Philadelphia Weekly

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I was walking to work the other day--harried, late, carrying many bags--when a man stepped in front of me. He stood there, swaying, his eyes glassy, blocking my way. He was wearing khakis and a green shirt with a stain on it that looked like a map of Africa. He was clutching a leather date book. He wasn't asking me for money; he was just trying to have a conversation.

"I'm going to the ocean," he said a couple times. Shifting my bags from one hand to the next, aggravated by the fact that I was late already, I said to him, "Yeah, you're going to the ocean. That's great. Now move." I hurried on my way.

Once I was a block away I really heard what he'd said: "I'm going to the ocean." It was heartbreaking. What had happened to him? Drugs? Mental illness? And what had happened to me that I'd become such a cold, callous bitch?

Later that day I saw him again--the same glassy stare, the same rambling--but this time without his planner. How quickly he'd shed yet more of himself, the one item that seemed to link him to the people charging down Walnut Street, briefcases in hand, on their way home from work.

I've recently noticed that empathy can slip away, like drops of water, until you find yourself dry. I've seen it happen to former drug addicts. They struggle so hard to pull themselves out of the deepest despair, and by the time they get free, they've severed the ties to the world that almost pulled them under. As time passes and they realize they're going to make it, the people who are still living in that darkness start to seem like unappealing ghosts--dirty and weak.

The former addict becomes hardened by his own good fortune. With the strength it takes to stay clean sometimes comes a loss--however small--of kindness.

I see it happen with the mentally ill as well. I was once dealing with an advocacy organization staffed entirely by "consumers," which is a contemporary term for people who have mental illnesses.

But most of these consumers were in recovery--that is, their own illnesses were no longer so troubling that they couldn't work or live comfortably. I called the group because a reader of this column asked for help getting off disability.

The people I spoke with on his behalf were derisive and haughty. They spoke of him the way I'd expect "normal" people to do. They were annoyed by him, and tired of dealing with his problems. I was furious. The very things these people found exasperating were probably the same things they themselves grappled with before they were lucky enough to get better. They did end up helping my friend, but not without making it clear how aggravating they found his behavior and his neediness. As the old cliche goes, how soon we forget.

I hesitate to write about it because it's so unflattering, but I have to confess I've lately noticed a similar intolerance in myself. I get calls from people looking for help and I feel annoyed and put upon. Sometimes the people who call aren't making sense, and I get impatient and terse. I get emails from people who ramble or say inappropriate things, and rather than feel sympathy, I get exasperated.

Then I catch myself at it and I marvel at my own chutzpah. Who the hell do I think I am, being so judgmental? Wasn't I there myself at one time?

After I saw that man in the street, I realized something about myself: I'm afraid. I live in terror of going back there--back to that time when my mind was my enemy, when my behavior was inappropriate, when my emails made no sense, when I talked to people who didn't want to talk to me, when I exhausted people, when the illness exhausted me. I live every day with that shadow following me down the sunny street I now walk, and it won't go away.

When I have too much contact with people who are suffering as I once did, it's like looking at a picture of yourself in eighth grade with glasses and braces: Was I really this awkward? Is that really me? It's almost as if I worry--not rationally, not consciously--that it's contagious. Maybe I was thinking when I dismissed that poor man, "Stay away from me. It's going to rub off."

So this is my confession. I see now that this fear often keeps me from writing about serious mental health issues. Maybe if I just write one more column about the accordion or nasal sprays, I think, maybe it'll all go away. Maybe it'll leave me alone. Maybe I'll be normal. For real.

But the thing is, I won't be normal. I have a mental illness, and I've written about it. Those are the choices I've made and that have made me.

So just be patient with me. I asked readers to send in their stories about the system, and I promise to be a sympathetic and responsible guardian of those experiences. It just might take some time.