Annapolis

I'm from the Annapolis area. The house where I grew up, where I lived until I left for college and then returned to during the summer until I graduated and left the country, is 15 minutes from the Capital Gazette headquarters. The Capital is my hometown paper. It's where I got my first ever letter to the editor published. Wendi Winters, one of the staff members killed, wrote the weekly "Teen of the Week" column highlighting good work being done by a local young person, and she covered local high school theatre productions.

I'm so sad for the local reporters who were killed and for their families and friends. I'm so proud of the reporters who kept going and put out a paper today. I'm so angry about the violence and the fear they experienced -- that, because trauma lives in the body, they are still experiencing.

I'm not shocked that this happened in 'my town,' because this is every town in the U.S., and we need to recognize that and respond accordingly.

I don't have anything new to say about mass shootings. I've reflected before on how I make sense of prayer and action in response to news of violence; about the inaccurate perceptions around mental illness and violence; about the unhealthy systems that we ought to be examining and diagnosing in response to violence. To that last post about unhealthy systems at play in violence, you could add something about hostility toward journalists: the killer, who had been brought up on criminal charges for harassing a woman (a history of violence against women being one of the most stable predictors of mass shootings), had sued the paper claiming libel. He felt like them reporting on his criminal behavior towards women was, well, fake news. It wasn't. I wonder how much of his decision to act on his toxic anger toward the paper was empowered by the current climate of suspicion and even urging of violence against journalists. A sitting member of Congress physically assaulted a reporter during his campaign and was still allowed to take his seat.

I keep starting and stopping this piece, writing and re-writing it. I want to say something about my memories of Annapolis. About walking around the Naval Academy with my dad -- he graduated from there in 1963. About pondering going to St. John's. About somehow dropping my wallet off the end of the dock into the cold waters of the head of the Severn River while turning silly cartwheels with friends. About music at Rams Head Tavern. About the Parade of Lights, boats decorated for Christmas. About Maryland Hall for the Creative Arts. About how crossing the Bridge with the sun sparkling on the Bay still, after more than a decade, feels like coming home.

I want to say something about all that, but the memories aren't holding still for me right now. Somehow, I couldn't even find a photo of me in Annapolis -- I know there are so many, but I don't know where they are. The images are all jumbled in my head, mixed up with breaking news about violence.

There's a motto bouncing around right now -- I think it's from Everytown for Gun Safety, but maybe it originated elsewhere, I'm not sure. It says, "We don't have to live like this. We don't have to die like this."

Annapolis is everytown. It's got all the same joy and pain and heartbreak and wonder and mediocrity of any other American town. People shouldn't have to live in fear there, or anywhere. People shouldn't have to be shot in their workplaces or their schools or their streets, there, or anywhere.

So I guess I'll end this by pulling a quote from the last time I wrote a blog on the topic of gun violence:

By all means, send thoughts and send prayers. Send prayers by extending real compassion to the people who have been hurt and killed. Pray for the wisdom and the insight to know how to respond responsibly. And think. Put your mind to work. Think systems. Think about the multiple factors that impact a person to lead them to violence. And think carefully and prayerfully -- what the Christian tradition has referred to as "discernment" -- about how you, too, and the communities you inhabit, are impacted by and in turn can impact those systems. Thoughts and prayers? Yes, by all means -- we will need both. Actions? Yes, those too. Putting them all together? That's thinking systems. That's the kind of thing that might just lead us to properly diagnose this problem. And maybe, just maybe, find a cure.

What I've heard, what's needed, and how you can help

The past month and a half has been amazing, and tiring, and inspiring, and hard, and full, and I just wanted to share a few thoughts about it.

I've been on the road a lot recently, talking about my book Christ on the Psych Ward and sharing with faith communities about mental illness, mental health, and spiritual care. By my count I've given 15 talks to a total of well over 400 people in 5 states and the District. I'm beyond grateful for the many people who invited, organized, scheduled, and hosted me.

