There
has been a lot of talk in the last few weeks about mental health. This, in
itself, is a healthy thing. It is imperative that we understand what
constitutes mental illness, how to treat it, how to recognize it in others, things
to do to help loved ones or even strangers afflicted by its maladies.
I
think mental illnesses go largely ignored in big cities – we don’t see, we don’t
want to see, we race from work to school to home to pick-a-chore. It is easier
to gloss over it when you can isolate yourself in the cocoon that is your
apartment and – in New York – never come out for air, if you choose.
My
grandmother grew in a very small town, and as is true of most small towns, they
took care of their mentally ill. They tolerated eccentricities but they also
realized that these were not selfish whims but physical and psychological
conditions that could not be easily overcome by those affected.
The
decent thing to do, the kindness, was to help these folks, to protect them the
way one would any defenseless creature and allow it to bloom in its own way so
that they could achieve a modicum of self-reliance or even happiness.
I
wish the conversation about mental illness was more focused and far reaching,
but at least there is some dialog and the stigma is beginning to lift a little.
Today
on the bus, a lady was sitting across the aisle from me. She sat with a bundle on her chest. She held it lovingly and
with care. The bundle was smallish, so I guessed it may be a new arrival.
I
was busy chatting on Messenger with a friend, playing Words with Friends, and
checking Facebook. I did not pay any attention to her beyond the initial glance.
It did not occur to me until much later that I never heard the baby make a
sound.
A
few blocks later, I heard her say, “Do you want to ring the bell?”
At
this point we were in the dead zone and I had switched to playing Angry Birds.
Still, I heard her words and smiled. Kids love to ring the bell…
She
stood as the bus came to a full stop and she exited.
One
of the regulars, an old Brooklyn type (the Bay Ridge stereotype: big
Italian/Irish mix, loud and funny and slightly intolerant but willing to accept
you on an individual basis), looks at me with a devilish glint in his eye and
says, “You realize she was talking to her teddy bear, right?”
I
look out the window, and sure enough, she is holding a stuffed panda and as she
is about to cross the street, she says to it, “This way?” and she turns it to
face into the street as she points the path ahead.
Yes,
it was a little funny because it was so absurd. It was also a little sad. I
wanted to know more, but she was already gone. I hoped she’d be okay, but I
want to believe that most people are decent enough and would give her space
instead of torment her or hurt her.
But
these are the provinces and far more neighborly than the city. If I walked into
any street in Manhattan and started talking to my ham sandwich and switched to
Spanish mid-sentence because it contains jalapeño cheese, nobody will give
three damns.
Clearly,
though, there was more going on there and this human being needs care and
healing. It doesn’t make her any less deserving of kindness; in fact, she needs
a little more than most. My grandmother taught me that very early in life.
