Daily Meds Should Be Taken Daily “A Journey through Prejudice”

By R.N. Messer

This powerful book calls lay people and Christians alike to a new depth of understanding. The author, a woman with schizophrenia, reveals what it’s like from the inside out to struggle for faith in a world that frequently adds to the torment of individuals suffering with a mental illness. She chronicles her experiences in concise and true language with an honesty that may seem brutal to some, but relieving to others. Through her experiences, and the experiences of her children, we witness a struggle to overcome anguish and a successful effort to experience God. It is through this grace that she shares her vision to help others with this book.
Although she addresses Christians with a call to finding and sharing the love of Christ with the downtrodden, her words will ring true with lay people who have family, friends, or acquaintances with a mental illness. Her straight-forward style opens a window into a world rarely seen—and often feared—by those who encounter the mentally ill. In sharing the author’s perspective, we learn to understand how damaging casual comments, or openly derisive actions, can be to anyone, but more so to those afflicted and struggling for normalcy. She issues a plea to raise our children to be devoid of fear, aversion, and the cruelty too often leveled at people seen as ill or different. Daily Meds offers understanding and the overarching hope that we may all learn to love one another through faith, understanding, and a willingness to care.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781621832454

R.N. Messer

R.N. Messer lives in Arkansas with two of her children and their cat, Smoky. Her day job is handling the billing for a day treatment center that takes care of children with a wide variety of developmental delays that are of such a severity as to necessitate physical, occupational, speech therapy and nursing care.Although technically born above the Mason-Dixon Line, the author has been a southerner since before she can remember. She loves to cook. Trying new recipes is a source of great joy to her, and she tweaks every recipe she finds to her own tastes making it essentially her ownAs much as her life has been shaped by her family life and the mental illness she has battled since her teens, she has been greatly influenced by experiencing firsthand the integration of the school system in the small southern town where she grew up. She decided way back then that she was going eradicate prejudice in her lifetime. Not just racism and sexism, but prejudice of all kinds; prejudice against the “geek” and the “weak” and the “different” and ...yes, against the mentally ill.Make no mistake about it, the goal she set may have been a bit loftier than she realized and a bit harder to reach and perhaps fraught with more resistance than she had imagined, but she has not given up on achieving it. She has realized however, that she’s going to need a little help. You’re invited to join the movement.

Book preview

Foreword

To the Christians of the world from the poet. Grace and peace unto you from God, our Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. May the infinite mercy and boundless compassion of God flow through us in all that we say and do. May His wonderful kindness be reflected from us every minute of our day. May our weaknesses be strengthened by His holiness, may our fears be overcome by the knowledge of His forgiveness, and may our hatreds be conquered by His matchless love.

The first thing you need to know about me is that I am mentally ill. I have carried an active diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia for thirty-five years, which is almost two-thirds of my life. There was a period of around four to five years where I bounced between mental hospital and psychiatric halfway house, until Reagan took office. Then funding was slashed for mental health care, and that was coupled with the ACLU’s insistence that it was perfectly acceptable for the mentally ill to live in cardboard boxes and eat out of refuse containers. After that I bounced around from mental hospital to psychiatric halfway house to Salvation Army to park bench. (And yes, I know that is not really what the ACLU said, but it is really the result of their sticking their nose into mental healthcare).

There are so many misconceptions about the mentally ill and so much prejudice and fear concerning the mentally ill. I have been feeling a prod to write a book about it from a patient’s standpoint for some time. But it took me running up against a really offensive and derogatory statement meant to ridicule the mentally ill for me to actually sit down and start to write it. A really offensive statement made about me.