There have been rich conversations, powerful stories, and tough questions. I have been inspired and heartened to see congregations challenging stigma and breaking the silence around mental illness in the church. I have been saddened and angered by the realities of lack of mental health resources in many communities and the real difficulties congregations, campuses, and chaplaincies have in responding to what feels like overwhelming need. And I have become even more determined to create more spaces for conversations, to share more stories, and to challenge the systems that keep many people silent about their struggles and cut-off from care and community.

Speaking at a packed pub theology in Marietta, OH

I heard from people in rural communities talking about the almost total lack of mental health resources available, including a lack of health coverage, lack of hospital beds and hospital units for people with psychiatric needs, and harsh co-morbid realities of addiction, mental illness, and situational despair.

I heard from people who struggle to destigmatize psychiatric medication because of real experiences and concerns about medication being abusively administered as a means of control, rather than as a means of healing, in settings such as prisons, group homes, and (just recently in the news, and again) in detention centers caging children at the border.

I heard from people working in marginalized communities where mental healthcare continues to be stigmatized in part exactly because of the histories and current realities of these types of abuses.

I heard from people who are tired of chronic homelessness and mass incarceration standing in for a functioning mental health system in this country.

I heard from pastors and church staff who are stretched beyond their training and ability trying to fill in the gaps in a broken mental healthcare system.

I heard from people with their own mental health struggles and diagnoses who struggle every day and who long for the support of their faith community, their friends, and their family -- and family members, friends, and church members who long to offer support but aren't sure where to start.

I heard a lot, and I'm still processing most of it.

Hearing from a student in Greensboro, NC

But there are a few things that have become clear to me as far as what's needed, and what's next for me as I try to respond faithfully to that need. Because it's become increasingly clear to me that this -- these conversations, these needs, these opportunities for faithful engagement -- is, indeed, part of my call, an important piece of my vocational journey.

So here are five things I'm going to work on to address three areas of need I see:

(1) I'm going to keep sharing my story. There's still a huge need to challenge stigma, to break the silence, and to "go first" with my own story in order to create space for others to safely share theirs.

(2) I'm going to start something called #MoreStoriesMonday, which I'll share on this blog, the website, and social media. #MoreStoriesMonday will highlight and share stories from people who are impacted in different ways by mental health struggles and the realities of our broken mental health system. I begin all of my talks by saying that my story is not a universal story, and that in many ways I carry a privileged voice in the conversation about mental health. #MoreStoriesMonday will focus on voices that carry less privilege and less visibility than mine. There's a huge need to listen to the voices of people impacted by mental health challenges whose stories aren't often heard, and his is how I will respond that that need. 

Coming soon!

(3) I'm going to get trained as a Mental Health First Aid instructor. At almost every single place I spoke, I talked about the importance of Mental Health First Aid for congregations and faith communities (really, for everyone, but that's the main setting where I was sharing my story). I want to be able not just to talk about how important the training is, but to offer it for churches, chaplains, campuses, and communities. There's a huge need for basic mental health knowledge and resourcing, and this is how I would like to respond to that need. 

(4) I'm going to get more involved with the Poor People's Campaign: A National Call for Moral Revival. This revival of the 50-year old Poor People's Campaign -- which Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., was part of spearheading when he was assassinated -- is connecting the dots between the brokenness of our healthcare system and other important moral issues of our day. There's a huge need for us to challenge the systemic brokenness of our mental health system and our healthcare system in general, and this is how I am going to respond to that need. 

Speaking at a Poor People's Campaign Rally last week

(5) I'm going to write. I'm going to write more blog posts, and I'm going to write another book. In fact, I've already started working on it. Much like my first book, it will interweave threads of personal experience, theological reflection, and ministry practice. But rather than focusing only on the personal or interior experience of mental illness and mental health struggle, it will focus on the public conversation around the mental health system and access to care. It will ask the question: what does it look like to think in a more healthy manner -- to think healthier theologically, personally, and practically -- about mental health care? There's a huge need, as we continue to challenge stigma and break the silence, to connect personal stories to the systems that keep people silent and sick, and this is how I am going to respond to that need. 

Tentative 2nd book title, from my most-read blog post

And here's the deal: I need your help!

