đ§ Listen to Sarah read this installment of Cured.
How can we expect people to recover from psychiatric disordersâespecially those whoâve been struggling for decadesâwithout giving them a safe, supportive environment to do it in? When it comes to regaining mental health, where we live determines if we heal. The four dimensions of recovery as outlined by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) are health, purpose, community, and home. Home is the big one. It sits prominently on psychologist Abraham Maslowâs list of basic human needsâhome, income, food, safety, and companionship.
Place and recovery: itâs so obvious, yet weâve done little to create environments for people with mental illness, so they can heal. As the psychologist and mental health innovator Patricia Deegan, who fully healed from schizophrenia, says, âStop asking whatâs wrong with people with mental disorders and instead ask, âHow do we create hope-filled, humanized environments in which people can grow and fulfill their human potential?ââ
In a meta-analysis of the scientific literature on environment and mental health, researchers analyzed the importance of each aspect of our surroundings. âHominessâ has been found to decrease patientsâ physical and emotional pain. Unsurprisingly, views of nature, gardens, and indoor plants can increase positive emotions and lessen negative ones. Natural lighting encourages healing and increases positive thoughts. Ambient chaotic noise, like that found in hospitals, creates stress. A space free of distractions (i.e., phones off, focus time on) contributes to productivity and calmness. Feeling safe and having privacy matter. Color affects mood though the internet is a hotbed of conflicting information on just which colors create which effect.
But the most significant factor is if you have a view. Greenery is best but even being able to see a concrete sidewalk with people on it or a dirt road on which a car might pass is crucial to mental health and healing.
Place. A view onto something. A physical view: the physical equivalent of having a future.
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Iâve been living in a tiny studio apartment that looks out onto a brick wall. Now that Iâve advanced far enough along in my recovery to be able to advocate for and do things for myself, I determine to move. The apartments are either too expensive or dilapidated; thereâs no in-between.
One apartment seems promising though the photos were all taken at night, making the rooms seem small and a little dismal, which may be why itâs available. A friend of the owner shows me the apartment. Itâs late dusk. The moment we enter, Iâm home. Itâs palatial in comparison to my brick-wall studio: 720 square feet. The open floor plan makes me want to run through it. (I donât.) The kitchen has all new appliances. They gleam. Thereâs a dishwasherâsomething Iâve never had. The rest of the main room has space for a small kitchen table and chairs, a sofa, and my desk. The bedroom area is sectioned off.
Then I see it: the balcony. I walk toward it. Itâs brittlely cold out, so I donât open the sliding glass door. In the distance is the skyline in full view. No brick wall. The city lights flicker and danceâmostly because Iâm not wearing my glasses but still, they dance.
The other best part: Itâs quiet. Not a sound from the surrounding apartments like in my studio. No bass thumping through floorboards.
I make an appointment to see it again the next day. Most of my family comes with me. The agent shows us in. I follow my mother, stepmother, and father around the apartment, trying to gauge their expressions. It takes everything in me not to convince them how great the apartment is. The four of us stand at the sliding glass door. The winter sky is flawlessly blue. The skyline stands strong. I can see the lakeâpewter blue and stillâthe same lake I once thought of drowning myself in.
My stepmother says it first: âThis is a great place.â My father nods. My mother smiles.
My illness took a toll on them. It led to periods of caretaking and strain, tension and distance. Having them here is almost as important as having found a place to live.
My mother helps me move in. For five years, I lived with her in her apartment. We turned the room she used as a study/office/den into a makeshift bedroom. One year became two, then three, then four. Five years of her as my caretakerâdealing with my moods and anxieties and compulsions and depressions, going to the emergency room with me, being on suicide watch. Too much to ask, especially of someone without the emotional support family members and caregivers need and deserve.
She unpacks the dishes and takes them out of the newspaper. I shelve books and set up my computer.
After an hour, she surveys the main room and says, âYou look like youâre in good shape. I donât think you need me anymore.â
She means that afternoon, but the wordsâin all their meaningâmake my stomach do a little flip with what must be excitement or pride. Itâs true. I donât need her the way I once did.
We walk to the door and hug. For the first time, we hug each other equally.
My new couch is against the wall, just where it should be. In the bedroom, my bed is made. My desk is set up for me to write tomorrow morning.
At dawn, I wake and rush to the balcony and stand at the sliding glass door. Fog has rolled in off the lake. Iâm high enough upâthe twenty-sixth floorâso that Iâm above it. Thereâs only blue sky and fog below.
I get my phone and take a picture. Every morning for the next year Iâll do the same, photographing pink sunrises; white, puffy cumulus clouds; orange sunsets; heavy clouds of pewter grey and the faintest blue. One late afternoon, Iâll capture a whole rainbow, end to end.
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