I’m not surprised that it happened. It’s not the first time. And it always seems that I come under attack right after a wonderful experience. You see, at the end of October 2012, I decided to write a poem of thanks for each day of the month of November. I knew it would be difficult–to come up with thirty different poems that don’t just parrot the same things over and over. But I had an abrupt onset of severe rheumatoid arthritis a few months before, coupled with type 2 diabetes and non-alcoholic fatty liver disorder, so I could take nothing for pain. I found that I was complaining all the time about how I felt, and I didn’t want to do that. I feel that this country struggles so with thankfulness and I just wanted to be an instrument for re-focusing our minds on God our Provider.

Everyone loved it so much and was so uplifted. Several people begged me to do it again for Christmas. So I did. Not only did I gift all of my friends with poems of praise to the Lord for coming to earth, I also gifted them in different ways. At work, I celebrated the Twelve Working Days of Christmas. Each day a small gift was left on each of my co-workers’ desks: a Christmas tree jar with candy from Santa, a Christmas Pez dispenser from the chief North Pole candy maker, a snow globe from Frosty, an ornament from the Grinch, a hand-crocheted hat from Mrs. Claus… It was great fun. And for my church I spent hours and hours making and boxing up fudge and cookies to hand out the Sunday before Christmas.

I was on top of the world. I felt so close to God that I was sure if I just reached out my hand a little bit, I could touch Him. My soul truly soared like an eagle’s. Then I looked down and saw fiery darts protruding from my chest, and I instantly plummeted back down to earth.

I have heard the story of Elijah on Mount Carmel many, many times before. And so many people have different takes on Elijah’s behavior after the power of God was so wonderfully presented to his nation through him. If you’ll remember, he came under attack too. And he ran off and hid in a cave. I’ve heard so many preachers talk about how he was feeling sorry for himself, and talking about how God was put out with him, which is supposedly why he then anointed Elisha as his successor. ’Cause God was through with him. And yet, God still took him up to heaven in a blazing chariot, an honor bestowed on no other mortal man that I can find. This is not exactly the kind of behavior I would expect from someone who is put out with someone else.

And I certainly am not trying to suggest that I am anywhere near as important or special as Elijah was. He is my hero–a man of such great faith that I am astounded to even be privileged to read his story in the Bible. It is no wonder to me that he was chosen to meet with Christ on the Mountain of Transfiguration.

But regardless of the fact that I don’t even come close to being as powerful a witness as he was, I still totally understand being on the mountaintop with God’s fire raining down from heaven and then turning around to see the assassins coming for you. I totally get escaping to a cave to hide so that the Lord can heal your heart.

But my main concern is not for myself. Who I really worry about are the ones less fortunate than I. My deep grief is for the wounded lambs who have not regained enough or any of their strength and their health and their faith to survive the onslaught we have seen hurled at the mentally ill in the last weeks of 2012. There are so many young people I know who are just now beginning their struggles with mental illness. There is a young boy in my church with severe obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), a young lady with anxiety disorder, a young single mother with bipolar, a woman with panic attacks, several depressives, a cutter, and a young man who has numerous diagnoses. This does not even touch those I know who are co-dependant or recovering addicts. And most of them don’t talk about it. They don’t publicly ask for prayers. Some of them not even privately ask for prayers. Because it is not safe. That is who I write for, because I want to make the world a better place for others than it has been for me.

And so it is for them that I write this. Not as an accusation against those who don’t have a heart to understand our struggles, but as a plea. In all honesty, it has been very difficult for me to write. My own emotions have been so turned upside down–not only by Sandy Hook, but by acts of discrimination I am witness to on a regular basis. Because I know so many people whose lives have been so damaged by the lack of understanding and compassion for the mentally ill, my own heart hurts more than I can tell you.

Because I don’t want this to be a book about just me and what I have gone through, it is not written as a chronological story of my life. Instead, I have arranged the chapters by the hurtful sayings that are commonplace in the dealings of non-mentally ill people with others like me. That’s not to say that I have not included any personal stories; just that the stories I have included are not experiences isolated to me. I am not unique, but a representative of a group of people who seem to be the last group for whom it is socially acceptable to be prejudiced against.