All three of these things are going to take time and resources. The training to be a Mental Health First Aid instructor runs from $950 to $2,000 depending on the training, not including travel. Volunteering with the Poor People's Campaign is going to mean traveling and giving up some weekends and vacation days. Writing takes a lot of time and energy. And y'all, I still need to pay for my own mental healthcare within this broken system that we've got!

So here are 10 things you can do to support me in these goals:

(1) If you haven't already, obviously buy Christ on the Psych Ward!
(2) Now that you've bought it, review it on Amazon and/or Goodreads.
(3) Recommend the book to a friend -- word of mouth is still the best darn way to spread the word!
(4) Go to your local public library or the library at your college/university and ask them to order a copy of Christ on the Psych Ward for their shelves.
(5) Organize a Christ on the Psych Ward book study, using our free discussion guide -- and I'll be happy to Skype in and speak to your group for one of your sessions.
(6) Like and follow my author page on Facebook, invite a friend to do the same, and like and share posts to spread the word.
(7) Invite me to speak with your church, campus, or organization, and gather the resources to help me with travel and pay my speakers' fee.
(8) Let me know about cool opportunities for speaking and/or sharing the book, like book festivals or conferences that might be interested in my work. You can contact me using this form.
(9) Share the Christ on the Psych Ward website with faith communities who are looking for mental health resources.
(10) Finally -- and perhaps most importantly -- you can join me in my goals by attending a Mental Health First Aid training in your area and/or volunteering with the Poor People's Campaign.

There's a lot of need, and I'm a limited person. But I'm passionated about this topic, and I think there is so much that faith communities can be doing to make our systems, our conversations, and our communities healthier and more whole. I'm grateful for all of you, and the many ways you support this important work. Thank you, and keep the conversation going!

"How were you able to ask for help?"

Last week, I hit the road with a box full of copies of Christ on the Psych Ward to kick off a summer of talking with people of faith about mental health, mental illness, and spirituality. I did four speaking events in a week, with a total of about 100 people in attendance. I'm feeling immensely grateful for the ability to do this and for the wonderful conversations I had with folks in D.C., Rochester NY, and Scranton PA.

I should probably get the car washed. 

One question I was asked several times by several different people has stuck with me, and I wanted to put down a few quick thoughts about it. After sharing some of my story about finally seeing help for my mental health struggles in 2011, a number of people asked me how I was able to reach out and ask for help when so many people can't bring themselves to do so.

First of all, let me say this: if you have lost someone in your life due to mental illness, as I have, you know that it's an awful, awful thing. And no answer or explanation can make it less awful. So please, know that none of what I will write about here is meant to create shame or guilt around this topic. There's so much we don't know, don't understand, and don't control about suicidal behavior. In writing and talking about it, I hope to push back against shame, stigma, and silence, and help more people get help. But when someone is hurting so badly, it just hurts. And the words I have to offer are limited.

Second, and related, I want to write about this question -- "How were you able to ask for help?" -- in a way that avoids making me into the hero of this story. I wasn't able to ask for help because of some strength or moral superiority that others don't have. I'm a better person than I once was for having asked for help, but it wasn't because I'm a better person that I could ask for help. So please know that.

With that said, there are three things that helped me ask for help, and one thing that made it harder for me to ask for help.

The three things that helped were: people in my life who talked about their mental health struggles with me; people who checked in on me when I was having a difficult time; and access to care.

The thing that made it harder was: toxic constructions of masculinity.

So, let me share just a little bit about each of these.

First, people in my life talked about their mental health struggles with me. This started with my family. My father and mother both put work in to break through the generational pressure of family secrets and to talk to me about the histories of mental illness, addiction, and compulsion in their families. At the time they decided to do this, it probably made me uncomfortable, and I probably didn't know what to do with it. But when I hit a real crisis point in 2011, I had some groundwork laid, some vocabulary, some dim understanding, that mental health struggles existed in my family and that the awful experience I was having might be, not an isolated incident, but a part of a larger whole. That helped me reach out for help.

