I had just settled myself deep into my green wingback by the bay window for a post- prandial martini the other day at the club (the Home of homes) when a fellow mem hove into sight and plunked himself down. It was none other than George Smallpiece, a dear friend and a man of some substance, so much so that he blotted out the afternoon sun coming into my corner of quiet gravitas. A shiver shot up my spine – I find at my age I become quickly cold – but it is worth it, as George is usually brimming with bonhomie and is a well-appreciated conversationalist. So it came as a bit of a shock to see him in such a hang-dog state. I waited patiently, as is my way. Shortly thereafter, as his face became puce with emotion, the answer to my cocked eyebrow of inquisition came, as I knew it would. “Are we all crazy, Major?” he asked.
I knew instantly what poor George meant, as there have been endless newspaper articles and radio programs not to mention broadband spent discussing this ripe subject. It would appear that if even some of the research is to be believed, half of us are mad while the other half bear watching. Most of us, it would appear, fit into some sort of category of mental illness so that there are very few standing outside the proverbial asylum waving as it were. There is a movement here in Victoria to have every police officer fitted with a monocle in order that they look more like psychiatrists. This would allow them to chat quietly with thieves and fraud artists about teenage incontinence brought on by Missing Teddy Bear Syndrome.
On my street alone there are several families dealing with adult children who have been told by relatives or teachers that they have a disease of some sort. If one is sad these days one is immediately diagnosed with clinical depression and handed medication the size of horse pills that puts a sickly smile on one’s face. If one falls in a playground there is a suspicion of attempted suicide, but only after a class action suit is instigated by several law firms working on commission against the city. These situations happened to me constantly when I was but a young sprig and all my father said was “Pull up your socks” or “Rub it,” and that was it. Today he would very likely be arrested and institutionalized at a group home, with me going into a foster care. He also spanked me with great élan and often, so that I did not have time to sit and stare at my belly button in deep contemplation as one can today.
In my late teens I went through my bohemian period, where I wore a flower in my mouth and imagined I was the club-footed Lord Byron. I limped around spouting poetry through a daffodil until the girl I was trying to impress told me I looked foolish and had developed a rash on my lips. My father cut off my allowance and told me I was likely a bum. Shortly thereafter I stopped crying and went to work. I was cured. I would never say that there are not terrible injustices out there and we have indeed made great gains in the arena of insanity, but not all are sick. I for instance was just odd, not unlike most of my contemporaries, with our parents beside themselves with worry. We simply grew up.
I worry that a large business has sprung up around mental illness, and it needs more customers. So now everyone is nuts and bingo, we have growth. When the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest shocked the world, followed by the desperate need to find savings due to governments living beyond their means, the powers that be tore down most of the asylums and institutions so now we have nowhere to put the ill except jails and hospitals. Self-medicate at home or on the street appears to be the answer.
Help the ones who need help much more than we do with three square meals in a safe environment and leave the rest of us characters alone
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