Did you know that May in Colorado is Mental Health Awareness Month?  Probably not.  Why?  For one, the state’s website that’s supposed to promote the observance is out of order.  See for yourself; click the link that invites you to “Get the tools” and you’re taken to a page that says, “We are sorry about the inconvenience.The Web page you have requested could not be located on our server.”  Guess you’d better go crazy later.

Well, despite what the state’s computer system might say, us members of the Colorado Legislature did observe Mental Health Awareness Month every year when I served in the House.  Did we do it by resolution or memorial?  Don’t ask me.  I hardly  understood the difference when I was down there for eight years.  And you can be sure I don’t remember the difference now.  But I’m certain that the observance was marked by a great deal of speechifying.  And, man, could those politicians talk.

The Guy Who Didn’t Speechify

But one guy who you can be sure didn’t talk?  Me.  Yep.  The guy who’d been involuntarily committed to Denver’s Mount Airy psychiatric hospital back in the mid-’70’s.  The same guy who was taking the anti-psychotics, Depacote and Risperidone, for bipolar disorder.  Yep, that guy who was sitting on his hands on the side of the House chamber often scowling and listening impatiently.  The guy who probably knew more about bipolar disorder from first hand experience than almost all the other 100 members of the Colorado House and the Senate.  Especially given that only about 3% of the US population suffers from the condition.

But Why Was That Guy Sitting On His Hands?

I suppose I could blame my wife, Marleen.  Being the wife of a politician was never her idea of fun.  It was something she endured.  

One time, we were at the office of my psychiatrist, Jay Carlson, and he suggested that it might be helpful for other people with mental disorders if I went public.  I responded, “I’d be fine with that.”  But Marleen was adamantly opposed.  And I never pushed it thereafter.  She made plenty of sacrifices in other ways: often having me come home late at night when when the legislature was in session, many dinners alone while I was out campaigning door to door, occasionally accompanying me to political events where she was always uncomfortable.  The idea that it become widely known that her politician-husband suffered from a mental disorder was simply a bridge too far for her.

Going Out On A Limb

But looking at it from my perspective might be even more telling.  Did the idea of spilling the beans in front to the entire House of Representatives appeal to me?  In a certain way, yes.  It sounded heroic, to be perceived as a person who’d overcome and achieved a few things in life despite being a whacko.  And then had the courage to publicly talk about a subject that is still so often perceived as taboo.  So, yes, it’d be tempting to excuse my silence by saying “my wife made me do it.”  Or, more accurately, not do it.

But that’s not the whole picture.

“That’s My Patient!”

On another occasion, we were in Dr. Carlson’s office shortly after the November elections.  Jay told us that he’d been at an election night party with some friends and colleagues watching the returns come in.   He’d been keeping an eye on the local legislative races as they scrolled across the bottom of the TV set.  After my name had come and gone-which didn’t take more than about a blink of the eye-Jay turned to the rest of the room and announced, “My patient won his election.”  Of course, he didn’t mention me by name.

And that kind of thing stroked my ego.  To hear that my name had been on TV, however briefly.  To see my name in the paper once in a while over the course of the eight years I served-I have a bulging file folder of clippings in my desk to this day.  To even see my name scroll across the old Denver Post building when I’d made some controversial remarks during a debate in the House.  (That, by the way, was the only time my name made it into those bright lights.)

But the bottom line is that I liked that recognition.  I had a niggling fear that going public with my mental disorder might put my political career at risk.  And given the scurrilous nature of political campaigns these days, it’s not difficult to imagine how my history with mental problems could have been used against me.  At least that’s what I told myself.

The Man Not In The Arena

So, here I am.  Retired.  No longer in Teddy Roosevelt’s arena.  Nothing to lose.  Finally willing to make a clean breast of it.  Admirable?  Heroic?  Hardly.  But, perhaps, it’s better to be late. Than never at all.