I am drawn to autobiographies of people who are ill, or who work with people who are ill. Mental illness, especially, I find fascinating – mainly because of the mysteries associated with it. Illness that should be treated as such (like any other), and yet it raises questions about the human condition. In many cases, it seems a pathological exacerbation of commonly occuring human traits. I myself have been and probably will be, at times, depressed, anxious, obsessed, compulsive, deluded, compartmentalized, manic, moody, etc. It’s just that I have a brain chemistry that bounces back from these moments, and coping skills to keep them from ruining my life.

Anyhow, what I appreciate about this book especially is the humanity in it. The patients Slater sees are strange in their behavior, but she finds a way to make them human and comprehensible to the reader. I was especially moved by a scene in which she leads a group therapy session with a bunch of chronic schizophrenics. In frustration, instead of focusing on behavioral normalization, Slater gets the group to “join” one of the individuals in his delusion, and in that process, they seem to actually connect on an emotional level. I understood suddenly how isolating it must be to have delusions that no one else can experience, and to not be able to control one’s behavior.

I was saddened/gladdened/overwhelmed by another chapter that dealt with a patient (formerly an Ivy League student) who was compelled to write but could not produce recognizable thoughts, at least on his own, and was aware of his loss. Slater acted as an editor, picking out the themes in his writings and editing them into poems. The patient was given back (in some ways) coherent images of his past, coherent speech.

I cried over this chapter (can’t remember the last time I cried over a book). I thought immediately of an undergraduate classmate and friend of mine, a smart and loving guy, whose poetry was almost unintelligible (yet beautiful) to me when I was in workshop with him. I later learned that he suffered a major psychotic break a year later (after I had left school). I recognized him in the story Slater told, although it is not about him – I don’t know where he is now. I hope and pray that he can find someone to sort out his jumbled creative thoughts for him, even as they help him remember to bathe and tie his shoes (if that’s what he needs now).

I work in human services. So often, we are concerned with meeting people’s physical needs – food, clothing, shelter. This book made me question Maslow’s hierarchy (as does Slater in the book). Just because people lack self-care skills or even the ability to communicate does not mean they don’t also long for connection, transcendence, love.