Second, people checked in on me when I was having a difficult time. Friends noticed that something was up, and they asked about it. I didn't always know what to say to them. Sometimes, I flat out denied anything was going on. But the cumulative impact of people asking if I was OK did make an impact, and it did help me ask for help. That's really important for people to know: even if it seems like you're not getting anywhere by checking in on someone, it helps. I wasn't always ready to respond, but when I eventually did reach out, I was enabled to do so by the support that had already been shown to me.

Third, I had access to care. I wasn't as aware of this at the time as I am now, but I had a level of access to mental health care that is often denied to people in this country. I had a ride to a hospital. I had people around me who not only knew how to get me to the hospital but knew what I needed to tell the ER staff so that I could get the help I needed. I had economic resources and buffers (though even with them, I ended up in massive debt). I had a generally positive view of health care, that hospitals were a thing that were there for me and there to help me. For many people in this country, barriers to care mean barriers to asking for help. If I'm going to encourage people to share their stories, push back against stigma, and ask for help, I also need to be working to change unjust structures and assure that when people do ask for help, they can get it. Otherwise, encouraging people to ask for help isn't helpful; it's even a little bit cruel.

And one of the structures that needs to change in order to ensure better access to care is the toxic way we construct masculinity. I write in my book about seeing my father cry when he came to visit me in the hospital, and how difficult that was for me to witness. Even in a family that had worked hard to talk about mental health and mental illness, I still picked up on the subconscious message that men shouldn't cry. And that we should be careful about how long we hug other men. As I say in the book, it was easier for me to think of God in feminine images than it was for me to see a subversion of traditional masculinity. If we continue to teach boys and young men that crying is bad, that talking about feelings is bad, that violence is the only acceptable way for men to express emotion -- then how are boys and men going to reach out for help?

After I got out of the hospital, I joined a Dialectical Behavior Therapy group. The psychologist who ran the group interviewed me at the beginning of the process, and expressed surprise that I was there:

"I don't usually have men in my groups," she said.

"Oh, that's interesting," I said. "Why is that, do you think?"

"I know why it is," she said. "The men who need these groups usually end up in jail."

I didn't end up in jail. Many people who need help do. But since going into the hospital, I have learned a lot about the way that my gender, and my understanding of my gender, impacts my mental health, and creates barriers for talking about emotions and struggles in an honest way that leads to more health and more wholeness.

Why was I able to ask for help? Ultimately, I don't know. It was an experience of grace; and yet, again, I don't think the difference between me and those who can't or won't or don't ask for help is that I have grace and they don't. There is always a grace, however hidden, available to those who are hurting so badly. I believe that very deeply. But I also believe there are ways for us to be means of grace for each other in a way that leads to more health and wholeness.

So, if we want to be means of grace for each other, if we want to help more people get more help, here's four things to do:

1) Talk honestly about our mental health struggles
2) Check in on the people we are connected with when they seem to be struggling
3) Advocate for just and equitable access to mental health care
4) Teach and model healthier understandings of gender/masculinity 

AND. Our faith communities can be places where we do all four of these things.

I hope that helps.

--

If you or someone you know is in a crisis, you can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255. You can find out more about the Lifeline at their website and on the website of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. The Lifeline now also has an online chat option. I keep an updated list of mental health resources, particularly for people of faith, on the Christ on the Psych Ward website. 

Stephon Clark, guns, and feelings that aren't facts

On Sunday, Sacramento police officers killed Stephon Clark in his own backyard. He was unarmed. They shot him 20 times. Afterwards, police said they "felt he had a weapon" and that they "feared for their safety." No explanation -- and certainly no blog post -- will make this ok. Not for Mr. Clark. Not for his family and friends. Not for his children. Not for our society. My heart is breaking, again, today.

When I was in the hospital during the period of mental health crisis I write about in my book, there was an adage that several people shared with me:

"Feelings aren't facts."

The idea was that, while the feelings I was having -- feelings of isolation, of self-hatred, of suicidal ideation, of devastation, of fear -- felt very real to me, they weren't necessarily accurate representations of the reality around me.

