How Would You Diminish the Stigma of Mental Illness?

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Last fall, a Yale freshman interviewed me for an essay about a person, her writing class assignment that week. She wanted to learn about my experience as one of Yale’s first female undergraduates, and now, over forty-five years later, about my life as a psychologist and writer. My memoir, Smoking Cigarettes, Eating Glass, had recently been published, and she wanted to understand how an adolescence spent in psychiatric hospitals had influenced my perspective as a psychotherapist.

Her last question was this: If you could do anything what would you do?

At first I stumbled: Did she mean could I do as in fly? Or could I do as in have power to accomplish something essential? The hour and a half of delving into my experience as I responded to her first two dozen questions left me feeling unusually expansive. So, feeling at ease with my questioner and rather full of myself, I imagined the following scenario:

Someone identifies me as a knowledgable individual with a valuable perspective, and the president of Yale invites me to meet with a committee he has formed. This committee is charged with addressing the stigma of mental illness at Yale. They ask me to devise a program to diminish this stigma, and whatever I propose they will implement.

When my interviewer first arrived at the college that August she didn’t know anyone there. Being very shy, she feared she’d be isolated and alone. Freshman orientation involved spending her first weeks at Yale meeting in a variety of groups, and by the time classes began she’d made friends. No longer apprehensive, she felt located and connected. She was enjoying a great first semester.

My imagined plan began with small groups like the ones she described—I didn’t consider the question of a facilitator. Participants in each group would be assigned rather than self-selected, because I didn’t want anyone to be defined and possibly stigmatized by choice of group. I was moved by the way the interviewer had noted her own fear of feeling isolated and alone, of being seen as different(she was Asian). I thought of the not named but keenly felt “damaged’ and ‘not okay’ type of ‘different’ that many people identify with mental illness.

There would be groups of eight or ten people all over campus, I decided. They would gather on a series of afternoons, perhaps once a month, to engage in conversations about mental illness. If needed, organizing questions could be used to open discussion. “What’s your first thought when you hear the term ‘mental illness’?” for example.

I’d like to have reasonable food available, and a place to walk afterward, so it wouldn’t feel oppressive or too intense. There would be freedom to speak, but only if one chose to—no one would be required to reveal anything. My hope was that over time a number of participants would share their stories, and this would encourage others. As people discovered they weren't alone, more would connect.

There are always reasons my plan might not work—nothing works for everyone. It would have to take place over a number of days. It might have to be strongly encouraged, if not mandatory—that’s why schools /colleges/universities might be the best places to start. Maybe fraternities, sororities, philanthropic organizations—places where bonds are formed and members look out for one another. (This might also be my outsider’s view; reality may not be so rosy.)

Several months after the interview I attended a professional presentation about racism among psychotherapists. At one point we formed groups “with people you don’t know,” and each of us had two minutes to tell the others what we’d learned about race in our families growing up. I was impressed with the level of trust and intimacy quickly engendered among those in the group I had joined. I felt changed by my experience. And I thought more about the plan I’d imagined in the fall.

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This fall, we as a society are confronting outright disdain of perceived difference. We are scrambling to deal with increasing intolerance and threats toward people identified as ‘other,’ whether by religion, race, gender, ethnicity or sexuality—just about anything. We can apply what we learn to help us change the way we react to mental illness.

If your depression or agoraphobia, or your mother’s schizophrenia, or your cousin’s addictions are ordinarily too scary to talk about, discussions in anonymous groups might offer a step forward. You might find a safe place to confide stories of hard work, of frustration, of setbacks and healing, a place to celebrate victories too often hidden by shame. Would you try it? For there are millions of us out there, across the country and around the world, longing to be seen simply as who we are, unclouded by stigma.