Remember way back when the most interesting thing to complain about was the wretched excess, questionable integrity, sleazy tactics, and relentless disingenuousness of what is referred to as the Presidential Campaign? Seems like ages ago, does it not? Why? Simple. Reality ripped us from the clutches of affected patriotism and metaphorical backstabbing in a big old dramatic manner unique to nature, nature which gives and removes all that is consequential, unlike political gasbags who – at their very best – do less damage than they might.

Let me preface this by saying that I’m a strong advocate of what is called “talk therapy”, whether conducted with a psychiatrist or psychologist. Today’s mental health care community likes to throw pills at problems because insurance companies prefer it that way – for obvious reasons - but real mental health recovery occurs over time as the result of a careful blend of professional guidance, pharmacology, and personal will, labor, and fearless commitment. Talk therapy, when done properly, is the greatest emotional and spiritual adventure anyone could ever embark on. Compared to talk therapy, the much-discussed boating expedition of Columbus was simply a hop, skip and a splash down to the corner newsstand for a pack of smokes. But, it is dangerous and scary, and only works if the traveler is in the hands of a skilled guide.

When you live your entire life with mental illness your relationship with the particular nemesis tormenting you goes through a long, evolutionary arc. What do I mean by this? Let’s find out. At first there is the glorious warm bath known as victim-hood, in which we indulge as long as possible until at last the water turns cold, grimy and inhospitable. At that moment we must look directly into the pitiless, unflinching eyes of reality’s rubber ducky. We fantasize about having ourselves dry-cleaned. Our lament of how unfair this all is must finally be returned to our children, where it belongs. Fairness, as we have told them so many times, is not of this world. Stuff happens. Deal with it as best you can but please, no whining.

For reasons we might want to explore at some other time, I spent over 30 years toiling in the corporate vineyards as an advertising copywriter – an occupation which enjoys a level of social prestige roughly equivalent to that of garbage collector, lawyer, and snake oil salesman – although to be sure – the latter group is begrudgingly afforded a modicum of respect since almost everyone abhors a squeaky snake. I know I do. But I digress. Writers, as you know, are a disreputable lot. As a rule they live in culverts, subsist on scraps of food left by others in greasy spoon diners on the outskirts of town, frequently showing up for work with three day’s of stubble, pockets crammed with losing lottery tickets, reeking of bourbon and cheap cigars. The men are even worse! As a bipolar dipsomaniac with a chronic attitude problem that includes contempt for authority, you can imagine I lost and found and lost employers the way others misplace car keys. Some jobs were submerged deep within the bowels of soulless corporations shamelessly exploiting the witless populace, while others resided in neurosis factories referred to as advertising agencies where paranoia, throat-slitting, and British wardrobes were passed off as creativity.

I will never forget buying my first house. It was a suburban rancher set in the bucolic splendor of Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Bucks County, for those who don’t know, was home to William Penn. It is bordered on the east by the Delaware River, indeed, the famous incident depicted in a painting familiar to all schoolchildren - General George Washington recklessly standing up in a moving boat at winter as he and his intrepid soldiers cross the Delaware – happened there. Bucks County is also where one finds New Hope (and who among us isn’t looking for New Hope?) a quaint tourist town dating back to colonial days that flourished because the ferry located there facilitated trade. Two centuries later New Hope would gain a different kind of celebrity as the summer residence of New York’s smart artistic set including painters, playwrights, composers, humorists, actors, fops, poseurs, and social butterflies. My wife and I were able to afford it because it was a disaster area – the real estate agent described it as “tenant abused” – the victim of a “hot divorce”. This was an understatement, like saying that Dresden in 1945 “needed some TLC”. But the setting was remote and lovely. Our next door neighbor was a large dairy farm, our neighbor across the street was a horse farm where racehorses were bred and raised, and our down the street neighbor was a big-time cocaine dealer who lived in a massive geodesic dome and flew everywhere in his private helicopter.