This was a really difficult thing to process, and still is. At times, it makes me doubt myself, doubt my own sense of things, my own instincts.

It's also a statement that bears some helpful critique. Your feelings aren't facts, but the fact that you are feeling them matters, should not be harmfully dismissed, and probably has some good data for you about what's going on internally and in your environment.

Still, there is important truth in the statement. "Feelings aren't facts." My feelings weren't factual. I wasn't really alone. I wasn't really a horrible human being. The world wouldn't really have been better off without me.

And as long as those feelings were leading me to be a danger to myself -- which, to be clear, they indeed were -- the right thing for me to do was to be in a safe place, under the care of people who could help keep me safe, while I (with lots of help) got my brain back to a place where it could accurately perceive reality.

Feelings aren't always facts. And when our feelings make us dangerous -- dangerous in the sense of "prone to causing actual physical harmd" -- to ourselves and others, then we need to learn to recognize that, and be somewhere safe.

And definitely not have access to a gun.

Even, and especially, a state-sanctioned gun.

Sacramento police say they "felt" Stephon Clark had a gun. They say they "feared for their safety" from a man with a cell phone in his own backyard.

But feelings aren't facts. That's what I learned on the psych ward.

And if you don't know how to manage your feelings, to the extent that they lead you to kill somebody, you need to be somewhere where you can't hurt anybody. And you definitely shouldn't have a gun.

The "feeling" that Stephon Clark had a gun was wrong. It was inaccurate. The feeling of fear for their safety was not an accurate reflection of reality. Their feelings were not facts.

Of course, going along with the story that the police "felt" Stephon was a threat or had a gun conceals more than it reveals. Stephon was a black man. The "feeling" that someone is a threat to you needs to be interrogated. Is this "feeling" actually racism? Bias? The way that implicit bias, not to mention overt and systemic racism, affect the behavior of armed police officers toward African Americans in this country continues to be revealed, in ugly and violent ways, over and over again. And it will keep doing so until we do something, actually a lot of things, about it.

Here's one thing we could do: hold police officers to the same damn standard I was held to when I was in the psych ward.

Feelings aren't facts. And if your feelings are going to get someone, yourself or someone else, killed, it's time for you to be under care, in a place where harm can be minimized.

And certainly not carrying a gun around.

Even -- and perhaps, because of the power and the sense of authority it gives you, especially -- if you're carrying that gun on behalf of the state.

Feelings aren't facts. Not for me. Not for Sacramento police officers. Feelings aren't facts. But the fact of the matter is, unmanaged and unhandled, feelings can kill.

So: will we decide to hold police accountable for the potentially deadly results of their "feelings"? It's the standard I, someone with a mental illness, will be held to for the rest of my lives. Shouldn't it be a minimum standard for police officers, as well?

And if you're going to tell me my feelings aren't facts when I'm suffering, you better not be giving cops a pass for killing an unarmed man because they "felt" he had a gun. 

Institutions, Care, and Better Conversations

Do we need more mental healthcare institutions?

A 1900s photo of St. Elizabeths Hospital in DC

This question has entered the national discussion after the horrific shooting in Parkland, Florida. I've written in far-too-great length (at least for a blog) about the problem with associating mass violence with mental illness -- here's Part I and Part II of "Mental Illness Isn't Violence (But Our Systems Sure Are Sick)." But the discussion around institutionalization is close to my heart -- my book, which will be released next month, largely revolves around my own experiences with psychiatric hospitalization -- and I thought it would be worth sharing a few quick points about it:

-- Deinstitutionalization began in the 60s and 70s as a response to civil rights and mental health advocates who spoke out against institutional abuse and neglect. The idea was to close big institutions, which were horrendous and often served not so much as health care centers as prisons for folks who didn't "fit," and replace them with community mental health centers. These centers would be smaller, more localized, and more integrated into communities, allowing for people with mental illnesses to remain connected to other sources of support such as families, faith communities, friends, and other community services.

