My column topic last week, “Lunacy is the most inhuman illness,” an account of my cousin Gerry’s becoming mentally ill, resulted in some queries and comments sent through my e-mail (care of Inquirer readers Teng Aguilar, Herminio Liwanag, Clarissa Teves and Dr. Reynaldo Lesaca, a practicing psychiatrist for 40 years).
I limited my narrative on Gerry’s ordeal only to the onset of his becoming ill, when he manifested strange behavior in an on-and-off manner. He was only 15 years old then. We committed him to the National Mental Hospital in 1967, when he was 21, and I ended my narrative with his confinement.
Many readers, I guess, were curious about the whole story. So, today I am expanding my narratives based on my recollections.
The years 1959-1967 were the early symptomatic period. As kid growing into an adult, Gerry exhibited queer and strange behaviors at home, with isolation as the main symptom.
This isolation consisted of withdrawal from his family and home life activities, such as erratic sleeping and eating hours and neglecting personal hygiene. He periodically locked himself in the room and concentrated on petty fetishes for days on end.
Hellish
This behavior would be interspersed with normal life activities. This led Gerry’s folks to think that perhaps he had not become insane and was not a hopeless case, but harbored only a transient emotional problem, which would go away eventually. But the guessing game was hellish, and the uncertainty created fear and tension for all members of the family.
From 1968 to 1978, the family was seeking psychiatric help. Gerry’s father, Tio Ben, who was in big denial during the previous years, finally decided to seek professional help by bringing Gerry to a psychiatrist. I presumed that the psychiatrist evaluated Gerry’s status, and he was administered with the necessary protocol and given medications according through his symptoms.
Nobody knew exactly what was behind Gerry’s recurring symptoms. The symptoms of mental illness are not easy to explain, like a cardiovascular clot, the growth of cancer cells, or the spread of pneumococcal virus in the lungs. The strongest theory is inheritance from ancestral genes. The incidences of complete cure are extremely low.
At one time, I think Gerry was administered with electric shock therapy when he went high-strung. There were several periods of normalcy, and Gerry was able to go back to school. But this was temporary. Absenteeism was rampant and, ultimately, he dropped out of school.
Gerry could not seem to focus and hold on to a purpose in life. His isolation and disorderly behavior persisted. After a couple of years, the visits to the psychiatrist stopped, and he became a stay-at-home patient under his father’s patient watch.
The years 1980-2006 marked the period of permanent lunacy. Tio Ben retired from government service, and the family decided to relocate to the province. Tio Ben put up a piggery. Gerry, by that time, was, for me, a permanently insane person, and no psychiatric treatment could cure his mental illness. He was an outpatient mental case, harmless but useless and purposeless.
Tio Ben and Tia Lily died after a few years and Gerry was left in the care of his elder sister, who struggled to support him to keep him alive. His sister confined him in the asylum once or twice, but after a year, Gerry was sent home as an outpatient due to congestion at the mental institution.
Innocence
Gerry spent the rest of his life in his insane state in his parents’ house in the province. When I was around, he never failed to ask me for some money “for my bread, my cigarettes and my haircut.” Despite Gerry’s shabby look, aimless walk and unwashed smell, he always greeted me (Kuya Minyong). I saw innocence in his eyes, the innocence of the sinless. And for that, I knew I loved him.
He died of pneumonia at the age of 67. “He’s in heaven,” my prayerful friend Manoling said when he learned that Gerry had passed away.
Mental illness, psychological disorder and emotional dysfunction are illnesses that plague our catastrophy-prone country, with our huge poverty population and big out-of-work youth segment.
Sadly, the public is unprepared to handle mental illnesses due to its mysterious origin and unfamiliar symptoms.
Mental illness suffers from the stigma of being a shameful dysfunction. The basement of Makati Medical Center is full of mentally ill people whose identities are kept in strict confidentiality “else his family would suffer the stigma of a maluwag ang turnilyo.”
Psychiatrists and psychologists must consider it their duty to write often and publish their findings on mental illness, so that the general public will not be caught unawares and kept in the dark on what to do during the early symptomatic years. Talagang kawawa ang may pamilyang luko-luko, lalo na ang naging luko-luko.
Government health services in our towns and villages are not equipped at all to handle mental illness. The few regional asylums are overcrowded and poorly maintained because of budget shortage.
Many town folks have learned to live with mentally ill people with tolerance and pity. The mentally ill continue to live their useless and shameful existence and are usually seen bumming around. They are referred to by townsfolks as may diperensya sa utak or plain sira-ulo. Worst are superstitions about the causes, like nakulam, namatanda o pinarusahan ng nuno sa punso.
The mentally ill deserve better attention and services from our health department. Their dismal neglect at the town and barrio levels is abominable.
And remember, we have a saying: “Ang pumatol sa luko-luko ay mas luko luko.”
E-mail the author at hgordonez @gmail.com.