The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four Americans is suffering from some form of mental illness. Think of your three best friends. If

~ Rita Mae Brown

As promised to IowaGurl, a post on mental illness and my experiences with it.

Monday, the 28th, would have been my nephew's 27th birthday. He committed suicide in April of 2005. He is one of three people in my life whom have been formally diagnosed as bipolar, although sometimes I think that, too, has become a blanket diagnosis, such as with autism and ADD.

From the time he was a small boy, D was intense, smart, and delightful. He was everyone's favorite child/nephew/grandchild, whether or not anyone would admit that. He and I shared physical characteristics and mannerisms: naturally curly hair, green eyes, the way we would move our hands when we spoke, and an interest in men. Yes, from the time he was about 8, I knew that D was gay.

We also shared the fact that we were both survivors of my father's pedophilia. And, as such, we were both cutters. Many people who have suffered sexual abuse do cut themselves and neither of us were any different. I can't tell you his own reasons for cutting - we never discussed it - but I can tell you mine.

When you are sexually abused, your body maneuvers to assist you in dealing with such an invasion - both mentally and physically. For me, it was both a way to release the pain that I was feeling but could not verbalize as well as a way to feel something again. My own mind and body took care of me - in that it numbed me to the stress of what was happening. I would take scissors and make shallow cuts up and down my arms. And I would feel better...though I knew it was a cry for help.

D did more than shallow cuts - he actually cut out chunks of skin, bleeding and bleeding, trying to be rid of his demons. He would wear long sleeves and pants to cover the evidence, but I have heard that the scars were pretty bad. I never looked; I didn't want to be a part of that anymore. I had gone to my own therapy and had tried to heal and move on. To have to deal with his and my niece's revelations of abuse was to venture back down a road I had blocked for myself.

D was 16 when he was diagnosed as bipolar. He attempted suicide many times over the next 8 years. Most were overdoses of drugs - he wouldn't take his prescribed drugs on a regular basis. He would save them up and then take them all. Then he would either go to his mom (Sis1) or she would find him and realize what was going on and he would obediently go to the hospital. He never fought going to the hospital; he would submit to the stomach-pumping and the psychological tests and the inevitable 3 day stay.

As time went on, we all became frustrated with these attempts at suicide. I wanted to shake him. I was so angry at him for messing everything up all of the time. Any time my sister and her husband wanted to take a trip or anything, he pulled the suicide act. And I thought that there was something wrong with their parenting. How could they put up with this? Why didn't they just tell him to stop it?

I had my own history of suicidal thoughts; I doubt you can go through sexual abuse and not have them. When the two people in the world who are supposed to love you more than anything, who are supposed to give their lives for you if necessary, are the people who violate you, you lose hope.

How can you trust anyone? You can't fix what happened to you and the feeling of helplessness is overwhelming. Many times, I thought of suicide, so that I could end the pain I was feeling. However, I never actually went as far as planning it. Just the idea that I could do it was comfort enough for me. I would feel so much better after I would make the decision to go ahead and kill myself. It was a relief, really, to finally have a solution.

For D, it seemed to be an insistent cry for help, help that was given over and over....to a degree. Insurance will only pay for a 3 day stay or so. The doctors wouldn't keep him in there because of that. I don't know that they even thought of offering my sister and her husband the option of a private hospital, to pay for it out of their own pocket.

After awhile, D was the Boy Who Cried Suicide. The second to last time he attempted was a big one. He ended up in the hospital for weeks, as his liver and kidneys shut down. He lied to the doctors, told them that he hadn't done anything. They blamed his cholesterol medicine (he was never overweight at all - if anything, too thin for a long time, but he smoked and drank heavily.)

However, after several rounds of dialysis, his kidneys powered back up and he was released. He finally admitted that he had overdosed again. That was in September of 2004. In March of 2005, my sister and her husband were to go to Italy on a cruise for spring break. D once again od'd and the trip was canceled. And I was angry at him. I was so tired of this game, of what I thought was a game, just him wanting attention.