-- During the 80s, community mental health centers fell victim to tax cuts and lack of funding. Rather than transitioning from big, awful institutions to smaller, community-based centers, we went from institutions to not much of anything at all. Many advocates trace the modern realities of homelessness in this country to this period.

-- Currently, there is a massive shortage of psychiatric beds in this country. According to a report by the Treatment Advocacy Center, in 2010 there were only about 14 beds available for every 100,000 people in this country.

An image from the Treatment Advocacy Center's "A Bed Instead" campaign

-- This shortage, among other factors, means that hospital emergency rooms, prisons, and homelessness have effectively taken the place of psychiatric hospitalization for many people experiencing serious mental illness.

-- Like everything else in this country, this reality is further impacted by racial and socioeconomic factors. Who gets a bed, and who ends up in prison, is affected by intersecting and oppressive systems.

-- We need more psychiatric beds, but not because mental illness is predictive of violence. As I've written about previously, those with mental illnesses are much more likely to be victims of violence in this country, and if we want to have conversations around the mental health implications of mass violence, we need to take a systems approach that considers factors such as toxic masculinity, white supremacy, cultures of violence, and access to guns.

-- We need more and better mental health care facilities, but this administration's rhetoric on the matter is stigmatizing, reactionary, and harmful. It ought to go without saying, but of course it doesn't these days, that saying we need more institutions to deal with "sickos" demonizes and scapegoats people with mental illnesses.

-- We need more and better care options for folks with mental illness because folks with mental illness are people who deserve care, compassion, and health. 

There is more to say on the matter from a policy perspective, but these are at least a few framing points for the conversation, centering it where it should be centered -- actual, effective, compassionate care -- rather than as a reactionary conversation that equates mental illness with violent crimes.

Let me wrap this up with a few words about my own experience with psychiatric hospitalization/institutionalization.

If you want more than a few words, I know where you can find them.

First of all, my experience was a privileged one. I had access to quality care, and to people who knew how to connect me to quality care, which are not realities that can be taken for granted by most people in the U.S. I also had a level of awareness of my own need for help, both because of conversations within my family about mental illness and also because of the nature of my illness. My racial identity, socioeconomic background, and other factors allowed me a level of access that is often denied to people in this country who are impacted by multiple oppressions. And still, in spite of all of this, psychiatric hospitalization felt scary, and isolating, and out of my control. I am very grateful for the hospitals that kept me safe and gave me space to stabilize and start on the path toward healing; and also, conversations around psychiatric hospitalization -- and even more so long-term institutionalization -- should be approached with a great deal of care, compassion, and nuance.

On a second, and related, note: we can't talk about "bringing institutions back" without acknowledging the fact that the prison system is standing in for an actual mental care system in this country. When I was discharged from a longer-term stay at a hospital in Connecticut, I returned to the DC area and began working with a therapy group using an approach called Dialectical Behavior Therapy. When I first met with the psychologist who ran the group, she shared with me that it was relatively rare for her to have men in her groups.

"Why is that?," I asked.

"Because men with your diagnoses usually end up in prison first," she said.

So if we're going to talk about the past abuses of institutions, we also need to be talking about the current abuses of our nation's de facto biggest mental health care institution -- the prison system -- not to mention the complete lack of institutional support faced by those experiencing homelessness. (I wrote more about this latter reality recently).

#EndTheStigma

Finally, my experience of hospitalization looked nothing like the popular perception of such a thing, which in my own pre-hospitalization experience was a mishmash of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest-esque images of straitjackets and dictatorial nursing staff. You can read a whole heck of a lot more about my experience in my book (did I mention it's coming out next month?). Suffice to say I think it's really important that we de-stigmatize psychiatric hospitalization. It saved my life. At the same time, we need to acknowledge the history of institutional abuse and neglect and be very careful that our approach to mental healthcare institutions is focused on compassionate and effective care. Reactionary, stigmatizing rhetoric will not produce this.


Psychiatric hospitalization saved my life. It deserves to be talked about. We do need more, better mental health care institutions. And the importance of these institutions deserves a conversation focused on compassion, care, and effective treatment, not on blaming and scapegoating people with mental illnesses.

