Tag: mental illness

Crazy, homeless people: What do we do?

~ Randy Seaver ~ Leave a comment

Originally published in the Bangor Daily News, September 23, 2025

A homeless encampment in Biddeford that was cleared by the city in 2024 (Seaver)

In a lot of ways, I am probably a lot like you.

I am a middle-aged, married white guy with a mortgage and a modest home in a quiet residential neighborhood with well-manicured lawns and friendly neighbors.

I love living in Maine. I have two grown children. I adore my dog, and I am blessed to have many good friends. I fret about rising property taxes, and it feels as if I am eternally engaged in thermostat battles with my wife.

I work hard, follow the law and pay my taxes. I drive a late-model Chevy Silverado pick-up truck and enjoy camping at both Rangeley and Moosehead lakes.

But there is another part of me that you would likely never guess unless I told you.

From the outside, my life may look almost idyllic or at least average, run-of-the-mill, but I have to work to maintain this stability and my outward appearance.

For more than 40 years, I have struggled with a wide range of mental health issues, from bi-polar depression and severe anxiety to raucous bouts of schizoid-affective disorder.

I recognize and accept my responsibility to manage my mental health, but it’s not always easy. Some of the medications I take affect everything from my libido to my weight. I am one of the lucky ones, I have a good psychiatrist.  I also participate in regular counseling with a therapist. My insurance covers the bulk of my prescription costs.

Although hidden from the public view, there is a toll, and I sometimes feel as if my illness is a burden on my family, especially my wife, who is my greatest support and the person who ensures that I am taking my meds as prescribed.

As a young adult in my early 20s, I struggled with stability on every level. My employment was erratic. The few relationships I had were chaotic. At three different times, I found myself homeless, living on the proverbial outer edge of society.

I was reluctant to take medications. I did not want to be controlled or – as I saw it – poisoned by society. I did a lot of couch surfing. I even landed in jail for assaulting a police officer.

I was in and out of various psychiatric facilities both on a voluntary and involuntary basis. I got in trouble with the Secret Service for talking about what I would like to do to President Reagan in 1984.

Flash forward more than 40 years.

Just like you, I was shocked, saddened and angry about the brutal, senseless killing of a young woman on a commuter train in Charlotte, North Carolina last week.

She did not deserve that fate. Her family did nothing to warrant such tremendous loss and heart-breaking grief.

How do we comfort them? How do we reconcile the fact that millions of Americans are living on the edge of society, saddled with a significant illness and a stunning lack of resources?

How do we handle our anger? Our resentment?

Sadly, I do not have any answers. I know that my friends on the political right talk a good game about mental illness in the wake of every mass shooting, but then suddenly get quiet when it comes to legislation that requires increased funding for mental health services.

Just like you, I was shocked, saddened
and angry about the brutal, senseless
killing of a young woman on a commuter
train in Charlotte, N.C. last week.

Meanwhile, my friends on the political left talk a lot about community-based care, often forgetting that there are some people who need to be involuntarily hospitalized.

While I do not have any answers, I do know this: we cannot afford to sacrifice our humanity and our shared sense of decency and compassion.

Our national dialogue has become so vitriolic that a major television network commentator can publicly suggest involuntary euthanasia for homeless people who refuse mental health treatment.

Think about that for just a minute or two.

Set aside the 14th Amendment if you need to.

There is a large group of people in this country who heard Mr. Kilmeade’s statements and simply shrugged.

I was a homeless person who often refused treatment. Did I deserve to be put to death for refusing to take medications?

Have we fallen so far that we are now willing to even entertain the notion of rounding up and killing some of our most vulnerable citizens?

If so, just remember that so-called solution will require rounding up people who look and act a lot like you and me.

_________________

Randy Seaver is the editor and founder of the Biddeford Gazette. He regularly blogs on issues regarding mental health and his own journey toward recovery. E-mail randy@randyseaver.com

The Dangerous Type

~ Randy Seaver ~ Leave a comment

Four years ago this week, (the third week of February) I was discharged from Spring Harbor, a psychiatric hospital in Westbrook, Maine.

It was my most recent hospitalization. I have been in and out of psychiatric hospitals for more than 40 years, sometimes on a voluntary basis; other times as an involuntary patient. I have been hospitalized in Arizona, Tennessee, Oregon and Maine. So, I consider myself a little bit of an expert on this subject.

