Violence here, there, everywhere.
Yet another mass shooting making international news. As if to say that, violence only matters, or concerns people, when there are multiple victims.
Violence, even when it doesn't end in death and has only one intended victim, effects many more people than just the victim and is just as tragic as anything making national or international headline news.
So, now the questions begin.
What causes these mass killings? Was it violent video games, movies “glorifying” violence or music using violent rhetoric? Is it a mental health issue? Were the weapons used easily purchased? Are there any laws to prevent a repeat? Can or should we strengthen laws, enact new laws? Who is to blame?
Well, like it or not, mental illness seems to be the common denominator in shootings such as, the Navy Yard, the movie theater in Aurora or the Sandy Hook elementary school.
Now, don't get me wrong here. I am not talking about your average depression or anxiety. Although severe depression can also have some terrible consequences if not addressed properly. Remember Andrea Yates?
No. I am talking about certain mental illnesses that actually represent a fracture in the perception of reality.
Someone suffering, and trust me, it's suffering, from schizophrenia, delusional thinking or paranoia can become a danger to themselves and/or others.
In no way would I want people suffering from any illness to be stigmatized. No! I want those suffering to be able to get the help and support they need.
Now, before you think I don't know what I am talking about; I do.
Let me explain.
I was married for a decade to a man who, in the last four years of our marriage, went from being a career man in the Air Force, with fifteen years in, to getting a medical discharge because of his mental illness. He was diagnosed as paranoid, delusional with some schizophrenic tendencies, hospitalized three times while still in the service, put on medication and put on leave. However, his illness was to severe to continue in the military and after a hearing he was discharged.
I dealt with hospitalizations and the on-meds, off-meds roller-coaster.
I watched helplessly, as a very intelligent, logical, strong man fell apart and ended up a crying mess on the floor.
I watched this man wreck his brain to find some answer, any answer, to why he had certain thoughts in his head.
He thought his superiors and his subordinates in the military were plotting against him.
He thought the government was bugging the house and refused to drink tap water, because he thought someone had spiked it.
He thought people were trying to harm him, put him in prison for things he thought he had done.
He lost the ability to tell reality from fantasy, waking world from nightmare. Real, imagined; there was no difference.
I can only imagine the nightmare of not knowing what's real and what isn't, not knowing who you can trust, not even being able to trust your own senses, being alone with your fears.
This was, and probably still is, his world and by extension, and only to a very small extend, it had become mine, if only for a while.
I remember vividly the move we made into our newly purchased house from a three-bedroom rental..
He hadn't been feeling himself lately and I thought: 'No biggy! I can handle a move!'.
He helped me move some of the bigger items and then I left him at the new house to relax and, maybe even, sleep.
Several, long, exhausting hours later I drove up to the house, only to find him sitting outside.
I parked the truck and joined him on the retaining wall. “What's wrong, honey? Can't you sleep?” “No!” he replied “And I am not going back into that house. It's bugged and we have to buy bottled water!”
We got directly, without even going into the house, in to our car and drove to the store to stock up on water.
I needed time to calm him down and maybe distract him somehow.
It took several hours of sitting and talking in the car in the garage to get him to come into the house.
We ended up talking at the kitchen table, I know how cliché, for a while until he suddenly got up.
Without a word or even a glance he walked right past me in to the attached garage.
I didn't hear the garage door open, but I did hear the car start up.
Sitting there for a second, I couldn't believe he had just done that. Really?
I got up and opened the door to the garage.
Sure enough, he was sitting behind the wheel with the engine running.
I pushed the garage door opener and with the door swinging up, stepped up to the passenger side window and knocked.
“Now, you know this isn't going to work with the door up. You'll just run the car out of gas.” He looked over at me and shut the car off.
We returned back into the kitchen and sat at the table for a while.
It was, by now, very late at night and I was, admittedly, very, very tired.
All I wanted at this point was to get through the night and get him to see his doctor in the morning.
I was at a loss and the only place to go to for help, this late at night, would have been the emergency room and he wasn't going.
I decided to “put” him to bed (ha, ha) and “nap” in the love seat keeping an eye on all the exits.
He went to the bedroom and stayed there for about thirty minutes. He came back into the living room and sat next to me on the floor.
He sat there quietly, and I pretended to be asleep, hoping he would go back to bed.
Well, he didn't.
He got up, somehow found the car keys I had hidden and went back into the garage.
Honestly I said: “Not again!” to myself as I got up and walked to the door.
Yep, there he was again. The garage door closed, the engine running.
Yep, and there I went again opening the garage door, knocking on the car window.
Only this time he seemed more determined than ever.
He didn't shut of the car and just ignored me.
I tried my hand at the passenger side car door, but it was locked. I could see through the windows that he had all the other doors locked as well.
Now, I wasn't going to bust out the window or anything that drastic. Not to mention, that smashing the window, probably, wouldn't have helped the situation.