There (but) for the grace of God

This winter, I've once again been volunteering with Georgetown's Hypothermia Outreach Team (HOT), a joint effort between the university's Center for Social Justice and a local non-profit called Georgetown Ministry Center (GMC). On nights when the city activates its hypothermia alert, we walk a route around the neighborhood, talking to folks experiencing homelessness. We check in on people; we encourage them to seek shelter and connect them with transportation if they're interested; we have some snacks and water, some socks and hats, some hand-warmers to give out. If they haven't heard of GMC, we give them info about the services offered there. At least once or twice every winter, we end up calling an ambulance for someone suffering from the first stages of hypothermia.

In a way, it's not much -- preventing hypothermia deaths is hardly a long-term solution to homelessness. The hope is always that the consistent outreach provided by GMC and HOT will connect people who otherwise exist largely outside of the city's network of services to housing and longer-term solutions. On many nights, that doesn't happen. But we keep going out, because on some nights, it does.

---

There are all sorts of reasons why I started volunteering with HOT, but there's one in particular that I've been thinking about more and more lately as I layer up to head out into another cold night. (I hate being cold. This is not a natural choice for me. It takes me a lot of layers.)

Most, maybe all, of the folks we talk to on a given night have some sort of mental illness. These aren't folks who have simply lost jobs or been priced out of affordable housing. (Though there is a lot of that in DC, too.) These are folks with multiple challenges, experiencing chronic homelessness and major mental health challenges. Of course, there's a chicken-and-egg question here: does serious mental illness lead to homelessness, or does the trauma of living outside lead to serious mental illness? Both, of course.

So as we talk to folks under bridges, huddled in sleeping bags in storefronts and alcoves, even tent-camping in Washington Circle, I am constantly aware of my own mental illness. Our experiences are so different in so many ways, and yet on paper, I share a diagnosis, a disorder, with many of them. I am much more like the homeless "them" than most of the outreach team "us" realize. These folks are, in some sense, "my people." The fact that I am "doing outreach" while they are the ones "being outreached to" is pure luck. A couple of ticks in my genetic code, a couple of facts about family life -- there's not much that inherently separates their lives from mine. It's a thin line between our lives, and yet a massive chasm of privilege and circumstance.

Living in the same neighborhood, we live in entirely different worlds.

---

There is a phrase which perhaps you have heard. It's sometimes attributed to an English Reformer named John Bradford, who apparently muttered it to himself while witnessing the execution of a group of prisoners. (Thanks to Wikipedia for that tidbit.)

The phrase is: "There but for the grace of God go I."

The expression is supposed to communicate that my own fortune comes by no merit of my own, that I have not earned my life. It has been given to me as a gift.

But there's something wrong with that expression, at least in my book, at least in this instance.

It is not grace that separates my life from the kind gentleman sleeping under the bridge, who always thanks us for the visit but ever-so-politely declines our offer of shelter. It is not grace that separates me from the couple sleeping in the tent near GWU, who says they came to D.C. from Houston after the floods. It is not grace that separates me from the angry man who tells us, in no uncertain terms, to leave him the f**k alone tonight (which we do).

If I believe anything, I believe all of these people are as much recipients of God's grace as I am.

Look to luck, or to privilege, or to systemic injustice, or to the contingencies of life on this "not-yet" side of heaven's reign if you seek an explanation for these circumstances. But do not blame grace for this.

So instead -- as I have walked around Georgetown in the freezing temperatures, talking to the people who are willing to talk to our teams, checking in even on the folks who tell us, night after night, to go away, just in case, just in case -- I have been repeating a different phrase to myself. A slight variation, but more accurate, I think.

"Here, for the grace of God, we go."

We go here, because this is where the grace of God lives. Under this bridge, on this park bench, in this alcove. God lives here, in these homes we call home-less. "Foxes have dens," Jesus once said, "and the birds in the sky have nests, but the Human One has no place to lay his head."

It is not the grace of God which separates me from the experience of those sleeping outside. It is the grace of God which connects me to them.

