the nature of a whistleblower of sorts, they talk about flawed mental health care coverage by insurance and Medicare, poisonous medications, and the link between prisons and the lack of proper medical assistance.

And 3) people like me who are kind of in the middle.  I am happy for the people who have found a great medication and are pleased with where they are in life.  Mental illness has not limited them in any way and the future is bright.  I have empathy for the people still looking for the right medication, for those who have gone through the trial and error of every new medication on the market, for those who keep trying to find the perfect combination.  And I understand the anger held by those who have attempted mental health care and had a terrible experience with it.  Because of a terrible experience or hostile treatment from a professional, they resort to never comply again and therefore never get needed treatment and often get into trouble down the road.

I am still reading, learning and developing my views.  It has taken me years to find my own intuition again between all the medications, mind fucks (for lack of a better phrase) and words exchanged.  When I'm ready to participate, I'll do so.  Until then, there will always be fingerprints on the bell jars at work to clean.  It'll give the Sylvia Plathish depression a chance to escape so people don't have to resort to tragic, destructive means.