This is National Suicide Prevention Week and like many others who care about mental health issues I am turning my attention to this most terrifying – and taboo – of subjects. I have been living with bipolar disorder, and substance abuse issues, all my life. When you inhabit this environment as long as I have, suicide is no longer a dirty secret, a shameful fate that happens to others - it is simply an element of routine reality. In my world everybody knows someone who committed suicide; I’ve known dozens. Many of us have attempted suicide ourselves. This forbidden act is simply part of our scenery. There are as many ways to commit suicide as there are reasons. In the program of Alcoholics Anonymous – (in which I have found shelter for the past 12 years) – we speak of “the death of 1000 cuts” and “suicide on the installment plan”. These concepts apply to individuals who have a strong death wish but lack the commitment to see it through to its logical conclusion. They would rather torture themselves and their near and dear until, at last, they’re used up.

Unpopular social subsets like illegal aliens (I mean beings from other planets), lawyers, and mentally ill people (MIPs), tend to attract bizarre, completely untrue mythology. For example, have you heard the popular myth that space aliens are lactose intolerant? This is simply untrue, and mean. Maybe you’ve heard the myth about lawyers eating their young. While not entirely untrue, it happens far less often than people believe. When it comes to MIPs (Mentally Ill People), silly rumors and superstitions are rampant, which only contributes to an atmosphere of superstition, fear, and stigma. So, let’s have a look at some of the most persistent myths about MIPs (Mentally Ill People) and separate the square biz from the flapdoodle.

Back in the day, political prognostication was a lot less scientific than it is now. It was said that if it rained on Election Day the Republicans would win, because they had cars. For decades in Chicago it was believed that – the results weren’t official until the cemetery vote was counted. Such cavalier sentiments seem charmingly old-fashioned in an age where spin and opinion are routinely measured to a sub-molecular level. This year’s Presidential circus, I mean election, which will be ending, mercifully, in a few months, is no exception. Using the very latest in digital resources, pollsters plumb the depths of voter opinion, ever amazed by the complete lack of connection to anything factual. That political sentiment would be based entirely on prejudice, irrational fear, and magical thinking is no surprise to these seasoned professionals; but what did catch them with their drawers drooped was the increasing importance of the mentally ill as a voting block. Indeed, Chumley Throckmorton, President & CEO of Opinion8, a Bermuda-based consulting firm, think tank, and laundry said, “Mentalators are the ones to watch in ‘12, they could decide the outcome.

Popular animals have long been associated with products, institutions and causes to draw attention, increase likeability, and help fix key ideas in the public imagination. One need only mention Smokey The Bear to make the case convincingly. Sporting a broad-brimmed ranger hat and gazing with unblinking, unforgiving eyes, Smokey warned us that we were the only ones capable of preventing forest fires. One had the sense that Smokey was not a bear to be trifled with, and yet, showing his vulnerable side he revealed that – as tough as he was – without our cooperation he, and his forest companions – deer, moles, ticks, woodchucks, badgers, marmosets, Thompson’s gazelles, beavers, polecats, and salamanders – and moose – were in serious trouble. This concept, that an enormous, fierce bear was depending on little old us, had currency – and the campaign lasted not just for years but for decades. We liked Smokey, and we wanted to help him.

As many of you know, I am a devotee of quotations – those bite-sized nuggets of wisdom summarizing great truths of life quickly and with wit. Some years back, in a cold, dingy room choked to the gills with cigarette smoke, bad coffee, tattoos, and incomprehensible blather uttered badly by battered bikers, businessmen, beauticians and stay at home moms, united in anonymous terror, I first heard this said. "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." Later I found that this pearl of wisdom is credited to everybody’s favorite patent clerk, Albert Einstein. However… The more time I spent on the Internet the more I realized that roughly half of all quotes found there are bogus. Some are real but credited to the wrong author; others are totally made up and attributed to a famous, credible person.