The importance of being empathetic

Posted by admin on Nov 18, 2008 in From the Editor | 1 comment

My first experience with a mental disorder took place on a Mexico missions trip in Grade Nine. A set of boy-girl twins were on the trip, Adam and Allison*, both of whom I was casual friends with. They had been attending our church for a few years, and their dad was my elementary school band teacher – a strange man who would fix our ancient rented instruments with duct tape if we complained about a loose neck or missing finger pad.

Adam had been a quiet but intelligent young man, docile in public interactions but possessing a distinct liveliness and gentleness, until he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in junior high and put on a heavy regimen of drugs. His new medicines seemed to glaze him, trapping him in a monochromatic world where both joy and sorrow were suppressed by a languid, drug-induced apathy.

A few days into the trip, sitting in collapsible chairs on the hard-packed dirt around a camp fire, Adam began to laugh. His arms were crossed across his chest, and his legs were straight out and likewise crossed at his ankles, rising up when his whole body would be captured by a deep, maniacal guffaw.

At first we thought he was being goofy, experiencing the common mix of hyper-ness and lessened inhibition that usually accompanies Christian students on such trips. But, we soon realized, this laughter was not normal. We sat, confused high-schoolers and interspersed leaders, and were bewildered at his absurd amusement. Something was wrong, but we didn’t know what.

The next morning, he was gone. The leaders were in a controlled frenzy, not wanting to frighten us, not wanting to lose this student who was somewhere wandering alone in the Baja Peninsula.

Allison was sitting in a folding chair, calm. I asked her how she was: she was fine. I wasn’t. I started crying. And back then, only the idea of a missing twin brother (I have one myself) could make me deign to shed tears in front of others.

They found Adam about a half-hour later. He had been taking a walk down the country road which led to the camp, and was wandering on the agricultural lanes of the Mexican countryside. He was not phased, just confused, not knowing where he was or why everyone was so concerned. It turns out he had dropped his carefully organized pills the day before and chose not to tell, so he wouldn’t scare anyone. But without his pills he was even scarier to a naïve group of pseudo-evangelists without the means or knowledge to care for him.

Adam revealed to me that the public image of stability could mask a private life of pain and confusion. I began to wonder about the dichotomy: who else in my Baptist context had to negotiate these two realities? If it could happen to the schoolteacher’s son, why not the pastor? The woman who ran the nursery? My friends in Sunday school?

I never felt adequate to help or handle situations such as Adam’s: a nice boy with a heartbreaking disorder that is not his fault or anyone else’s, but branded with a stigma I was taught not to touch or handle. No one told me not to care; the problem was that no one told me anything. I began to fear empathy, and this fear can still drive me to look away in the face of poor mental health.

But as I meet more people dealing with such issues, ignoring them is no longer an option. I wasn’t taught how to care, but learning not to fear such issues (most of which are mere biological problems, see Spotlight, pp. 12-13) is a step the Christian community must take in order to truly love the members of its body. We need to strive for compassion and understanding instead of pretending that mental health is not an issue, or stigmatizing people who deal with it.

*names have been changed