Accusations

Having a mental health problem of any kind is hard to handle by those becoming ill. But coping with mental illness is made far more difficult due to the attitudes and behavior held by those coming into contact with the mentally ill. Friends and relatives can be blinded by their own bigotries and ignorance regarding mental health. They can embark on misguided attempts to help which can have disastrous and often long-term consequences for those very people they are trying to assist. General practitioners who have not received adequate training can contribute to the mess through misdiagnosis and dangerously meddlesome behavior. Mental health legislation can work against the very people that it is attempting to help. Due to all of these factors, the deck can be stacked harshly against those suffering from mental illness. The result can lead to disability, disadvantage, and even death - all of which could have been prevented.

Take little old me, a fellow that for years had kept his head down and his mouth shut, worked hard, loved his family, and did his best to make a better life. I was a guy who really tried to care. I was the fellow who would stop at an automobile accident to see if anyone had been hurt. I liked to think that people could trust me to do the right thing for them when the chips were down. And I thought that if the tables ever turned and I needed help, my pleas would be met with a variety of helping hands. Which made it doubly perplexing to me when I realized that I could not trust anyone, not even my own family, to help me in my hour of extreme need.

I got little sleep following the fire. Trauma results in a surge of adrenalin that floods the body and mind in its own nefarious grip. The impulse to fight or fly becomes of paramount concern. Sleep was the last thing on my mind. But my landlord, living only across the road from the apartment block and realizing that I had no bed to call my own, invited me to his house. He lent me a pair of shorts, a T-Shirt, and sandals because I owned nothing at that point, not even a pair of boxers. He allowed me to sleep in his guest room. But I tossed and turned all night, the images of the fire seared forever into my brain.

Having gone to bed after midnight, and having been unable to sleep, I was up before 5 AM. I let myself quietly out of the house. I walked the mile into our small town. There, I waited for the shops to open. I went into a men's shop, purchasing the basics: a couple of shirts. A pair of jeans. A pair of shoes. Underwear and socks. A wallet. I remember joking with the staff who helped me and who marveled at my survival.

I don't remember how I paid for any of my purchases because my old wallet, together with cash and credit cards, were cinders. My mobile phone had also burned in the fire. I borrowed one from the nearby phone agent. I didn't have any of my family's numbers so didn't phone them. Frankly, I don't think I would have had the presence of mind to call and tell them of my survival even if my phone had made it out of the fire safely. I was operating on some sort of auto-pilot. To those I met - shopkeepers and the general public - I must have looked sane enough. But inside I was emotionally blank. Flat. All I really wanted to do was sleep.

I remember going to a local tourist center, a place I had visited frequently, thinking that doing something 'normal' would make me feel a bit better. There, I ran into an old neighbor who used to live across the hall from me in the apartment building. He had not heard about the fire. I told him. He thanked his lucky stars that he no longer lived there, afraid that he and his young family might not have survived. He knew that I was exhausted. He asked me if I had eaten? I realized only then that I had not. He firmly suggested doing so.

It was almost 1 PM and I felt like hell. I was coughing and feeling run down and beaten. I remembered what the EMT had told me, and I made a deal with myself: I would get a sandwich then walk to the local medical center for a physical. It was the least I could do for myself.

I entered a pub and ordered a sandwich and beer. Before I had the chance to eat, I looked up: standing in front of me were my ex-wife, my eldest daughter, and my born-again Christian minister acquaintance. As it turned out, the minister - concerned about our confidential conversation the night before and having heard about the fire - put two and two together and got five. He tracked down my family and told them everything we discussed, despite its confidential nature. I guess he had decided that I needed help. He was right, but not the type that my ex-wife had subsequently planned.

I was shocked - and so very happy - to see them. The emotion that had been dammed up within me since the fire poured out in a gush. I led them into a back room, hoping to gain a bit of privacy within the crowded pub. There, I babbled: about how glad I was to see them; about how I wished so fervently that we could again become close despite the marital breakdown that had occurred. They listened, but their faces were etched with worry and concern. The were concerned by my babbling (let me tell you - if you survive a fire, you tend to babble). They did not understand why I had not phoned to tell them about the fire. They had only found out while listening to the local radio station. They were scared to death for me. They wanted me to take some action - a comment that I did not yet understand.

We were suddenly joined by my wife's GP, a woman doctor who had also been my GP prior to our separation. My already numbed mind did not understand why she was there. I looked around. A police officer now stood at the door for reasons that quickly became apparent. I realized that he was to make sure that I caused no trouble.

The GP insisted on examining me. I should explain that a few months earlier I had 'fired' her as my GP for reasons that are irrelevant here. I did not appreciate her sudden renewed interest in me. I became angry. I reluctantly agreed to a brief physical - right there in the pub - embarrassed by all the attention that I was now receiving and from the prying eyes of the local neighbors who could only wonder and whisper about what was going on. As I remember, the GP listened to my heart and breathing. She took my BP. Apparently satisfied, she then made a firm suggestion:

"I want you to take a mental health evaluation."

