The Story of a Man Named Joe

The Story of a Man Named Joe is a fictional story based on a compilation of stories from several people throughout the mental health system. It is intended to give you a glimpse into the lives of some of the people we encounter and serve.

Hi, my name is Joe.

I grew up in your neighborhood - maybe even next door to you. You may not remember me very well. I was the one you played with a few times but then I had to move away. You've probably forgotten me by now so I thought I might share with you some about my life if you don't mind.

I grew up as a pretty normal kid: liked to horse around with my friends, loved baseball - especially the Big Red Machine - and I loved 70's Rock-N-Roll.

I did all right in school until around my sophomore year in high school. At that time my thoughts started to take a bizarre turn. I started to think and fantasize about being on stage with various rock bands of the day. I know, doesn't sound too abnormal for most of the boys that age, but the problem was ..........I really believed it!

Around this time, I also started to hear voices inside my head. At first, this really scared me. When I first began to hear these voices, I believed that everyone around me also heard them. A few times I responded out loud to the voices.

When my buddies looked at me funny and started to laugh I was destroyed. How could they not hear these voices? I got mad and yelled at them knowing (actually hoping) that they were just fooling around as boys are known to do. It wasn't long until I realized that they didn't really hear the voices; that the voices I was hearing were originating from inside my head. I also knew that this was not normal. It wasn't long until even the voices in my head began to make fun of me. Needless to say, I lost my friends. I can't say that I blame them, who would want to hang out with a wacko like me.

Because of the voices and the really weird beliefs I was developing about being a rock star, I started to act more and more bizarre. So bizarre in fact that even my own family distanced themselves from me and I got myself kicked out of school. Eventually, I left my family, turned to living on the streets and using drugs. The drugs were the only thing that seemed to quiet the voices. Only quiet them mind you, not make them go away.

I had my first "experience" with the mental health system when I turned 18. Happy Birthday!!! The police picked me up one day. I was told that the reason was because they found me laying naked in the middle of the street in downtown Cincinnati at 3:00 am. I tried to explain to them that this was my way of worshipping God. After all, the voices told me that if I really wanted to be someone God wanted to hear from, I had to strip down and show myself to the world, ...so...that's what I did.

The police took me to psychiatric emergency services at UC hospital, which led to my admission to the psychiatric unit. I lived in this cold, unfriendly room for 2 weeks. I wasn't discharged but told that the court had ordered me to move to the local psychiatric facility here in the county. I was told that this was for my own good. By the way...........no one asked me my opinion or my thoughts.......... I didn't have a choice. I was transported to the hospital in a police car; handcuffed like a common criminal.

Well, the psychiatric hospital really wasn't much better.

The walls and the floor were cold and calloused. The staff talked to me and the other ÒresidentsÓ like we were dumb children. It would have been nice if we were treated like adults. One time, when I was told it was my time to take my psychiatric medicine, I had the nerve to ask the staff Ôwhy do I have to take these meds'. The staff got mad and angrily told me that I was crazy and these meds would help me get better. The fact was I didn't feel better. What I did feel was sleepy, spacey, and more nauseous as well as having dry mouth. Not exactly what I would call feeling better. Oh and by the way, again nobody asked me what I wanted or how the meds made me feel. I guess they figured that since I as ÒcrazyÓ I didn't have an opinion about my mental health and the meds I was taking.

After being in the hospital for many months, I was court ordered to leave the hospital. Apparently I was doing well enough now to where I had the ÒprivilegeÓ of living in the community. By the time I turned 35, I had been readmitted to the hospital 11 times going through basically the same cycle as I described earlier.

Almost every time, my medicines were changed to the latest and greatest. Problem was, none of the medicines really cured me. All they did was mask my true personality, made me walk around like I was a zombie, and of course, gave me a new and different set of side effects to deal with.

Each time I left the hospital, I went to live in what's called a Òstep-downÓ residential facility. This was basically a halfway house for us ÒcraziesÓ. Most of these places are fairly nice and for the most part that staff are pretty friendly but they can get pretty pushy when they want to. In fact, some of them can get down right nasty...treating us as if we are children or sub-human somehow.

While these places are generally nice, we can only stay there for several weeks or several months at a time. Can you imagine, I have to move every 1-3 months to another strange place? I have to meet new people over and over again and lose any friendships I might establish...every 1-3 months??? If I am lucky enough to get an apartment in the community, I can only stay if I am ÒgoodÓ. Whatever that means. Sounds like what you say to your children, not what is said to an adult.

Oh, did I tell you that ÒcraziesÓ like me get benefits from the government? While most of us are appreciative of these benefits, I am not sure how much of a ÒbenefitÓ they are to us. Most of us receive $550 - $700 a month in benefits. If we are lucky enough to live in an apartment, we will pay up to 70% of our monthly benefits to rent. That leaves us $150 - $200 a month to live on; to buy groceries, pay utilities, to pay for transportation, etc... To top it off, most of us are required to have someone else handle our money for us, so we are told what to do with our money and how we can spend that money. Some of us are given $10 - $15 a week for allowance. Most people spend more money on their animals than that!!! Oh, and by the way, we don't get to choose if we handle our money or not. The doctors tell us who will handle our money.

Did you also know that the government punishes us if we earn extra money? The government lowers our benefits if they find out that we are working.

I am sorry if it sounds like I am griping but I don't have many friends or people to talk to. In fact, since my family disowned me, I don't think I have one deep solid friendship with anyone. I don't tell any one my thoughts or my fears because they would think that I am .........well.............crazy.

The doctors and the other professionals tell me that there is no cure for my disease, which they call schizophrenia. So, basically, what they are telling me is that my life will continue as it always has... with no hope for the future. I feel like I am a cloud floating around in the sky being pushed around by forces that are unseen and impersonal. The only time I'm noticed is when I rain on someone and cause them discomfort. I have been told that due to me taking my medications, I can expect my lifespan to be about 15-18 years shorter than that of the ÒnormalÓ male. That means, I can expect to die within the next 8-10 years since I am now 50 years old. Not much time left. You know I've tried to reach out in so many ways.

I even tried to go to church before because I was told they accept everyone. I was so excited about the whole idea that there is a God out there who loves me just like I am. Oh what I would give to have hope for a brighter future. Trouble is, I am really uncomfortable in churches, I feel out of place. Some of the people are nice. I can tell that they want to care for me but after talking to me for a few minutes, I can see them looking around for an opportunity to get away. Not that they have stopped caring, but they soon realize that I think and see things differently than they do and they are not sure how to interact with me. Usually, after a few of these interactions, I help ease their discomfort by leaving and do not ever come back.

In other churches, the people are great and accepting. However (due to my illness) even when I am on my meds, after awhile my hallucinations and delusions increase with intensity. I have a hard time concentrating and I start acting bizarre. It's embarrassing for me and I don't want to bother others so I just leave and don't come back.

I wish there was a place for people like me to go and learn about this Jesus that these churches talk about in a way that I could understand. I wish we had a place to feel safe and loved just like you do. A place where we wouldn't be uncomfortable if the symptoms of our illnesses started to act up, a place for us to be accepted just as we are.

Will you help me learn about this God of love you talk about? I really want to go to heaven and to have a hope for the future again.