Trust me on this: being a patient on a psychiatric ward sucks. In all fairness, being a patient in any kind of hospital for any reason is no picnic for anyone. Hospitals are typically places we go to when we are ill or injured. Other than child birth, most people do their very best to avoid hospitals.

It is the same for psychiatric patients. I have heard people say or joke that they could use a “vacation” on a psych unit or that “mental people use hospitals to avoid their responsibilities.” These are actual quotations.

I have been on vacations. I have been a patient on a psychiatric unit. Believe me. There is nothing similar between these two things. Nothing.

For more than four decades now I have been taking a wide variety of psychiatric medications. Today, I take five different medications to treat everything from life-sucking depression to anxiety and yes, the consequences of a schizo-affective disorder.

Imagine your spouse telling you that they had to stay in the basement in order to get away from the government? Or imagine what it would be like if your sibling called you, crying and confused because they had gotten lost on the way home from work?

Imagine not being able to remember anything that happened last week or being unable to read more than two pages a day? This is my life off medications. And yup, this is also my life on medications. The meds just make the consequences less frequent and less severe.

Why do I say all this? Am I just looking for sympathy? Shouldn’t I keep this stuff private?

Take me to the river

I have been publicly open about my mental illness for several years now. That, and my pitiful attempts at trying to be a father, are the two things I want to be remembered for. They are the two things in my life, other than Laura, that matter most to me. They are my only real contributions to society, to the world around me.

It doesn’t get any better than this: My sons and I enjoying some time together on the banks of the Saco River.

Of course, like most people, I am generally selective about what I share on social media. I try to portray myself as witty, as some kind of half-assed satirist, a fun-loving guy, someone you would want to be friends with; a hard-working and responsible member of society; a successful husband and father.

Maybe I am those things. Maybe not.

But it seems that publicly sharing my personal struggles with mental illness gives others permission to reach out to me in search of a friendly ear, advice about a family member or their own struggle with some kind of psychiatric illness.

That is so gratifying to me. Beyond words.

I want to break down and destroy the myths and stereotypes that accompany mental illness. Imagine a friend telling you that they have been diagnosed with brain cancer. What would you say? What would you do?

I’m almost positive you would not say something like “stop feeling sorry for yourself,” or “it’s all in your head,” which, ironically is sort of true about brain cancer. Why is mental illness different? Why is it still okay for Hollywood to refer to psychiatrists as “shrinks?”

Those battling cancer are described as brave and courageous. We wear ribbons to show our support. We are quick to offer our empathy, our support, our understanding.

Tell someone that you are hearing voices and the reaction is a lot different. Trust me. Way different.

Honestly, what do you think of when you think about someone with a psychiatric illness? Do you think about someone like the character “Multiple Miggs” in the movie Silence of the Lambs; or do you think of them as your neighbor, co-worker or someone walking their dog past your home?

At the start of this piece, I stated that I have been in and out of psychiatric units for more than four decades. That is true. What is also true is that during the same time period, I have purchased a home, paid taxes, worked hard and was promoted in the private sector, raised two kids, held together a marriage for more than 19 years (and counting). Today I still mow my lawn, pay my bills and spend time with friends and family.

The scary thing? I’m a lot like you and other people you know and trust. The idea of being diagnosed with cancer is terrifying and for good reason. I have lost close friends to that horrible disease. Unfortunately, I have also lost some very good and close friends to mental illness.

So that’s why I’m open about my struggles. That’s why I try to remember to take my meds, even though they sometimes adversely impact my libido, my energy, my sleep and appetite.

Later this week, I am scheduled to have another ECT treatment (Electro-Convulsive Therapy). ECT treatments terrify me. I am afraid that I will not wake up from the anesthesia. Basically, ECT involves having enough electricity beamed into your brain to induce a seizure. So why do I go through with it?

Because, for me and many, many others, it works. It allows me to live. Once a month, I participate in an ECT support ZOOM meeting with other patients. It is so gratifying to see the progress that many of these people have made. To see them smile, laugh and be able to hold a conversation. To hear them say they were reluctant to get ECT until they heard me and others share our own experiences.

That’s what matters. That’s what is important to me.

