Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So Read Free

drunk in the middle of Indiana. My maternal grandmother wrote textbooks on teaching Greek and Latin and had several bouts of illness that resulted in long hospitalizations. When my mother, Jane, was in college the family resources were exhausted after my grandmother spent over two years in a private hospital. With great shame and embarrassment her husband transferred her to a state hospital, where she became well enough to go home a few weeks later. She remained mostly well and never had to be hospitalized again, but she had spent roughly seven years of my mother’s childhood institutionalized.
    There was no acknowledgment of or conversation about my grandmother’s illness either between my mother and her father or my mother and her brother, who would also be in and out ofhospitals most of his life. He emerged normal enough to marry three times in his fifties and sixties, hold a job as a librarian, and be the Indiana State senior Ping-Pong champion.
    This same maternal grandmother warned my mother not to marry my father because she was convinced there was mental instability in the Vonnegut family. My father’s mother, a barbiturate addict who didn’t come out of her room let alone the house for weeks at a time, told my father to stay away from my mother because there was mental illness in the Cox family. My father’s mother famously (some say it was an accident, but does it really make a difference?) overdosed and killed herself on Mother’s Day. Barbiturates had been prescribed to my grandmother as a wonderful new nonaddictive medicine for headaches and insomnia.
    If you want to pick out the people who go crazy from time to time in my family, find the ones in the photos who look ten or more years younger than they actually are. Maybe it’s because we laugh and cry a lot and have a hard time figuring out what to do next. It keeps the facial muscles toned up.
    It’s the agitation and the need to do something about the voices that get you into trouble. If you could just lie there and watch it all go by like a movie, there would be no problem. My mother, who was radiant, young, and beautiful even as she lay dying, heard voices and saw visions, but she always managed to make friends with them and was much too charming to hospitalize even at her craziest.
    If you don’t have flights of ideas, why bother to think at all? I don’t see how people without loose associations and flights of ideas get much done.
    The reason creativity and craziness go together is that if you’re just plain crazy without being able to sing or dance orwrite good poems, no one is going to want to have babies with you. Your genes will fall by the wayside. Who but a brazen crazy person would go one-on-one with blank paper or canvas armed with nothing but ideas?
    The psychotic state is a destructive process. A fire can’t burn that brightly without melting circuits. Making allowances for individual tolerances and intensity and duration of the breaks, complete functional recovery becomes increasingly unlikely much beyond about eight or nine breaks. Fixed delusions, fears, loss of flexibility, loss of concrete thinking, and low stress tolerance make relationships, jobs, and family next to impossible and then impossible. The biggest risk factor in determining whether or not you have a nineteenth psychotic episode is having had the eighteenth.
    Life for the unwell is discontinuous and unpredictable. Things just come out of nowhere. People try but mostly do a lousy job of taking care of you.

    It Is Good
, 2009

    (Painting by Mark Vonnegut)

chapter 2
Raised by Wolves
    The biggest gift of being unambiguously mentally ill is the time I’ve saved myself trying to be normal
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    I grew up on Cape Cod. The vine forest a couple hundred yards from our house was two and a half acres of trees being wrestled down and killed by honeysuckle vines and wild grapes. There were flesh-tearing bull briars throughout the lower level. There was one path that got you into