Ordinary

They say mental illness runs in families, but I think, more accurately, it sneaks up behind the back of the ordinary. For instance, ordinarily we have no problem with illness, but anything mental belongs shuffling through hallways in another part of town.

Except mental illness doesn’t show up in a hospital gown. It shows up everywhere, and is very good at concealing itself. It hides in the deep pockets of political power and is often wrapped and shoved under the family tree.

But I think it’s far more prevalent than we want to believe, it’s simply obscured by what passes as sane: a preoccupation with how many steps we’ve walked, our cholesterol numbers, our organic consumption. And it’s not always where you think it should be. It might pass the time in the home improvement aisle, in the sale rack, in the crowds on black Friday. It hangs out in color-coded walk-in closets and in the clutter and crush of the homeless. It shows up at parties and it eats alone. It runs endless errands, pops Ambien, travels the world and never leaves the house. It uses needles, people, an iPhone, wine; anything it can to hide.

Sometimes mental illness just can’t help itself so it goes Nurse Ratched on us; it lines things up, it washes its hands over and over and over, it has panic attacks, it hunches under covers avoiding eye contact and being awake. It breaks down, slams a cupboard, or posts a nasty Facebook comment. It buys a gun.

But mostly it hides in the ordinary. Its secrets are kept by Google searches and medicine cabinets; by small talk and the suffocating weight of shame. If it’s very lucky, it finds cellos, poets, and birds to keep it company. But usually it’s hiding in a silent crouch, waiting for an extraordinary act of love.