If you ever want to reach out; if you ever need a friendly ear, please do not hesitate to contact me. If you don’t know me or have my contact info, you can ALWAYS reach out 24/7 365 days a year toll free at 1.888.568.1112 if you are concerned about yourself or somebody else.

Thank you,

Behind Blue Eyes

~ Randy Seaver ~ 2 Comments

12-Winston-Churchill-jpg
Winston Churchill suffered from bipolar disorder.

A friend of mine recently brought to my attention something about me that was posted on Facebook.

Apparently, a man I barely know questioned how I — an out-of-the-closet consumer of mental health care — could be trusted to provide professional advice. In fact, this person described me as “mentally unstable.”

I thought about this for a while because I frequently write about the subject of mental illness and stigma on this blog, and I was a bit disheartened that being “mentally unstable” and having a diagnosed mental illness are still too often linked into one convenient package.

Consider this: One in five Americans experienced some sort of mental illness in 2010, according to a report from the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration.

Are those people all mentally unstable? Hardly.

The vast and overwhelming majority of people with a diagnosed mental illness are very stable and lead productive, normal lives.

They can do this because they seek treatment for their illness. They take medications, participate in therapy and take other measures to ensure that their illness is well-managed. They are no different from people with diabetes, epilepsy or cancer. They did not ask for the disease, they don’t use it as an excuse and they are vigilant in taking care of themselves.

Meanwhile, mentally unstable people do not take appropriate steps to manage their illness. Sometimes, it is because of a lack of mental health services, but more often than not some individuals refuse to acknowledge or treat their illness.

Following the horrific massacre a couple of weeks ago in Charleston, South Carolina, Maine’s Congressional delegation was polled regarding their attitudes on limiting gun violence. While Congresswoman Chellie Pingree, Senator Angus King and Senator Susan Collins all said they would like to see expanded background checks for the purchase of firearms, Congressman Bruce Poliquin offered a different response.

Poliquin said he would like to see more funding for mental health.

I applaud Congressman Poliquin for his willingness to increase funding for community-based mental health services, but I have some bad news for him: Even with better funding and more services, it is more than likely that Dylann Roof would have still shot and killed nine innocent people. Roof may have a mental illness, but he certainly wasn’t taking care of it.

Last week, the defense attorneys for James Holmes, the young man who killed and shot 12 people in an Aurora, Colorado movie theater, opened their defense by saying their client was legally insane, and thus should not be held accountable for his crime.

Although Holmes did seek psychiatric treatment before his rampage, he stopped seeing his psychiatrist just a few weeks before he entered a crowded theater armed to the teeth.

Like very other type of illness, mental illness does not fit into one convenient package. There are different types and severity of illnesses, from depression and anxiety to bipolar disorders and schizophrenia. All of these illnesses can be managed with the right medication and therapy.

And you might be surprised to know how many famous people suffered from some type of mental illness, whether it’s NFL great Terry Bradshaw or Winston Churchill.

Would you describe them as mentally unstable?

According to the Centers for Disease Control, stigma regarding mental illness is getting better but still has a long way to go. Their own research shows:

  • Most adults with mental health symptoms (78%) and without mental health symptoms (89%) agreed that treatment can help persons with mental illness lead normal lives.
  • 57% of all adults believed that people are caring and sympathetic to persons with mental illness.
  • Only 25% of adults with mental health symptoms believed that people are caring and sympathetic to persons with mental illness.

A couple of years ago, I was interviewed by Maine Public Radio about my mental illness. “No one would know I have a mental illness unless I chose to tell them,” I told the reporter. (Listen to the interview here)

The people who really know me would agree: having a mental illness is not synonymous with being unstable.

When U.S. Senator Thomas Eagleton was selected as George McGovern’s running mate for the 1972 presidential election, he kept his mental illness a secret. But once it was discovered that Eagleton had been treated for depression, McGovern dropped him from the ticket like a hot potato.

I’d like to believe that we have made some progress since then.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Take Five

~ Randy Seaver ~ 2 Comments

LePageMy wife, Governor Paul Lepage, Bill Nemitz, a charity auction and the in-patient psychiatric unit at Maine Medical Center.

How did these random things become connected last week, causing a bit of a stir on my Facebook page last night?

Let’s start at the top.

Last week, just days before the election, Governor Paul LePage joked that Portland Press Herald columnist Bill Nemitz should be placed on a “suicide watch,” speculating that he was going to win his re-election bid and his nemesis might jump off the Penobscot Narrows Bridge as a result.

