When I was 32 and pregnant with my daughter, my brother disappeared.
At first, he was literally gone. He was living in the small apartment attached to our house and never came home. He did not go to work. He did not call to say he was going to friend's. He was just gone. By this time, I did not feel much. I assumed he was on some kind of bender, high or drunk and passed out somewhere. An old story with a new chapter.
It was still summer, heat dripping from the windows even early in the morning. I awoke one morning to see his rusting blue Pathfinder in the driveway, parked crookedly. The bathroom door was shut when I entered the apartment. I knocked and, hearing no response, slowly pushed the door open. I could see my brother's foot hanging over the side of the bathtub, his shoe still on. My heart lurched and I pushed the door wider. He opened an eye to look at me.
"What are you doing? Where have you been?" I asked.
"In the woods," he replied. "I just want to die."
Even though he physically returned from the brink this time, my brother disappeared from me this day. He has since been through the hospital, through rehab, through homelessness, through fatherhood. He is now working. He sees his son on weekends. He has a physical address, but he has stopped calling me with random frequency which generally means all is not well. My brother is almost four years older than me, but I have always felt like the older one. He and I are so different it is hard to believe we came from the same place. Aaron is like my mom in so many ways; he is loving and kind and gentle. But the world seems too big for them, like it bruises them somehow to be present and alive.
As we explored the cases of Andrea Yates and Michelle Carter and Conrad Roy over the last few weeks, I have been returning in my mind to my brother - and to my mother for that matter. They both have struggled with depression and other mental health issues. They both have at times not been what anyone would call "responsible" in their lives in terms of decision making and self-care. I struggle because their lack of responsibility makes me so angry and frustrated at times. It is hard to love someone who struggles to love himself and to just live.
I wonder then to what extent those with mental illness can be held accountable for their actions - and inactions. The Yates case is so extreme and terrible in consequence, but I keep coming back to Andrew's Cohen's article in The Atlantic where he says, "But the truth is everyone failed Andrea Yates...No one did what they could have done to get Andrea Yates the help she clearly needed." Cohen paints Yates as a definite victim in her own tragedy, as one who needed others to intercede who didn't. He implies the crime could have prevented if others took more responsibility to help Yates. Interestingly, in the Michelle Carter case, there are two young people who are struggling with depression who appear to be feeding off one another. In the ABC news video linked below, a psychiatrist for the defense claims Michelle Carter was "overwhelmed by her caretaker role" and "she snapped." Similar to Andrea Yates, this implies Carter herself needed help; she could not handle the pressure of caring for Conrad Roy's own overwhelming mental illness, so she acted in not as physically violent of a manner, but certainly in a cold and twisted way. She helped Conrad to end his life rather than live his life.
At first, he was literally gone. He was living in the small apartment attached to our house and never came home. He did not go to work. He did not call to say he was going to friend's. He was just gone. By this time, I did not feel much. I assumed he was on some kind of bender, high or drunk and passed out somewhere. An old story with a new chapter.
It was still summer, heat dripping from the windows even early in the morning. I awoke one morning to see his rusting blue Pathfinder in the driveway, parked crookedly. The bathroom door was shut when I entered the apartment. I knocked and, hearing no response, slowly pushed the door open. I could see my brother's foot hanging over the side of the bathtub, his shoe still on. My heart lurched and I pushed the door wider. He opened an eye to look at me.
"What are you doing? Where have you been?" I asked.
"In the woods," he replied. "I just want to die."
Even though he physically returned from the brink this time, my brother disappeared from me this day. He has since been through the hospital, through rehab, through homelessness, through fatherhood. He is now working. He sees his son on weekends. He has a physical address, but he has stopped calling me with random frequency which generally means all is not well. My brother is almost four years older than me, but I have always felt like the older one. He and I are so different it is hard to believe we came from the same place. Aaron is like my mom in so many ways; he is loving and kind and gentle. But the world seems too big for them, like it bruises them somehow to be present and alive.
As we explored the cases of Andrea Yates and Michelle Carter and Conrad Roy over the last few weeks, I have been returning in my mind to my brother - and to my mother for that matter. They both have struggled with depression and other mental health issues. They both have at times not been what anyone would call "responsible" in their lives in terms of decision making and self-care. I struggle because their lack of responsibility makes me so angry and frustrated at times. It is hard to love someone who struggles to love himself and to just live.
I wonder then to what extent those with mental illness can be held accountable for their actions - and inactions. The Yates case is so extreme and terrible in consequence, but I keep coming back to Andrew's Cohen's article in The Atlantic where he says, "But the truth is everyone failed Andrea Yates...No one did what they could have done to get Andrea Yates the help she clearly needed." Cohen paints Yates as a definite victim in her own tragedy, as one who needed others to intercede who didn't. He implies the crime could have prevented if others took more responsibility to help Yates. Interestingly, in the Michelle Carter case, there are two young people who are struggling with depression who appear to be feeding off one another. In the ABC news video linked below, a psychiatrist for the defense claims Michelle Carter was "overwhelmed by her caretaker role" and "she snapped." Similar to Andrea Yates, this implies Carter herself needed help; she could not handle the pressure of caring for Conrad Roy's own overwhelming mental illness, so she acted in not as physically violent of a manner, but certainly in a cold and twisted way. She helped Conrad to end his life rather than live his life.
It is easy to stand outside of these cases as horrible as they are and judge those involved. Maybe not easy, but easier than to look at your own role and responsibility towards those in your life who may struggle with mental illness. I wonder if my brother would say that I disappeared from his life on that August day in 2008. I certainly removed myself emotionally from him. I had to disconnect for my own self. The reality is people struggling with mental illness do need help; they can't do it alone. But the responsibility still lies with them to take the first step - and to keep up those steps, even if they stumble, to at least keep trying.
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