OLD & CRAZY

by Sally Clay

 

My mother was not crazy, but when she was 76 years old she became unable to take care of herself, and had to be put in a nursing home. As I drove her there, she said, "This is what I have always been afraid of."

She had good reason to fear. The nursing home chosen for her by my uncle was, as these places go, a decent place -- it was clean, and the food was good. But it was the end of the line. After she had been there for a year or so, Mother rebelled against institutional life. She began getting into bed with other residents, who did not always appreciate her friendliness. The house doctor prescribed Haldol to get her under control. Under the influence of the psychiatric drug, Mother could not move at all. She could not even speak. Within weeks she was dead.

When I was first put into a mental institution at the age of 20, I also said to myself, "This is what I have always been afraid of." I, too, was given powerful drugs to control behavior that society did not have the time to care for. My unpleasant behavior was brought under control, but the treatment I received led to a life of recurring nightmare. For 25 years I suffered with recurring episodes of psychosis and unpleasant hospitalizations.

Mental illness, aging, and death are the grotesques of modern society, the demons in the closet. They are, together, what we fear the most and talk about the least. The prospect of being both old and crazy may seem like too much to bear. Yet, as one who experienced what is called "mental illness" for most of my adult life, I regard my impending aging with something like sanguinity. In just another year I will be 55 years old, entering the last leg of this journey we call "life." What will become of me?

Well, I don't know what my society will do with me. But I do know that in some cultures, old people are called "elders" and are respected for their acquired experience. They embody the culmination of a life of good work, and are respected for their wisdom. Age brings release from the preoccupation with success that plagues us when we are young. An elder is entitled to relax and enjoy the fruits of her efforts. She is expected to pass her wisdom on to the children of the new generation. The "wise woman," or wicca, is, by some, considered the ideal of feminine power and skill. And that is what I plan to be.

From this perspective, my years of struggle with extreme mental states were a fertile training ground for this wisdom. For me it was a long, hard journey, strewn with obstacles. It was a path marked everywhere along the way with signs that said "Danger! Do not enter!" But enter it I did, and over and over again I went through the "mania" that was so painful both to me and to those around me. Now I hope to take down some of those signs that say "Keep off!" so that others can travel the path more easily.

I learned early on to listen to my inner voice, and not the cacophony of foolishness that is conventional "wisdom." I recognized that the experience some call "psychosis" was for me an attempt at spiritual transformation, and I sought out wise teachers who could help me. I was fortunate to find this help within Tibetan Buddhism, where the lamas taught me the spiritual nature of my mental states and instructed me in yogic disciplines to stabilize mind within body.

My experience with altered states of mind prepared me for the mental and physical changes of death and dying, which other people fear so much. For example, many people begin to experience depression as they grow older. But I have already, by necessity, learned to deal with depression. Over time, I learned to recognize depression as a kind of prayer. For me, it has become a stabilizing energy that enables me to absorb and accept the vicissitudes of life with calmness and patience.

Many people fear death as the great unknown. But those of us who have experienced unusual levels of consciousness have also come to know a little about the possibilities of the mind within death and dying. If we can understand these experiences within our lifetime, death ceases to be a threat.

During my bouts with psychosis, the ground was pulled out from me time and time again. Time and time again I lost friends, jobs, homes, and even my children. As matter of survival, I had to focus always on the constant of spirit and on my relationship to other people. In other words, I learned that the 'things of this world" are always impermanent. When one learns to give up relying on material goods, and on personal control of such things, then one becomes free.

My white hair is now a badge of honor, proof positive that I have successfully traversed the obstacle-strewn path of life in the twentieth century. I have earned the right to speak from experience. Sometimes I grieve for the loss of youthful vigor that age inevitably brings. But in other ways, this slowing down is a blessing. With a slower pace comes the ability to reflect, and to act with patience and humility. Aging is always a process of letting go, and along with the letting go comes the ability to "let be." It is a great relief to me to find that I can now view the world, and people around me, with equanimity and even benevolence.

Time, experience, and spiritual practice brought me recovery from the mental catastrophes called psychosis. It has been ten years since I experienced the violent states of mind that often damaged myself and others. My only regret is that, in my struggle to find my way, I brought grief and sorrow to my daughter and others close to me. I am grateful that I now have the time and the understanding to patch up these old wounds.

Without the fear of death and the unknown, and having already "lost my mind," I can finally be myself and trust myself. I have acquired the confidence to offer more to others than I ever did before, more than I could when I was young. I can use my life and its lessons learned as a beacon to those beginning on the path I have already crossed.

 

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