Boom! Instant controversy. Once again, the governor found himself in familiar territory with his foot in his mouth.

The governor’s critics (Democrats) went wild, talking about how insensitive the governor is to issues regarding mental illness.

Reportedly, some people who have lost loved ones to suicide were also  angry and upset about the remarks.

Other folks (Republicans) said the governor was joking and the comment was no big deal, pointing out that many in society make lighthearted jokes on similar topics.

Stop and think if you have ever said “I’m going crazy.” “That is a crazy idea.” “That guy is a nut job.” Have you ever laughed when hearing a joke about hearing voices? Late night talk show hosts had plenty of fodder more than a decade ago when actress Margot Kidder was found partially clothed, hiding in the bushes of an LA suburb.

The subject of mental illness makes us nervous. We laugh about it as a relief valve for our own anxiety and fear. But can you take it too far?

Who’s saying what

My wife  has multiple sclerosis. It is a progressive illness with no cure. She often makes jokes about her illness, speculating about when she will need a wheelchair and telling me we will need to completely renovate our home to accommodate her decreasing mobility. She laughs about these very real topics, appearing on the surface light-hearted.

Her jokes about MS really bother me. They trigger a rush of feelings and incredible anxiety. I know that her jokes are just part of her coping methods, but still I cringe when she talks about putting “bling” on her cane.

When Laura jokes about her MS, I try to give her a pass because she has MS, not me. It is her coping strategy.

It’s sort of like the “N” word. An African-American man can use that word in public without recrimination and make jokes about its connotation and meaning.

If I did the same thing, I could possibly lose my job, certainly many friends.

Society draws a line. If you got it, you can talk about it. Otherwise, keep your trap shut.

Unless it’s Hollywood or the media , and then all bets are off, especially when it comes to mental illness.

In the days following the 2007 massacre at Virginia Tech, “Nightly newscasts reported “no known motive” and focused on the gunman’s anger, sense of isolation, and preoccupation with violent revenge. No one who read or saw the coverage would learn what a psychotic break looks like, nor that the vast majority of people with mental disorders are not violent. This kind of contextual information is conspicuously missing from major newspapers and TV,” wrote Richard Friedman in “Media and Madness,” an article published in the June 23, 2008 issue of The American Prospect.

Friedman goes on to explain that “Hollywood has benefited from a long-standing and lurid fascination with psychiatric illness,” referencing movies such as Psycho, The Silence of the Lambs, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Fatal Attraction.

According to Friedman, “exaggerated characters like these may help make “average” people feel safer by displacing the threat of violence to a well-defined group.”

Since the 2011 Tucson shootings, I have been an out-of-the-closet consumer of mental health services. I have testified before the legislature, published an op-ed in the Portland Press Herald, spoken at community forums.

My mission is to show, in a tangible way, that mental illness is generally not scary and more often than not impacts everyday people: your friends, your co-workers, your neighbors and even your social media contacts.

My life-long struggle with mental illness is not particularly funny, but I do make jokes about it. Have you ever tried to eat a chicken cutlet with a spork? (They don’t give you silverware on the psychiatric unit. )

Did you know that nine out of 10 psychiatric units have aquariums? Fish, apparently, relieve anxiety and stress.

I make these jokes and others when speaking publicly because humor helps break down communication barriers.

I got in trouble

p6On Friday evening, Laura and I attended the Biddeford-Saco Chamber’s annual holiday auction and dinner. By pure coincidence, my bidding paddle was labeled P-6,  the abbreviation of Maine Medical Center’s in-patient psychiatric unit (located on the sixth floor of the Pavilion wing.) I held up the photo and had Laura take a shot of me and my label.

I posted that picture on Facebook.

Some people thought it was funny. Other people did not, questioning why I could joke about mental illness but Gov. LePage could not.

The tricky thing about humor is its intent.

For the record, I chuckled when LePage said Nemitz should be placed on a suicide watch. The two men have been battling for four years, and frankly, I’m not sure who hates who more.

But either way, I think humor is okay, so long as its intent is somewhat calculated and not malicious in nature.

As someone with severe and chronic mental health issues, it’s not up to me or anyone else to tell you what you can joke about. All I ask is that you think about the consequences and lighten up just a tiny bit.

