Words

The Roman philosopher Seneca wrote

I will not relinquish old age if it leaves my better part intact. But if it begins to shake my mind, if it destroys my faculties one by one, if it leaves me not life but breath, I will depart from the putrid or the tottering edifice. If I know that I must suffer without hope or relief I will depart not through fear of the pain itself but because it prevents all for which I would live.


Anne Langbein was my friend. She was witty, poetic, wise, and affectionate; she made the BEST shortbread in the world, had a beautiful rose garden and a conservatory full of healthy, verdant tropical plants of a thousand shades. She had two lovely and devoted grown daughters who were both doing well in their personal and professional lives, and who each had great kids who knew that they were loved. Anne was a potter, and made some gorgeous bowls and urns. She gave me one, and it's one of my most precious possessions.

I met Anne when I was working as a care-giver for Presbyterian Support Services in Wellington. For some clients I helped with personal care such as showering, dressing, preparing and helping with dinner, for others I did housework, grocery shopping and the like. Anne was one of the latter, I collected her groceries every week, did the ironing, swept and mopped the floors, did the dishes and cleaned the bathroom. She was a hard task-master, she was so fussy about me getting the ironing right, making me redo the sheets, towels and handkerchiefs over and over again til I had them perfect, and I did it without so much as a groan even though I thought ironing them as a bit silly, I would have done anything for her.

Anne had Motor Neuron Disease, and couldn't do these things for herself anymore. I pray that no one reading this ever gets Motor Neuron, or anything similar, it was horrible to see her slowly losing the ability to write, to water her plants, to speak, even to swallow. She was so distressed at having to give up her gardening and pottery, it broke my heart. I'm in tears writing this now, she was so brave, and so resolutely cheerful for the sake of the people around her. She'll always be one of my personal heroes, I'll always remember her and I'll always be grateful for the time I had with her.

Anne was tortured by the disease, as everything she loved doing slipped away from her, and she had to rely on others for even the most basic things like using the toilet, lifting a glass of water to her mouth and closing her mouth so that she could swallow, after having been fiercely independent and self-sacrificing her whole life. She tried to commit suicide several times but was physically unable to do it, she asked her daughters to help her when it became to much to bear, but of course they couldn't because of the legal repercussions and the psychological trauma this would bring, and Anne knew this and felt utterly wretched that she'd put them in that position. Eventually, mercifully, she died unaided, but she and her family went through years of hell first, needlessly, because our society prohibits assisted suicide and treats as criminals those who out of compassion help others to die.

For the funeral, Anne's family made all of the dishes that she was known for, faithfully following her carefully handwritten recipes, the pride of place going to the shortbread, which no one else could ever make exactly right. They each stood up that sunny afternoon in her beautifully-tended rose garden and talked about how she used to make them laugh, reciting her funny little housework rhymes and her witticisms, sharing their most treasured memories of an absolutely wonderful and unique woman, a woman who went out of her way to help others, who never wanted to be a burden on anyone, who made everyone she met feel special. I couldn't help thinking that even though she couldn't say a word by the end, she let us see her soul. I have never felt as honoured to be part of someone's life.

I miss you, Anne. Thank you for everything you did, for being strong, for caring so much. I wish it had been easier for you.


Kill a fly in Spring
And you've done a splendid thing,
Kill one in July
And you've only killed one fly.

- Anne

Will you just LISTEN already??

When people learn that I have a mental illness, everything I say tends to be filtered through their existing preconceptions of what the mentally ill can and cannot do.

Let's say I have an argument or an unconventional belief - however well thought out and logical, however long it's taken me to come up with it - it's inevitably seen as a sort of twisted logic, I can't possibly be right. Homosexuality or bisexuality? It's because I'm ill. Polyamory? It's because my illness has distorted or warped my views on love and trust. The right to die? That's my depression talking.

People confuse causation with correlation. My bisexuality doesn't cause my depression and anxiety, neither is it a result of it. Polyamory is not a symptom of mental dysfunction, it's a position I take based on my understandings of human biology and psychology, it simply makes more sense to me than compulsory monogamy. I would change my opinion on it if I found evidence to the contrary. And my stance on the right to end one's own life is something I have come to having witnessed first-hand the misery and despair that failing health often brings. I strongly believe in human dignity, that people should be given the choice to take control of this one last aspect of their lives and that their loved ones should be free to assist them (or not). It’s respect for humanity - not weariness of it - that brings me to this conclusion.

Sure, when I’m deeply depressed I might think of ending my life, and sometimes these depressions last for weeks at a time. But that impulse is coming from a different place than my intellectual stand on the right to die. If I were someone else with the authority to grant permission for Danny’s death, I would refuse it, because I understand that Danny is not capable of making a rational choice at those times.

I think other people’s confusion of causation and correlation with regard to my unconventional thoughts is largely due to their simply not knowing enough about mental illnesses and the people who are affected by them. It’s assumed that my problem with depression and anxiety affects me all the time, people often fail to understand that I have significant periods of lucidity that outlast the periods of depression. In those periods, I have ample time in which to think rationally and clearly, and to reflect on whether my beliefs and understandings are the product of my illness or whether they are actually valid conclusions.

Yes, I probably do have experiences in my life that make me more likely to hold some of the opinions I do and feel the things I feel, who doesn’t? But I get frustrated with people thinking that I am incapable of thinking critically and discerning truth, that I am blind to my own condition and to the thought processes of ‘normal’ people. I think if anything my lapses into illness force me to be more critical, particularly of my own thought processes. I can’t take anything for granted.

I guess the point I’m trying to make here is that you can’t attribute any observable aspect of my being to another, as such, at least not without a fair bit of investigation. My mental illness is not a symptom of my polyamory, bisexuality or beliefs about death, neither does it cause any of these. It is another facet of me, it may have developed alongside some of these ideas and beliefs as a result of quite unrelated circumstances, and perhaps the marginality of my positions on these issues makes me more likely than most to experience mental illness, but you cannot attribute one to the other. Evidence from studies of other individuals and groups with these beliefs and conclusions exist, and they simply don’t support a causative hypothesis.