Classic Lovato at Large: Mental illness, suicide and mass shootings.
(From Dec. 15, 2012. The day after the Connecticut mass shooting)
I woke this morning with blood on my hands.
I am, in part, responsible for the 28 people who were killed in Connecticut, and the ones at Columbine, and Arizona’s Gabby Giffords, and Paul Raney and the coffee shop killings in Seattle (a year ago) and anyone else whose life was taken by someone with mental health illnesses -- and that includes the shooters.
The fact is, I know people right now who I suspect of being mentally ill and I have not done a thing to help them, or help them get help.
I’ve worried about them, even made crude fun of them, but in the end, I stood by while running my busy life, protecting my loved ones, and didn’t make a call that someone like me has the knowledge and ability to make.
I write sincere stories about how and where to get help and how to identify people who might need it. And yet I move on to the next story without reacting myself.
As I watched the morning cable news stations today I heard all the predictable political and moral arguments: Get God in schools, get guns out of schools, it’s TV, the movies, video games, the Liberals, the Conservatives, the Media...
But folks, it’s me, and anyone else who knows someone who might be mentally ill and does nothing but pay lip service or, in my case, most often does nothing at all.
Every time I’ve covered one of these as a journalist, people who knew the killer or suicide victim often say the same thing: I’m not surprised. He always seemed strange or depressed or angry. And yet I’ve never asked any of them what they did before these sick people killed themselves or someone else.
I’ve heard the TV reporters, columnists and bloggers ask, “What would make someone do this?” and, “What could we do to prevent this again?” But we all know deep down these are freak incidents that we could not prevent. Or could we?
Anyone would agree someone would have to be insane to kill 20 kindergarten kids. And yet, why didn’t any of his friends, acquaintances or family members just try and get them some help?
If you’re fat, drunk, high or have a bad rash, someone will usually try an intervention, medical care, something.
But I avoid the mentally ill. When I have to talk to them, I try to console them, try to appease them. Mostly I want to get away from them because, hey, it’s not worth my precious time to actually make a simple phone call or try and be a real friend.
See, even If I just did that, and that person still goes out and commits murder or suicide, at least I know in my heart that I tried to do something that was more than nothing.
I watched the President, a man who I mostly disagree with politically, try to offer some soothing words to Americans. But what he didn’t say was the most powerful to me. He, as many of us are, was overwhelmed by grief and a shared fear and pain of simply being a parent. He paused several times to regain composure, perhaps because of his empathy and perhaps because he realized just how futile mere words can be sometimes. And as a parent, I felt his grief, his fear, his anger, his weakness, his confusion. An for a few moments, I believe he shared them with us.
See, this is about me. It’s about bullying and isolation and being different and our society and lack of moral compass, poor parenting, drugs, alcohol, and yadda, yadda, yadda... But it’s really about me.
We have a cynical friend and after a minor tragedy struck him, I would offer sarcastic empathy and jokingly tell him, “That’s the least I can do.” And he would jokingly reply, “Well, what’s the most you can do?”
I used to think that was funny, but when it comes to someone’s mental health, maybe it’s the question I should ask myself. The least I can do is nothing. But what is the most I can do?
I can say this: There are times when we are all Americans. We are cut of tough stuff and a high level of Western decency. We believe in the rule of law, family, community and the pursuit of happiness. We also are often at our best when things are at there worst and we can band together like no other group of people in the history of the world when we have to.
Yet, this is a different type of challenge for me. I am a fighter, a doer, a man who wants to take drastic actions to get results. But this time I must force myself to be thoughtful and reflective, patient and deliberate.
I know at least three people who I suspect are clinically depressed, and as a good American, I will make a phone call.
It might be the least I can do, but it also might be the most I can do. God bless those victims in far away Connecticut.
And I am glad God takes the time to bless me - whether I deserve it or not.
