“All living is listening for a throat to open. The length of its silence shaping lives.” - Claudia Rankine
Five days after my older brother George passed away in spring 2014, my dad and I drove to New York from our family home in Massachusetts to collect George’s belongings from his apartment. It was not my first time in his apartment but it was my first time looking through his personal stuff since maybe we were kids. I noticed something surprising. I noticed how organized he was. His suits and dress shirts on the same type of hangars, all in the same direction. His other clothes folded neatly and put away tightly in drawers. In his many books, the notes he wrote on the margins of the pages were so clean and so legible. And then I realized something. I was only surprised to see this because society had lied to me. And it lied to you. And it continues to lie to us. And that lie matters. We are often told to believe that someone who is mentally ill is someone who appears in shambles and by appearances “Doesn’t have their life together”. Yet here was the opposite.
There is an invisible tapestry we all have a role in sowing that describes what mental illness looks like. You see it in jokes that make light of mental illness or death by suicide, or the way in which almost everyone uses words like “crazy”, “batshit”, or “insane” to describe a negative person or situation. We think we’re being colorful. We think we’re describing something accurately. I’ve seen my smartest friends and acquaintances do it. I too have done it. But all it does is quietly but firmly make someone who questions how they’re feeling, feel like they can’t talk about it, like they can’t seek help. We think nothing of it, but all the while sow another thread into that invisible tapestry. And if you haven’t been paying attention, you should because that tapestry might be invisible but it is not light. And it doesn’t discriminate. It can weigh as heavy as a sheet of steel, and it doesn’t care what your gender, race, or age is. That you’re a beloved chef, a loving and loyal brother, a devoted mother and fashion icon, or a favorite boss. It doesn’t care how much money you have, how good you look, or how easily you cross international borders. Yet we add to it when we fail to consider what we do to make it stronger and continue to stigmatize mental health.
I love George and think about him every single day; I am eternally thankful for him and for the positive influence he continues to have in my life. He taught me to love myself without reservations. He taught me to speak up, to apologize, to laugh, and to heal. And he taught me to fight for my life, tooth and nail if I had to—which he did too, first by seeking therapy. He would be 34 years old today. Every ounce of me wishes he were still alive. And I know had he not fallen into the altered state of mind that sadly took him from us, he would too.