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Even better than the first time

~ Randy Seaver ~ Leave a comment

The first time was 29 years ago, in October 1982.

The next time was a few months later, in August 1983.

From there, it was a blur of revolving doors, various medications and racking up some serious medical bills for the next two decades.

My disease first landed me at the Maine Medical Center. But it dutifully followed me all around the country — Vanderbilt University Medical Center in Nashville, St. Mary’s Hospital in Tucson, Arizona, Portland General Hospital in Portland, Oregon, the Southern Arizona Mental Health Center.

Kennebec Valley Medical Center, Southern Maine Medical Center and Sierra Tucson. It was like the Energizer Bunny…it just kept going and going and going….

I cannot count the number of jobs and relationships lost; or the number of times I moved as I attempted to outrun the disease and its darkness.

I was handcuffed, sedated and belittled.

So what changed?

Nothing changed. I am still ill, but the good news is that I am getting better treatment. Honestly, I still struggle with the meds . . . and sometimes the thinking and the behavior returns. Most times I can handle these demons. Sometimes I cannot.

I am luckier than most people I know. Today, I can hold a job. Today, I have a wonderful family who loves me, a beautiful wife and two amazing and resilient sons. I own a home. I pay taxes and work hard to make my community a better place for those less fortunate.

I can only do these things because I can get treatment for my disease.

This week is National Mental Health Awareness Week, and a story in today’s Maine Sunday Telegram is a good example of how mental illness can affect anyone and about the hope for those who struggle with its symptoms.

I also invite you to read the op-ed I published shortly after the tragedy in Tucson earlier this year. Jared Loughner and I have too much in common. The only difference is….that by the grace of God, I got help and my illness has been held at bay.

I applaud Mr. Daigle for his courage and commitment to fighting his disease. Those of us who are willing to share our stories must do so because the cost of the continuing stigma associated with mental illness are just too much to bear . . . for any of us.

Once in a lifetime

~ Randy Seaver ~ 1 Comment

Of course it happened in Biddeford.

Okay, so maybe it could have happened in Sanford, Lewiston or Rumford but really – – what’s the difference?

I’m speaking, of course, about the so-called sting video that was meant to prove rampant abuse of welfare benefits in Maine.

The undercover, amateur video was shot in the Biddeford office of the Maine Department of Health & Human Services roughly six months ago, and it sparked a media frenzy when it was released last week by two organizations that I have supported.

A few points of disclosure before we proceed any further:

  • I live in Biddeford;
  • My wife works as a social worker at the Biddeford DHHS office;
  • I am a registered Republican;
  • I once received welfare benefits.

Which of those above points does not belong? Which one is not like the others?

To better explain my perspective on this incident, I invite you on a journey back to August 10, 1983, a date I will never forget and a date that colored my view of the amateur video that was publicly released exactly 28 years later.

It was a Wednesday and it was hot. Hot and incredibly humid. Dog Day Afternoon hot.

I was 19 years old and about to experience something I would never forget.

I was also an in-patient on the psychiatric unit of the Maine Medical Center in Portland. Less than 24 hours earlier my mother visited me and explained that I could not come home once I was discharged. My behavior, she explained, was unacceptable. My illness was manifesting itself in fits of uncontrolled rage, belligerent behavior and sheer arrogance.

This was my second hospitalization in less than one year. I was floundering and out of control. I remember being angry during that meeting with my mother, my doctor and a social worker. But my anger was much more about fear than anything else.

Where would I go? How would I survive?

I did not have a job. I had only the clothes on my back and 55 cents in my pocket. I not only know it was exactly 55 cents, I also know that it was one quarter and three dimes. I awoke the next morning and stared out the window of my hospital room. From the sixth floor, it was looked as if the city of Portland was snarling at me, ready to swallow me whole.

You may find yourself in another part of the world. . .

I was discharged at about 11 a.m. and began my walk down Congress Street, past the fire department, the statue of Longfellow and the porno theaters that have since disappeared.

By the time I hit the intersection of Oak Street, I was drenched in sweat. I stopped at the McDonald’s restaurant and asked to speak with the manager.

I was told the manager was busy. They were gearing up for a lunch rush. I asked when I could come back just before a man tapped me on the shoulder. “What do you need?” he asked.

I will never forget that man. His name was George Lydick. He lived in Falmouth, and he owned three McDonald’s restaurants in the area. He invited me to sit down and grabbed an employment application.

