By Rabbi Paula Mack-Drill
When I think about my dad at home through all the years of my growing up, I think of him as alone. And when I think about my mom through those same years, I think of her as lonely.
My dad, who was living with bipolar disorder, spent months at a time inside our house, often in his bed, almost always alone. My mom would go to work every day, and my brother and I would go to school. When we got home, there he would be, on the couch, watching television.
I was a kid. It never occurred to me to wonder about how alone he was. He was my dad—funny, smart, devoted to his family. Most of the time, he was also bitter, angry, and dark. Then would come the weeks of mania, when he was full of ideas, excitement, and risky behavior. I remember driving in the car with him as a little girl, believing his talk of empires to be built and incredible ideas to be implemented.
In the 1950s and 1960s, no one understood my father’s mood swings. My parents’ friends wondered, and perhaps pitied, but mostly they stayed away. My dad’s parents fretted that they had done something wrong to cause such brokenness. My mother’s parents urged her to leave my dad and bring my brother and me to live in their house. Instead, my mother stood by my father, the love of her life. She held him and us together. There were no support groups for her; the synagogue was not a safe place; and her friends were not equipped to understand. I wonder who possibly could have listened to her without judgment, even if she could have articulated her sorrow and her rage. She must have been very lonely.
Mom was strong and stoic. She would come home from a full day of work at her father’s pharmacy on a Sunday to find my dad, my brother, and me all camped out in front of the television, all of us still in pajamas at six o’clock. No chores on our short list would have been accomplished, no dinner prepared. We had eaten bowls of Wheaties for breakfast and Ritz crackers with peanut butter for lunch. Did she seethe inside? As a kid, it never seemed that way to me. She just seemed glad to see us all.
I would help her set the table, and we would eat warmed frozen dinners or cans of Dinty Moore stew. We ate a lot of pizza, McDonald’s, and submarine sandwiches. Sitting together at the table was more important to her than what we ate.
Conversation at those dinners was freewheeling and wonderful. I remember current events, Dad’s telling jokes, and lots of sports talk. There was also open talk about the upside-down nature of our family life. Everyone else’s daddy got up every morning and went to work. I am sure I complained about coming home on school days for lunch to my dad instead of my mom. I am certain I asked why he couldn’t just go to work.
I can hear my father say, “Some people have a sickness in their stomachs or their lungs. I have a sickness in my head.” I believe he said, “A voice in my head tells me all the things I cannot do.” And yet, he was my dad.
I was nine years old when Dad was diagnosed. I have my journal from 1968, and in my block print, very large across the page, I wrote: “Daddy has manic depression.” I must have felt relieved this thing had a name.
All of those conversations taught me to look for the strength in people. My mother taught us that the illness did not define my father. In her estimation, he was brilliant and funny with a disorder that kept him from fulfilling his potential. I grew up to be stronger because of my father’s illness.
But I also grew up fearful about my own mental health. I was an overachiever, often suffering stomach aches as I pushed myself always to be as perfect as I could be. I did not want to give my mother one more reason to worry. I did not want to be bipolar. It took me years into adulthood before I learned I could slow down and stop running from a mental illness that has not affected me after all.
From the beginning of my rabbinate, I have dedicated myself to creating a safe space and removing the stigma of mental illness for congregational families. My parents gave me the gift of feeling free to ask questions and to receive the best answers they could give. It was not an easy childhood, but their wise coping meant I learned lessons for life.
I have always spoken in sermons about mental illness, sharing my father’s story as well as my own after I experienced a year and a half of anxiety and depression. I wrote about it and taught about it. The more I made myself vulnerable, the more I was able to help. Congregants who struggle seek me out, and others ask if I will speak with their family members, friends, and neighbors. I meet with whoever seeks a listening ear and an open heart. I make recommendations of professionals and programs from a list of referrals I have carefully built over almost twenty years on the pulpit. I believe most rabbis want to help. Someone seeking understanding will know immediately if a rabbi is able to follow through on his or her desire.
Today more than ever, Jewish congregations are open to facing mental health issues in a straightforward, inclusive way. There is no one unaffected by mental illness in one’s family or among one’s circle of friends. Along a continuum and across a lifetime, we humans all find our places in terms of our mental wellness and vulnerability.
I think a great deal about my parents every May as my synagogue honors Mental Health Awareness Month. We educate, hold panels, celebrate a special Shabbat, teach tools for resiliency and mental health, and post to our blog. This past May, we walked in silent meditation from our daily chapel to the bima in the sanctuary to receive Torah, a powerful reenactment of Mount Sinai, where everyone received Torah in his or her own way. God does not see anyone as broken; everyone is created in God’s image. We walked together as a community, from the four-year-old twins skipping along to the ninety-year-old couple walking carefully with canes. Being together in a community where everyone is accepted as “just fine,” just the way they are, is a most powerful sustainer of mental wellness. Everyone who was in synagogue on that Shabbat felt this crucial teaching in our very souls.
But what about everyone who was not able to be in synagogue with us? What about those who struggle with mental illness in their homes or in facilities and cannot leave, trapped there, unable to enter into our community of faith? What about the caregivers of those people, too exhausted and fearful of stigma to come out and join us in the community? They probably do not see a sanctuary; rather, they see an unbearable barrier to entry. How can we begin to change this reality for Jewish people who feel isolated due to mental illness?
If you are struggling with mental health issues and you feel alone, reach out to your rabbi, your local Jewish Family Services organization, or one of the mental health agencies in your area. Reach out in any way you feel able, so someone who cares can meet you halfway. Even if you can only reach out a very short distance, I hope an empathic, caring person will meet you the rest of the way.
If you are lonely because you are a caregiver to someone struggling with mental health issues, I hope you find a friend, family member, or professional to listen, share, and allow you to strengthen yourself.
We must continue to speak out. We must work hard to enable people to feel safe enough to be vulnerable in our sanctuary spaces. Our tasks are to open our hearts, educate ourselves toward deep understanding, and become empowered advocates.
This is the work that remains to be done. This is the work I am called to do in memory of my parents—a brilliant, mentally ill father and a steadfast, loyal mother. This is the life-saving work I commit myself to doing, not just in the month of May, but always.