A mental health examination? Now? Only hours after almost dying in a fire? How about a victory party instead for helping to rescue two people who could have died?

I became angrier. I knew that I was having issues. I knew that I needed help. Indeed, I had started seeing a counselor a few weeks earlier, even prior to my daughter's wedding fiasco, to address some of those problems. I also knew that I had just survived an almost fatal fire. I had been traumatized. I had practically no sleep and had not eaten at all since the previous day. I declined the offer. Thoroughly humiliated, I walked out of the pub, past the cop who looked at me with grave suspicion.

I should probably explain here that, for me, the fire resulted in a sense of extreme and continual danger. I had become hyper-vigilant. I was fearful for my own safety. I had a keen desire to protect myself. Most people suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder feel the same way. And I had decided to visit the local medical center due to these symptoms. Frankly, I hoped that they would check me into a hospital and a snug, warm bed, shoot me up with a large tranquilizer that would allow me to sleep, and offer a little R&R and TLC that I knew I needed desperately.

But my plans had been interrupted by family and a 'professional' who were convinced I had tried to kill myself - and my neighbors while I was at it.  At that point, a mental evaluation was the last thing on my mind - and frankly I would not have trusted anyone to give it to me. However, that was not to be the case.

My ex-wife whispered briefly to the GP and followed me outside. Catching up, she pleaded with me to allow her to take me to the local hospital. She only wanted me to have a thorough physical exam to make sure that I was not suffering from smoke inhalation. She promised that on no account would I be asked to take a mental evaluation.

Trusting her, and reassured that her promise would not be breached, I agreed. With my daughter, we drove to the hospital which happened to be located in my old town. There, we waited in ER for hours. I was so tired I could have slept on the floor. 7 PM came and went. I had not eaten in 24 hours. All I wanted to do was find a hotel someplace, get some food, and sleep.

But finally a nurse brought me in. A young doctor gave me a cursory exam. I remember the cold metal of the stethoscope. The order to breath in. The comment that I was fine after only a moment's physical evaluation. And me asking, "Is that it?" And him saying, almost in embarrassment, "Actually, that's not why you're here. We're going to mentally evaluate you."

I wanted to go ballistic but I kept a firm grip on myself. I was escorted to a small room to wait for the hospital psychologist. A ward nurse visited me. I clearly told her that I was okay: I needed some sleep and some food and a safe place. I explained that I had survived a fire; that I was managing to cope - barely. But that I had already refused a mental evaluation and that I was not prepared to take one now. "I didn't realize that anyone surviving an apartment fire is automatically subjected to a mental health evaluation," I said wryly. She promised that they would not detain me longer than required.

The psychologist - a nice man - entered. He asked if I would allow him to mentally evaluate me. I refused point-blank. He suggested that I might be a danger to myself or others. I told him that his comment was bordering on the libelous. I was going home. He tried to broker a deal: if I agreed to take some meds (anti-psychotic drugs as it turned out, which I would have refused anyway) he would allow me to go back to my smaller town. If I agreed, he would talk to his supervisor. At this point it was getting on toward 10 PM. I told him I was giving him 15 minutes. If he didn't come back by then I was gone. On the way out the door he mentioned that if I left without his permission, he would call the cops.

Fifteen minutes went by. No sign of him. 20 minutes. A half hour. Fuming, and having said goodbye to my ex-wife and daughter, I caught a cab. It drove me back to town. I went immediately to the local police station. I told the cop there what had happened, and that he should expect a phone call instructing him to bring me in. He laughed and told me to go home.

But I had no home to go to. Instead, I walked to a local hotel, my few belongings pushed into a brand new sports bag. I asked for a room. The receptionist gave me the key. I deposited the bag there, then walked back downstairs, having decided to pay for the room that night because that's what I usually did and had forgotten to.

The owner of the hotel stood at the reception desk. I held out the cash to him. "I don't want your money," he stated in deadly earnest. "You're the guy who started the fire, aren't you? You almost killed everyone." He escorted me from the premises. It made no difference that I had not started the fire. It made no difference that it was past midnight, I had no place to go, and desperately needed sleep. It made no difference that I had used the hotel for years and was considered a loyal customer and a fellow who appreciated the efforts of the hotel staff - and made it known to them. I was livid. At the door I turned to him: "If the world goes to hell like it has for me, I hope you're treated the same way." I walked away.

It was now almost midnight. I walked a mile or so to another hotel. I checked in. I had a sandwich and beer at the bar, the first food that I'd eaten in over 24 hours. I walked to my bedroom and fell into bed. The comfort of sleep descended immediately. But not before I had decided that I would look for a new apartment the next day. A place of safety in which I could recover and figure out how to get appropriate help.

I never had a chance.