I can’t remember if I filled out the application. I do remember that he gave me a Big Mac and a chocolate shake. He asked if I could start immediately because he needed a third-shift utility worker, a janitor who would clean the bathrooms, change the oil in the fryaltors, empty the garbage, break down and sanitize the shake machine and mop the floors.

He was willing to take a gamble on me, but only when the restaurant was closed and there were no customers around. I had told him that I was just discharged from P-6, after all.

I had a job. I would earn $4.25 an hour, and George agreed to comp me two meals a day until I got my first paycheck. I shook his hand. Thanked him profusely and left in search of place to live.

Roughly 30 minutes later, I found myself with dozens of other people in the basement level of Portland City Hall. My name was called, and I met with a caseworker. I showed her my discharge papers and told her I just got a job at McDonald’s but had no place to live. The shame of being there was crushing.

The city, she explained, had limited resources, but if I could find an apartment that would take city vouchers, they could pay my rent until I got my first paycheck. They could not, however, help with any security deposits. She also gave me $17 worth of emergency food stamps and sent me on my way, looking for an apartment with a list of potential places and an eligibility form that the landlord would have to complete.

I struck pay-dirt on my first try, the emphasis on dirt. The apartment was a one-room efficiency on the fourth floor of a building that smelled of cat urine and featured peeling paint, torn carpeting in the hallways and lots of loud music. The rent was $50 a week. It included all utilities.

The room was tiny and had two windows, both of which could not be opened because of the swelling wood and lack of maintenance. The view featured the brick wall of an adjacent building. There was a stained mattress, a two-burner cook top and a micro fridge.

You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack.

It was 2:30 p.m. I had been on my own for a little more than three hours. I had a job and a place to live.

I was terrified and would begin my new job in less than eight hours.

Despite my accomplishments, I did make a very big mistake that day. I decided to use the toilet in my new apartment. It did not occur to me until it was much too late that I did not have toilet paper, a shower curtain, soap or even a towel.

My theory is if that ever happens to you, it only happens once. In the 28 years since, I’ve never had less than 28 rolls of toilet paper in my home at any given time.

I remember being stunned that I had to actually pay for things like towels, salt, soap and toilet paper. Those things should be free, I reasoned.

Welcome to being an adult.

My mother and a friend of hers visited me three days later. They brought with them several bags of groceries: cans of tuna fish and soup, fresh vegetables, peanut butter, bread and cereal.

Flash forward 28 years later. I am sitting at my desk this morning, thinking that I should clean my pool instead of updating my blog. I am overlooking my gardens, and I am impressed with my lawn and its lack of brown spots. All my windows can be opened, and we have five air conditioners.

You may find yourself with a beautiful wife and a beautiful house . . .

Next week, I will wake up in my camper perched on the shore of Moosehead Lake. My, God. . . how did I get here?

I say all this because the taxpayers (you) made an investment in me. Nearly three decades ago, you gave me $117 in rent and groceries. For the next two years, you subsidized my medications and loaned me money to go to college.

Was it a wise investment? I like to think so, especially when I look at how much I pay in taxes; the money I donate to charity and the lessons I try to pass on to my two stepsons.

Sure, it doesn’t always work out this way. And who knows, maybe I could crash and burn, but sometimes the investment works out nicely.

Make no mistake, welfare fraud happens. If you look hard and long enough, you can always find waste, inefficiency and things that need to be improved. It all depends on where you want to look.

If you’re upset about how welfare fraud impacts your wallet, you’re certainly not alone. Personally, as a conservative Republican, I am much more concerned with how welfare fraud impacts those who truly need government assistance. With limited budgets and resources, we don’t need clowns running around with hidden cameras looking for a “gotcha” moment.

We need more people giving back to their communities. We need to invest more of our time, energy and resources in making our communities stronger and safer.

Governor Paul LePage, a man who knows a thing or two about being down on your luck, responded to the video release like….well….like a governor should. He questioned the delayed release of the videotape. He saw an example of an opportunity for better training and renewed focus on efficiency of state services.

He didn’t see a smoking gun. He saw an opportunity. But I don’t expect he’ll get much credit for it.

That’s just the way it goes when you’re a Republican who lives in Biddeford, Lewiston, Sanford or Rumford.