NAMI Mental Health Walk / Poem: Violets for Susan

Saturday a week ago we met at the ungodly hour of 7 am and drove in a couple of cars to Philadelphia's Fairmount Park for the annual NAMI Walk for Mental Health.

The day was beautiful. We hopped in Peggie's huge white car. Peggie raised some money for New Directions. Thanks Peggela!!!

There were 80 Walking Teams. Each had a banner. Our banner read New Directions. What? It should read Atheists Unite? Or Jimmy Piersall Fan Club?

There were 11 of us including daughter Sarah who was here for a long weekend. They grow up so fast, don't they Roberto?

Due to those fantastic banners, I introduced myself to a lot of folks I'd never met before. I like to tell the following story. Yes, yes, I know, I'm a blabber.

I saw a sign reading Magellan. They're a huge insurance company and have loads of money. Three blond bombshells were carrying the banner. They have no idea the toll mental illness takes on a life. They keep people waiting for as long as SIX HOURS in the ER until they agree to spend their insurance money - of which they have millions - to admit a suffering individual into the hospital for treatment. This includes suicidal individuals who must sit there in the sterile emergency room alone with their thoughts until the Magellan power-hungry assholes grant them hospital admission.

I went up to the Magellan gals. Hi, I said cheerily, I run a fantastic support group for people with depression and bipolar disorder and their loved ones and I was wondering if we could apply for a grant from Magellan.

I knew that Magellan gives grants.

The Magellanite in charge gave me some bullshit.

RZD: Ya know, I said, I'm not surprised that you're giving me the run-around. I've called Magellan only last week, twice, and they never called me back.

In fact, I'd called Magellan numerous times over the years and was always given the run-around.

MAGELLAN: Oh, we're not giving you a run-around.

RZD: Yes, you are. You never told me who to contact about my request.

MAG: Oh, you want me to give you a name right here on the walk?

RZD: Sure, I said, I have a piece of paper and pen in my backpack.

MAG: Well, I didn't bring my business card.

RZD: Well, do you remember your name and email address?

MAG: What? Right here during the walk.

RZD: Actually, no. You just go ahead and have a nice walk.

I turned away and re-joined my group.

Later on, I saw a booth for Aetna Insurance. David Stimmler gave me his name and email address. He wrote back the same day with website links to contact.

During the walk I met a woman who used to come to New Directions, the support group I founded to help me deal with my manic depression, an illness I thought I would never shake. As you know, I like to use the word 'cured' when I refer to my condition. I've learned to 'contain' all my emotions within my brain so I don't need to resort to the unconscious mechanisms of mania, anxiety, and depression.

I did not know what to do with my intense feelings about "Susan" so when I came home I jotted down some notes about her and wrote the following poem. Details are changed.

VIOLETS FOR SUSAN

only this morning
on good morning america
a learned psychiatrist stunned
the audience with
his remarkable looks,
hair that looked like
it was undergoing shock treatments
and hands flitting about his face
as if warding off flies

no one laughed

perhaps he had taken
on these characteristics from the
depths of his unconscious
to wake up an ignorant world
to the unimaginable horrors
and wasted lives of the
people on his ward

I wondered, did you watch it susan?

schizophrenia scratches the brain like
stiletto heels ripping through fresh growing grass
it sculpts a rent between thoughts and emotions:
think a sad thought
then giggle or guffaw
until your voice breaks

you were not like that, susan,
what you did was smart, symbol-laden
- are schizophrenics like that? –
is there room for diversity? –
no, you never laughed
not now, not ever
the best we can expect is
a forced smile
in conformance with your parents’ wishes
another mark of a schizophrenic
always your parents child
- oh, how is she these days?
has she gotten a job? –
living with mom and dad
till they die one by one
leaving you to drown in
their backyard pool
when the time comes around

your hair going slowly gray
your fingernails lengthening
unpolished forever –
you do not turn heads –
your skull
a warrior’s helmet
hiding the rages within
fjords of jagged Norwegian ice
where quarrelling birds
swipe at each other mid-air
only you can hear their screams,
small spectator
with sad eyes
surveying the damage

far from a giggle
you planned a war
a rescue operation when you
realized the truth,
o brave soul,
your very own sister,
the social worker in Yardley,
was planning to smother her third grader
you couldn’t be fooled
the news came disguised as a
$22 sewer bill
you would rescue the child
the way you failed to rescue your
life as the spinster sister

silent as a mouse tiptoeing in the basement
you filled your cerulean blue Beetle
with your children’s books and some
hastily thrown together sandwiches
for when you bore her away
out of captivity
Perseus unchaining his lady

but they spotted you
didn’t they
when you pulled up unexpected
your forced smile appearing as
your body crumpled into its
position of repose

I found you ten years later
sitting on a park bench
with your keepers and your
housemates

did you know I care about you susan?
that I remember you from the writers group
when the worm began nibbling you ever so gently

you could barely grant me a hello
sitting in the sun on the park bench
in your customary shirtwaist
a sprig of nostril hairs sprouting
like violets

I longed to pluck
and deliver
at your sandaled feet.