There I was, looking for graphics for my business website, and this popped up. And I had to have it. There’s Stew, on the right, needing help, despondent with his auditory hallucinations, his depression, his anxiety, and on the left are all the people who can’t see him, much less notice what he needs. It’s not that they don’t want to see him, and it’s not that they don’t care (though some of them don’t – people are people, after all), but they’re so wrapped up in their stuff that who has time to see what’s going on with other people? Especially when what’s going on seems overwhelming.

                Mental illness sucks. I don’t think there’s anything surprising in that statement. We all know it, don’t we? It sucks for the person with it, and it sucks for the people around them, and it sucks for society when Bad Things Happen. Major suckage. That’s a word, right?

                I mostly remember the good things about Stew. His enthusiasm, his jokes, his ability to suss out a solution to a problem, his belief in me, and his determination. Those are easy, just like focusing on those things when he was alive was easy. And it was easy for people to be around him when he was himself, Stew, happy and good company, willing to try out new things, excited about life and the possibilities before him.

                And when he wasn’t well, it was hard for people to be around him. They didn’t know what to say, or what to do. Sometimes even I didn’t know what to do. His emotions would ricochet so suddenly that we could be in the midst of a good day and then suddenly everything would go black, as if a thunderstorm had moved in fast, plunging us into darkness. Half an hour later he might be back to his happy self, with no memory of the darkness. Often it was the other way around, with no memory of the good times, and I would have to remind him that he wasn’t always miserable.

                Sometimes I’d catch him being happy and not knowing it, and I’d point it out to him so he would know that there was still joy in life, however fleeting.

                It’s the bad times I don’t want to remember. The times when he was at his worst, and he was in so much emotional pain that I didn’t know how he could bear it.

                I learned to disengage. I had to. It was the “put your oxygen mask on first” syndrome. If I didn’t, I couldn’t function well enough to help him. My ability to disengage is still with me, it’s become an integral part of my psyche. If I see you’re in pain I want to help, I want to do something to make it easier for you, but at the same time I’m going to continue living well because there’s no point in both of us being miserable. There just isn’t.

                But I’ll do what I can to help. Maybe not to the extent that I did with Stew, but I was married to him, after all. And if you’re in pain and need help, tell me, because how will I know otherwise? I might notice, but the chances are, I won’t. I’m busy over here, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. And sometimes I keep busy with my numbers so I won’t care too much. So I won’t lose myself again. I’m like most people. We want to help, but sometimes we don’t know where to start.

                Taking care of Stew made me smarter. I wish everyone could have someone like him in their lives. He made me a better person. And I hope that I helped him get through the worst of it. 

An Uncommon Friendship: a memoir of love, mental illness, and friendship, is now complete and looking for a publisher, or an agent. Or both! www.anuncommonfriendship.com . Look for us on FB!