On April 14, 2005, I returned home from work. My mobile phone rang and I didn't get it in time before voicemail. I picked up the message, which was my sister asking me to please call her. She sounded upset, but was coherent. I called her back and she burst out with the fact that D was dead. I said, our brother or your son (they have the same name)? She said, my son.

I was shocked. I never thought that it could actually happen. I thought that he just wanted attention and would never actually go through with it, as he always used drugs in order to attempt and they were always able to pump his stomach and fix it.

My sister asked me to call my mom and tell her, as she just couldn't. My father had passed away only 3 months prior and she knew that this news would be hard on my mom as well. I agreed and made plans to get down to SW Ohio to my sister after picking up my mom in NW Ohio. However, I was afraid that someone would get to my mom first, so I called Bro2 and asked him to go over to our mother's and tell her. And then I called my aunt, my mom's twin, and asked her to go be with my mom. Turns out that Bro2 was unable to tell my mom. He just couldn't do it. So it ended up being my aunt.

I found out later that D had talked to his father at 1pm and been fine. He'd even said, I love you, Dad, and I'll see you tonight. By the time my sister arrived home at 4:30, he was gone. She knew something was wrong, as he was supposed to be at work and his car was out front. She went into the house and called out his name. No answer. Then she went up to his bedroom and found him. No drugs this time. Just a plastic bag over his head, with a belt around his neck to secure it.

She says that she said to him, well, baby, you finally did it. His face was already purple, but she pulled off the bag and called 911 and asked them to talk her through CPR. Nothing could revive him, though.

I had never been to the funeral of someone younger than myself. Funerals are for people who are old, who have hit their expiration dates. People came from all over, including TwinsMom and Wa-Wa. D's teachers from elementary school, from junior high, from high school....his father's company flew in a jet-load of people from the company....the line stretched outside into the parking lot. I wish that people who are contemplating suicide would go to the funeral of someone who has killed themselves, so that they can see what's left, what happens to the people who are still here.

D's sister and brother both got up and spoke about him. How they did it, I will never understand. None of us could speak for my father at his funeral, and we didn't even like him that much. But they were both very brave and talked about their brother with a lot of love. After the funeral, D was cremated and my sister has his ashes. She says that someday, when she's ready to let them go, she will take them to Paris and spread them. She and D had been to Paris when he went to visit them in Germany while they were there for my brother-in-law's company.

Sis1 talked to D's psychologist. He had just seen D that morning and everything seemed well. He said that D was the one that was going to make it, and was completely mystified that he had committed suicide. This is what leads us to think that D might have been schizophrenic instead of or on top of being bipolar. He was so paranoid, as well, although I have learned that bipolars are as well.

D played the roles people wanted to see very well. He was a fantastic liar. He didn't come home for Christmas one year and the family would call him every day and ask how he was and he would say, oh great, just fine. When my niece returned to their place after the holidays, she found that he had not bathed or left the apartment in a week and had lost his job because of it. Yet they never knew that from the conversations that they had with him every day during that week.

I think that he was able to tell everyone what they wanted to hear. I think that's why the psychologist believed that he was improving, when in truth, he was just a step away from death.

This world was too much for D. It was cruel to him on many levels - the sexual abuse and the derision he felt from being gay (thought not from his own family). I have an idea that he was just tired of playing the parts everyone wanted him to play and couldn't keep the smile pasted on any longer.

I'm still really angry with him for doing it. I don't know when that will end. And I am even someone who believes in a person's right to take their own life - it's yours, you can do what you want with it. But when I think of that, I think more of being in Stage 4 cancer and being in horrible pain and ready to let go. D was in pain, I know....

Now, after having lived with a bipolar, I understand that my sister and her hubby did the best that they could. There was nothing that they could change or try. It's a gamble every day, even when they do take their medicine. D would never take his medicine; he didn't like the side effects. Lithium, after 3 years, made him shake and caused him erectile dysfunction. He didn't want to live half a life; he would have hated being in a long-term treatment center, which is probably what it would have taken to keep him from killing himself.

I think I need to end this post.....but I have more to say about mental illness. Will write more about it soon.