Blame my exhaustion or maybe I was losing it myself at this point, but I offered him a deal.
“You unlock the car and I'll close the garage door.”
I know, it was a silly, insane bargain, but I kind of, not really, had a plan.
He unlocked the car and I shut the garage door. I know, I know, crazy!
(Little side note: When you are dealing with a paranoid, highly suspicious-of-everyone kind of person, don't say one thing and then do something different. Be honest and follow through. Don't promise what you can't deliver. That is the only way to build trust and trust is one way, the only way sometimes, to convince people with a mental illness to seek and accept help.)
I got into the passenger seat and waited for a couple of seconds.
“To bad we don't have any kids or we pack get them into the back seat. After all, the family that dies together, stays together!” I said.
I was hoping to shock him out of his mindset, but he had no reaction at all.
OK. that was it!
There was no getting through to him that night and he just seriously didn't care anymore.
“You have got to be the most selfish SOB (and no, I didn't abbreviate it for him) on this planet!”
With that, I reached over, shut off the car and ripped the keys out of the ignition.
I got out and slammed the door as hard as I could.
This was more than I could handle.
I couldn't, nor did I really want to, be responsible for him at this point.
I was physically, emotionally and psychologically drained. Sucked dry, would be a better description.
I needed to get him to the hospital, and now!
I called the facility where he was an out-patient and they informed me that, because of the exposure, no matter how little, to exhaust fumes, he had to be tested for possible poisoning at the local ER.
Now, you have to know that this ER is at a hospital with it's own mental health wing. A rather bleak, “unappealing” place with bars on the windows, very reminiscent of a prison or jail.
My husband knew about this place and the only way I could get him to go was, if I promised not to leave him there under any circumstances.
I called the ER and described the problem to the head nurse.
She assured me: “Nothing to it. Just a quick blood test and you'll be free to go to a facility of your choice, provided the tests come back showing him good to go.”
So we went.
All the way reassuring him and hoping he wouldn't change his mind and jump out of the car at a stop light.
When we got to the ER he started to get scared.
He thought I was going to leave him there.
He was convinced the nurse was planing to infect him with a disease and not just taking blood for a test.
All in all, it took about an hour of talking, begging, bribing, even offering to have my blood drawn, before he agreed to have his blood taken.
Waiting for the results was no small feat either.
He became increasingly suspicious and annoyed. “What's taking so long? What are they doing?”
He became restless and I had to do something.
I went to the nurses station and asked about the test.
Out of nowhere, a doctor we had never seen before, popped up, loudly and sternly informing me that my husband was in need of psychiatric help and wouldn't be allowed to leave.
Wow!
Now, it had been a long night, not to mention a frustrating one. That, plus the fact that I'm no shrieking violet and wasn't going to leave my husband where he was afraid, send me over the edge.
I was going to keep my word or go to jail trying.
I objected loudly to the doctor and started yelling for the head nurse, while the doctor was yelling for the police.
Thankfully, the nurse reappeared, gave me a print-out of the test results, got my husband and ushered us out.
I got my husband checked in that night where he wanted to be and was safe.
He got settled in and they started him on his medication, again.
A week later he was back home and, eventually, went off his medication, again.
Remember, it's a roller-coaster.
We ended up getting divorced.
Not so much because of his illness, mind you, there were other issues, but it definitely played a role.
The end for me, came during an argument. One of those silly, meaningless things. That's when he walked up really close to me, put his index finger on my forehead and hissed: “You know, I could shoot you right between the eyes.”
A call to local law enforcement informed me, that there wasn't much they could do unless he acted on his threat.
Yeah, right! You guys will my first I call after he kills me. Idiots!
A call to his doctor didn't, because of patient confidentiality, help much either. However, his doctor did tell me, in a round about way, that I should take his threat serious and be careful.
I jumped into action and got rid of the various guns he had acquired over the years. Silly, I know, but it had never occurred to me that he could be a threat to others.
The result was, a very angry husband who went out, bought more guns and kept them somewhere other than at home.
I was at a loss.
I couldn't help him get well.
Hell, I couldn't even help him stay “well” by trying to get him to take his medication, because he just simply wouldn't.
I couldn't stop him from owning guns or other weapons.
As a matter of fact, I couldn't stop him from doing anything and there didn't seem to be anyone interested or worried.
So, in the end, I gave up.
I left and hoped he would keep taking his medication and go to counseling.
I hoped he would be able to resist any impulse to do something that could never be undone.
We didn't stay in touch after the divorce and I believe he now lives on the west coast and is, hopefully, doing well.
To be honest though, there are those times, when yet another mass shooting makes the news, and I hold my breath, hoping not to hear his name and find out he is the perpetrator. Not because I hate my ex-husband, or because I think he is “evil” or anything like that, but because I know just how fractured his perception of reality can be, can get or maybe is right now.