Some of the people under my care in the jail right now are quite ill. (This statement is always true, but it seems that the intensity of illness is greater now than usual.) As a result, the perennial question seems more urgent now: Is there any way to prevent All of This?
For some of them, it seems that the answer is No. Some of them sought out psychiatric services, attended appointments regularly, and had good working relationships with their physicians and therapists. They shared their concerns with friends and family members; they sought out help when they started feeling overwhelmed. Despite these relationships and support, they allegedly did things that resulted in significant criminal charges. And now they’re in jail.
For some of them, the answer might be Yes. Maybe if they had more people they trusted in their lives; maybe if they had a better connection with the counselor or doctor they saw that one time; maybe if their friends and family had more time and resources to seek help with and for them.
Then again, for some of them, the answer might be No, but for frustrating and sad reasons. Maybe their friends and family did everything they could to help them, but they didn’t want their aid. Maybe they became so fearful for their safety that they withdrew from everyone and, in isolation, their symptoms became worse. Maybe they believe that they are fine; it is the rest of the world that is confused and ill. Maybe their only experience with psychiatrists was involuntary hospitalization: Who wants anything to do with a system that takes away your rights and forces you to accept medication?
Some of these people are so young. To be clear, it’s troubling whenever someone of any age ends up in jail solely because of psychiatric symptoms. But can you imagine being 18, 19, or 20 years of age and landing in jail in the midst of hearing incessant, taunting voices, believing disturbing things that simply aren’t real, and having no visitors because the few people who are in your life are scared of you?
At least these individuals come to clinical attention. And many get better: They form relationships; they talk with my colleagues and me; they learn how to get along with others; they reflect on what has happened and how to avoid similar consequences in the future; some take medication to help reduce their symptoms.
But then I think about all the people who never encounter law enforcement and never enter the criminal justice system, but they also experience significant symptoms. How do we prevent All of This for:
- the man who doesn’t tell anyone any personal information and stuffs his tattered clothes with plastic bags to stay warm
- the woman who won’t move indoors because she believes that the aliens will execute her if she does so
- the woman who won’t leave her house because she believes her neighbors are cannibals
- the man who sits all day on the sidewalk across the street from his old employer because he believes that he will get his job back
What about them? How do we help those individuals when the system ignores those who cannot or will not play by the rules?
Many mornings I see the same woman standing near a bus stop. The bus stop is covered, but she never stands underneath the awning. She stands behind the bus stop, even when it’s raining.
You can smell her—a mixture of sweat, dirty socks, and yeast—from several feet away. Pedestrians move around her the way water swirls away from large rocks on the riverbed.
Two black garbage bags sit at her feet. They are full. Plastic zip-lock bags poke out of one of them.
She is a young woman of color. She wears a dark hoodie that is too large for her slender frame, but it’s not zipped up all the way. She’s not wearing anything underneath the hoodie, not even a bra. An unwashed skirt smeared with dirt covers her legs. Her mangled sandals reveal that she has not clipped her toenails in many months.
She talks to an unseen audience and everyone can hear what she says. Her voice is rich and though her sentences do not make sense, she speaks with dignity.
The other morning the rain wasn’t the usual mist that falls from Seattle skies. The droplets were full and heavy, a shower of dark water as the sky was filling with grey light.
No one was standing in the bus shelter. Her clothes were already damp.
“Excuse me?” I asked. She had raised an arm to make a point in her discussion.
She fell silent and blinked a few times.
“Do you want to move so you’re under the bus shelter? So you won’t get wet?”
She turned her head and looked away.
“I can help you move your stuff. It’s raining pretty hard right now.”
She dropped her arm and turned her head further.
“What’s your name? My name is Maria.”
She glanced at me, raised her arm back up, and resumed speaking: “All in all, we must to the left….”
I stood there for a moment, waiting for a sign. None came. I walked away.