I understand that tensions are high, and that feelings are raw on the national political stage, but I still think we can engage in robust discussion and debate without marginalizing millions of Americans who suffer daily with varying degrees of mental illness.

Reading some of the social media commentary regarding the U.S. Senate confirmation hearings for Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., yesterday I was struck by the sheer delight that so many people were showing in joking about Kennedy’s rather obvious illness and his past behavior that can only be described as somewhat bizarre.

I also found it strange and somewhat sad that the majority of these pejorative comments were coming from those who generally hang out on the left side of the political aisle.

Generally speaking, Democrats will typically trip over themselves to use words like ‘diversity’ and “inclusion” at every given opportunity, eagerly patting themselves on the back for their moral leadership, always sensitive to use the right pronouns and to advance the cause of those marginalized by society for a variety of reasons.

Make no mistake, the progressive left is not wrong in its ongoing push to break down barriers and advance the cause of civil rights for all Americans. But it seems there is still a lot of work to do.

We should all – Democrats, Republicans, Independents — be striving to treat one another with respect and dignity, regardless of political affiliation.

In just my lifetime, our nation has made incredible strides to break down barriers and to advance opportunities for all Americans, regardless of their race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation or religion.

The Civil Rights Act of 1964 was a watershed moment, yet more than 60 years later racism remains pervasive in our culture. And, consider this, it was only 30 years ago when we adopted a policy of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”

Clearly, we are making tremendous progress, and there is no doubt that Democrats are generally the ones leading that charge, continually pushing and reminding us that there are still barriers and challenges we must face when it comes to inclusion, equity and respect.

However, it is apparently still okay to make jokes about those who struggle with mental illness.

It is apparently still okay to make jokes about those who struggle with mental illness.

I am in no way advocating for the confirmation of Mr. Kennedy. I am convinced – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that he is not qualified for the position.

But — as someone who lives day in and day out with a rather pronounced and significant mental illness, I cringe every time I hear terms such as “nutjob,” “whacko,” “psycho” and “Looney Tunes.”

Even Hollywood elites still – today — refer to psychiatrists as “shrinks.”

We fly rainbow flags — and for good reason — but yet we casually gloss over the stigma and shame that is still a very big fact of life for those battling an often-hidden illness that is no different than any other illness.

From a political party that gleefully accepts a mantra of “F%ck Your Feelings,” I have learned to almost accept and expect their callous disregard for minorities. I cringe. I shake my head and let out a deep sigh.

But when that same discrimination comes from the political party that is all about ending discrimination, I wonder if I will live long enough to see an end to mental illness stigma. I wonder if we will ever get to a place where mental illness is treated with parity in both treatment and insurance reimbursement in the United States.

If I told you that I developed brain cancer, your reaction would likely be one filled with immediate empathy and support.

Many times, when I do work up the courage to tell someone that I am struggling, people will tell me to try being more positive and to stop feeling sorry for myself.

Really? Do you not realize that my brain does not work properly?

A few months ago, a veteran journalist who I greatly respect told me I should stop writing blog posts about my struggles with mental illness. “Nobody really cares about that,” he said.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe nobody does care. But I am going to keep writing about it, because I have heard from scores of people who are grateful that I am willing to talk publicly about depression, anxiety and yes—even my bouts with schizophrenia.

My writing about it, apparently helps these people feel safe and not so alone in the world. Many people have family members suffering from varying forms of mental illness. If I can help just one person by talking about it; well then, I’m going to keep talking and writing about it.

Am I being overly sensitive? Just feeling sorry for myself?

Everybody gets depressed sometimes, it’s natural. Shake it off, people say.

Allow me to give you a few examples to point out why clinical depression and anxiety are very different than normal grief and worry.

I am relatively well known in my small hometown of Biddeford. Some people see me as someone who is connected to the community’s power structure, as someone who is outspoken, brash and sarcastic – – a thick-skinned egomaniac in love with the sound of his own voice and always happy to bloviate and share his opinion about local news.

I am also one of the admins for a community Facebook page of more than 18,000 members, and a few of them somehow believe that I control all communication in the city of Biddeford, and that I am nothing more than a happy-go-lucky Biddeford sycophant.

Sure, okay. Some of that may be true. I do tend to be a snarky loudmouth. But I am not connected to any “power structure.” Most mornings, I have a hard time finding my slippers. I struggle with math and puzzles, so I’m not that bright.

Writing is what I hold onto. I enjoy it, and it helps me relax and stay focused.

But there is also a dark side of my life that I rarely show to anyone, including friends and family.

Just a few weeks ago, while Laura was still at work, I went down to the basement of my home and huddled while crying because I was absolutely convinced that the “government” was trying to covertly beam information into my brain, and I wanted to be surrounded by concrete.

If someone doesn’t immediately return my call or text, I start to spiral, becoming paranoid and will often assume that person must now hate me and is now talking about me behind my back.

I generally live in almost constant fear. It has been that way since I can remember. I was a shy kid with few friends and lived in a pretend world of fantasy of my own creation, but I was always scared. Always scared.

I was scared of other kids, scared that an airplane would crash into my home. Terrified about changes in weather.

Today, as an adult, if something breaks – the toilet flapper, a leaky faucet or broken light switch, I panic.

I refuse to use my CPAP for treating my sleep apnea, because sometimes (not always) I become somewhat concerned about what information is being transmitted while I sleep. Is this the way the CIA plants messages in my brain?

I generally live in almost constant fear. It has been that way since I can remember.

If I have to drive more than 10 miles, I start to feel anxious. Someone is probably going to cross the center line and kill me. What will I do when my dog dies? While driving, I keep my racing thoughts in check by continually calculating the distance and time I have yet to travel.

It’s friggin’ exhausting.

I am almost always afraid. Fear consumes almost every single day.

So, how do I cope? How do I force myself out of bed each day? Well for starters, I take five different medications. They help me function but they also affect everything from my libido to my weight.

With the meds, I can pretend to be normal, funny, outspoken. When I’m taking my meds, I shower every day and brush my teeth. I see a psychiatrist and a therapist, although sometimes it feels like I’m a dog chasing its tail.

Can you imagine how hard it is to live with me? I honestly don’t know how Laura does it. I don’t know what she sees in me. Almost every day, I ask her if she is upset with me and whether she is thinking of filing for divorce.

I am only alive today because I was too stupid to figure out how to properly load the cheap Lorcin .380 handgun I bought on impulse on an especially dark night in October 1993. I put that gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. I sat in the middle of the floor and cried uncontrollably before calling 911. Yep, back to the hospital again.

I have been hospitalized more than 20 times – voluntarily and involuntarily — since being honorably discharged from the U.S. Air Force back in 1982.

I was last hospitalized in 2016. This is the longest stretch of my adult life outside of a psychiatric unit.

I am lucky. I have good health insurance. I have an amazing and supportive spouse. I am not facing food nor housing insecurity. Surprisingly, despite my terrible diet and complete lack of exercise, I am relatively healthy.

I also have several really good friends. I rely on them. Heavily.

With all those things, I can work, function and be a contributing member of society. More often than not, mental illness is an invisible illness.

If you ever wonder why more people don’t seek treatment or get help, just look at some of those Facebook comments that were made about Mr. Kennedy this week.

It’s 2025, and stigma is still a thing. Let’s all try to do better.

Thank you.

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