The problem with trying to fight the misdirected negative feelings and comments towards the mentally ill is that we don’t band together. African American’s and Hispanics and other ethnic groups come together to fight against racism. Religious groups stand as one to fight against intolerance. Homosexuals march in unison to overcome prejudice against them. It is not nearly as likely that the mentally ill will come out of the closet any time soon. The risk is far too great. In fact, until about a year ago, I could count on one hand the number of people outside of my family and healthcare professionals who knew my diagnosis. I don’t really know how I got so brave–or stupid–take your pick.

Be warned that this account strives to very accurately depict the inner struggles that occur in the mind of the diagnosed, in my case paranoid schizophrenic, and parts of it might be disturbing to some people. Although I am sure that my anger comes out, it is not meant to offend or hurt anyone in any way. I have attempted to leave out the details of situations that might be embarrassing for others involved in my life without violating the integrity of the account. If I have failed to do that and anyone in my life is hurt by anything I say, then please accept my heartfelt apologies in advance. And reread the first sentence.

So let us begin. In the words of Isaiah the prophet, Come let us reason together.

The Good Shepherd

They came to me with theories based on foolishness

Speaking from a knowledge that knew nothing

And they poured into me spirit after spirit

Then they turned around and burned my mind with lightening

They hammered at my shield until it shattered

They tore into my armor ‘til it fell

I had a sword but knew not how to use it

And I lost it to the lies that they would tell

Lies, lies, so many lies–everywhere is lies

Spinning, spinning web after web

Until my soul became hopelessly entangled

And they left me there thinking I was dead.

They didn’t stop to think about Your mercy

They didn’t count the price that You had paid

They never understood that You would leave the 99

To come unto the place where I was laid

You have fed me in the pasture on the mountain

I am nourished with Your word from up on high

You have bound my broken heart and healed my crippled mind

And poured Your spirit into a soul that had gone dry

May my mouth forever sing about Your goodness

May my soul forever glorify Your grace

May I never learn to silence the praise within my heart

Until I stand in awe before Your very face

~R.N. Messer

Chapter One

Sandy Hook Elementary

I knew it was going to happen. My heart sank to the depths of the ocean floor, so heavy that it could not remain in my chest, the instant I heard the news. A mentally compromised individual had shot up an elementary school, and open season had been declared on me and my children.

There have been long editorials stating that people with certain diagnoses should simply be locked up for life. In the ’90s, I did some research on the incidents of violence for a college paper I was writing. Statistically speaking, the rate of violent crimes among paranoid schizophrenics is around one percent. And, if you include other mental illnesses, that rate drops even lower. So called normal people are about three times as likely to commit a violent crime as a mentally ill person. I mean, let’s face reality: there are some socio-economic/ethnic groups that have a rate of violence as high as thirteen percent. So when you adjust that for disparities in population of those groups, what you come out with is the fact that members of some racial/ethnic groups are 1,780 times more likely to commit a violent crime as a single mentally ill person.

And yet, I am sure that if anybody were to write an editorial suggesting that the risk of these ethnic groups harming other people is so great that they should simply be locked away from the moment of birth, the newspaper that published that editorial would be bombed. There would be riots in the street. A contract would be put out on the writer of that piece that would be so high we’d have people from all over the world coming here in droves to kill him or her and collect the bounty.

But when that editorial was written, lock up the mentally ill at the time of diagnosis, there was no such outcry. Nobody cared at all. I read every letter to the editor every day after that, and not one soul in the state of Arkansas spoke one peep in defense of my rights. The heart of the average person is so filled with derision and hatred for the mentally ill that you would accept imprisoning millions to protect yourselves from hundreds. And that doesn’t seem unfair to anyone. In fact, most people I have overheard talking about it seem to think it is perfectly rational.

