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Fear, ignorance and shame often prevent people from talking about mental illnesses, although disorders such as depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder and schizophrenia affect as many as one in four Minnesota families. Still, the myths that mental illness is caused by bad parenting, and that people who have mental illnesses are prone to violence, prevent people from talking about it. Sometimes the prejudices are rooted in religion, such as the belief that people with mental illnesses are possessed by demons or being punished by God. Haberle made a mission of educating congregations about mental illness and the needs of mentally ill people and their families. She is chairwoman of the Faithways program of the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill, which offers training and other resources for religious communities. The benefits of open communication are tangible, according to Faithways director Mary Jean Babcock. "It's the people who talk about it, who bring it out into the light of day, who make it easier for other people to go out and get help for their own situations," Babcock said. "Then other people can feel like, 'Well, I can talk about it. I can start looking at it, and I can start dealing with it.' " Networks of advocacy groups, families and people who live with mental illnesses are working hard to educate clergy and congregations and help them see people with mental illnesses as parishioners who may need their help and deserve their compassion. "One of the most important things to do is to educate everybody in the community," said Laurie Kramer, director of the Mental Health Education Project, a collaborative program of the Twin Cities Jewish community. "It's great to say we welcome everybody, which we do, but we have to know what the needs are and how to meet those needs so people will be truly welcomed." Somewhere to turnSupport from religious communities is vital. After the doctor's office, the church or synagogue often is the first place people go for support.
The Rev. Linda Koelman, pastor at North United Methodist Church in Minneapolis, was one of several clergy who said that churches by nature must take extra steps to be inclusive. "If we say we are a welcoming place in Christ's name, yet we shut out a large group, we are not living up to what we are called to do," she said. "What people look for is a place that will be safe and that will accept them where they are." In providing such a haven, religious communities get back more than they give, Koelman said. "By looking at other people and the gifts that they have to bring, it helps open a church up and make it far richer in diversity and in the caring and support that a church can give." Although leadership from the clergy is key, the change often begins within the congregation. "What it really takes is someone who has experienced mental illness in their family to go the pastor or rabbi, get the pastor or rabbi on board, and get a group of people together who really care about this issue," said Barbara Holmquist, director of caregivers at Mount Olivet Lutheran Church in south Minneapolis. In the late 1970s, Mount Olivet member Joanna Kuehn was diagnosed with a schizo-affective disorder and hospitalized for two months. It was a year before she felt able to rejoin her church choir, and two years before she started feeling like herself again. A few years later, she approached her pastor to suggest a task force on mental illness. "My pastor and my church were willing to listen to me, which validated me as a person with mental illness, and so I am so grateful," Kuehn said. "It's been one of the most therapeutic things of my experience, to be able to share something that I never would have wished for, but when I think of all the people I've met, and the opportunity to find meaning in what I had gone through, I think, what a blessing in my life." In 1986, Kuehn and a group of supporters founded the Task Force on Mental Illness/Brain Disorders. Over the years, their mission has grown roots into all parts of Mount Olivet's ministry. Mental-health education is part of Sunday services, and part of training for all outreach volunteers. The church sponsors a group home for people who live with severe and persistent mental illnesses. There is a psychologist and a psychiatrist on the church staff. The group sponsors interfaith training sessions. "God calls us to stand by people with mental illness, just like he calls us to stand by people who are homeless," Holmquist said. "This is part of our Christian faith, bringing that cup of cold water to someone who is in need." Source: Minneapolis Star Tribune (August 27, 2004) - 'What's wrong?" I ask. Matthew is about my age, with messy brown hair and the beginnings of a beard.
While he seems a bit odd sometimes, he's polite and well behaved: he sits smoking in the television room, he joins in the
activities on the ward, talks to the other patients. "I'm lonely," he replies. Now, when I worked on a medical or surgical ward and was called to see a patient, I asked them what was wrong
and it was – fingers crossed – usually something fairly straightforward. Even if it turned out to be a little
complicated, there were always tests to order, scans to book; and I could make some attempt at least to start sorting out
the problem. It's not always like that in psychiatry. Matthew has been acting a bit strangely recently. The nursing staff have become worried about him. And, trust
me, on a psychiatry ward, there is a high threshold for acting bizarrely, so when the nursing staff are worried, it's time
to act. He has become more withdrawn, is spending longer in his room and cries in the middle of the night. I had hoped
that it was something medical, like an upset stomach. Advice given, medicines prescribed, another happy customer, smiling
faces all round. But he says he's lonely. I know how he feels. I've been used to working in a team on a ward that's bustling
with people. But it's different here. Now I am a more senior junior doctor, it is deemed appropriate to give me a whole ward
to myself. The consultant psychiatrist whom I'm working under comes in every few days to check that I'm surviving. Once
a week, the consultant and the registrar saunter in to do a ward round. The rest of the time, I'm the only doctor on the ward.
So, understandably, I am finding the job rather lonely. Each ward has a junior doctor, so, in theory, there are other doctors on-site, but after security passes have
been swiped, doors locked and unlocked, it's not quite the same. I miss the camaraderie that comes with working on a ward
with other junior doctors and the daily ward rounds. But I suppose some consolation can be drawn from the fact that at least I'm not the only one feeling like this.
I'm locked up with a lot of other lonely people. Matthew hasn't got any friends. I suggest some things he could do when he is discharged: clubs and groups he
could join. But he shakes his head. He's not stupid. He knows what other people his age do. He knows that other people his
age aren't hearing voices, or having toxic medication injected into them to control their psychosis. What he needs, I can't prescribe. I can't conjure up a group of ready-made friends who will accept him for
who he is: someone who plays football, who watches The Weakest Link (no one's perfect), enjoys going to concerts and who's
got schizophrenia. Mental illness is lonely. It's isolating and I'm not sure what, as a doctor, I can do about it. For people
with severe, enduring mental illness, it's a life sentence. They don't fit in and people in the outside world don't want to
mix with them. "What about the other people on the ward? Have you made friends with any of them?" I ask. "They aren't my age, and none of them are into the same things as me," he replies. He lowers his voice. "And anyway, they're mad," he whispers. He has a point there – why should he be expected to be friends with them just because they happen to
have mental illness in common? "Will you be my friend?" he asks, after some time. I don't think anyone has ever asked me that before. I really want to say yes, I will be his friend, but I know
that, as well as possibly being unprofessional, it would be a lie. I'm not his friend because I'm his doctor. That therapeutic relationship works because, to a greater or lesser extent, the doctor is detached from the
patient. Matthew can tell what my answer is going to be and, before I can find the words for a response, he sighs and looks
out of the window. "I wish I was normal," he says. I want to tell him that, sometimes, feeling lonely is perfectly normal. Source: http://www.healthyplace.com/Communities/Thought_Disorders/schizo/articles/lonely.asp
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