Jack Bragen

When I was young, in my twenties, I took pride in being able to get letters to the editor published. For a young adult with severe psychiatric illness, a letter to the editor in a paper is pretty good. But I wanted more. I really wanted to become a published writer. Periodically, I would submit stories to publications, and if you consider the level of the writing I produced back then, I stood little or no chance of getting something accepted. I married my wife when I was 31.

At a reasonable guess, most of the readers and writers of this publication are unhappy, to say the least, with Donald Trump returning to the White House. I am no exception. And with my psychiatric issues, I am not as able—as many people probably are—to be resilient and to come back to a normal space. I use the word “normal” meaning baseline and it is not a term used to exclude those who are normally different.

Yearsago, while I sat in a waiting room at a mental health clinic, I observed an old man who might have had dementia being brought in to get his shot of medication. He was grumpy and complaining at first, but said he felt better after the shot. It is plausible that the person administering it was to the man’s liking. It seems more doubtful to me that the medication, very likely a time-release oil compound injected into the muscle, would quickly make him feel noticeably better.