Think about it for a minute. No other demographic group can be locked up without committing a crime, just because someone thinks that maybe, possibly, there’s a chance that in the future that person will commit a crime. No other group can be picked up, taken and locked away, denied a phone call (you have to earn the right to use the phone and it can sometimes take weeks or longer), assigned a lawyer who will not even talk to you before the hearing–all without ever actually violating a law of any kind. And now folks want to make it even easier to do this, or at least that is what the letters to the editor suggest that people want.

Then there are the letters to the editor suggesting that mentally ill people with certain diagnoses should be placed on a federal registry similar to the sex offender registry, as though having a chemical imbalance in your brain is equivalent to violating innocent children and raping women. I even had a friend who thought that was reasonable until I pointed out to her all the people who have access to those lists besides law enforcement: employers, landlords, realtors, attorneys, etc. And let’s face it, that’s a list that has been hacked numerous times with the names published on the internet for the whole world to see. I don’t mean no harm, but I don’t want to be on that list. I have suffered enough discrimination without everybody and their dog having access to my diagnosis.

And now we are seeing editorials that are suggesting that a registry list for the mentally ill is not enough. We need to have easier access to the medical records of the mentally ill. In fact, so-called advocacy groups are calling for totally open access of the records of the mentally ill for their family or caregivers, without the need to obtain consent. It is as though they believe that all family and caregivers are perfectly altruistic and would never, ever use those records to control, manipulate, or abuse the mentally ill person. You think the mentally ill avoid treatment now? Just open up their records to anyone doing a background check, to any family member, or anyone claiming to care for that mentally ill person, and watch all the shrinks go bankrupt.

While on the surface all of this may seem reasonable, consider that there are eleven million severely mentally ill people in this country but only approximately a thousand homicides by severely mentally ill people a year. Now tell me that it is rational to remove the constitutional rights of eleven million people for such a tiny risk. Because–like it or not–people have the right not to be locked up in this country unless they have committed a crime. And you might also consider that at the height of institutionalization, there were only 500 thousand psychiatric beds in our country. Where are you going to put these eleven million people?

I have heard the mentally ill bashed in my workplace. I have heard and seen the mentally ill bashed in the media. They have been bashed in the marketplace. And yes, I have even heard them bashed in the lobby of my church. In plain English, December of 2012 was simply beat up the mentally ill month, and while I have smiled, served, and given of myself to all the perpetuators of this hate-mongering, the truth is that my heart is hemorrhaging pain and anguish all over the place. But nobody notices.

And certainly no one wants to talk about it. There have been times in the past when I have attended churches that have public testimonies, and there have been times when I have been asked to give mine. Only once have I talked about my mental illness, and how the power of God had given me a place of refuge in the storm that is my mind. Only once have I spoken about this wonderful Savior who gives me piece and calm in the midst of demons. Only once have I witnessed to the fact that Christ has restored to me my hope of forgiveness and salvation in the face of my daily battle with evil. And that afternoon I received more than a dozen calls from members telling me not to talk about it anymore. It might turn off the visitors from coming back. People wouldn’t understand.

I attended a church where, after I quit my job, I went to work for them as their church secretary for minimum wage. During this time, I did far more than type programs and track attendance. I helped people get their drivers licenses, food stamps, and their GEDs. I taught people how to do their taxes so they didn’t have to give a huge portion of their refund to the hawks who advertise. I helped plan funerals and weddings, and took food out of my own sparse cabinet to feed those who had unexpected expenses.

But the pastor started preaching and teaching some things that I thought were off the wall. Then his wife became insanely jealous of the love the congregation had for me and began tormenting me by holding late-night sessions to deride me for sins that the Holy Spirit told her I had committed. So, I left the work that I loved. I found a job that paid twice as much so that I could have peace, and to better provide for my three children.

And I was trashed from the pulpit.

Honestly. Details of my mental illness were spread all over the congregation to turn them against me, so that I even felt compelled to change the path I took to the grocery store and to work. So great was my pain that