And so I pray, as we walk and talk. Pray for this grace to be felt. To be seen and heard. To somehow become more concrete than the concrete on which some folks sleep even on cold, cold nights.

There go I. For, not but, the grace of God.

---

You can find out more about Hypothermia Outreach Team by clicking here, or learn how to support Georgetown Ministry Center here. And if you're interested in hearing more about my journey with mental illness, check out my upcoming book, Christ on the Psych Ward.

Below, I've pasted some resources for the DC/MD/VA area if you encounter someone in need of shelter. If you're outside of the DMV, and want to share resources you know of in your area, shoot me an email. 

Resources:

THE DISTRICT:
Hypothermia Hotline: 202-399-7093
D.C.'s Hypothermia Shelter Hotline provides transportation to emergency shelters, and distributes items such as blankets, gloves and jackets.
For more, see https://dhs.dc.gov/service/hypo-hyperthermia-watch

MARYLAND:
Montgomery County:
Community Crisis Center: 240-777-4000
Shelter Services: 240-777-3289
Non-Emergency Police: 301-279-8000
For more, see http://www.montgomerycountymd.gov/hhs-program/program.aspx…

Prince George's County:
Homeless hotline: 888-731-0999
Non-Emergency Police: 301-352-1200
For more, https://www.princegeorgescountymd.gov/1672/Emergency-Shelter

VIRGINIA:
Alexandria:
Carpenter's Shelter: 703-548-7500
Non-Emergency Police: 703-746-4444
For more, https://www.alexandriava.gov/…/economicsupport/default.aspx…

Arlington County:
Arlington Street People's Assistance Network (A-SPAN): 703-228-7803
Non-Emergency Police: 703-558-2222
Department of Health and Human Services: 703-228-1350
For more, https://publicassistance.arlingtonva.us/shelters/

Fairfax County:
Office to Prevent and End Homelessness: 703-324-9492
Non-Emergency Police: 703-691-2131
For more, https://www.fairfaxcounty.gov/…/hypothermia-prevention-prog…

Falls Church:
Winter Homeless Shelter (217 Gordon Road): 703-854-1400
Non-Emergency Police: 703-248-5053
For more, http://www.fallschurchva.gov/686/Shelters

Mental Illness Isn't Violence (But Our Systems Sure Are Sick), Pt. II

This is the second part of a two-part post. Part I looks at the inaccurate public perception of a connection between mental illness and mass violence. Part II looks more closely at systems.Even as I share this post, I am mindful of the fact that for those directly affected by violence, no think piece and no blog post can address the pain they are going through. For a lot of people, the world feels like it has ended right now. Let's try to honor that with our words, our reflection, and our action. 

I Wish I Wasn't Writing This

I wish part II of this blog post wasn't so relevant.

I wish, I really wish, that there hadn't been another horrific mass shooting.

I wish, I really wish, that it didn't fall so closely on the heels of another horrific act of violence, and that there weren't such easy comparisons to make between the response to the former and the response to the latter.

That the latter is "sad" and "a mental health problem" while the former was "ISIS-inspired" and led to more calls to close the borders.

So clearly illustrating that when the killer is a white man, we scapegoat mental illness, and when the killer is a Muslim man, we scapegoat Islam, or immigrants, or both.

But the scapegoating and the individual pathologizing won't help, it won't stop this, and it will just lead to more hurt and more violence against already marginalized people.

Here's how I concluded my last post:

If we want to talk about violence as form of illness, a form of dis-ease, that's fine. Let's talk about it. It's just that mental illness, which deals with an individual's struggle with experiences that prevent them from functioning the way they want to function, is exactly the wrong category for such a naming. Rather, violence represents a systemic un-health, an interaction between an individual and larger forces that are harmful, that are in-and-of-themselves violent. Paul called them "the powers and principalities." Such unhealthy systems do very much impact our health, mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual. But that doesn't mean they can be diagnosed by pathologizing an individual's violent actions. Mental illness isn't violence. But violence might well be an illness, and a systemic one at that. We've got some very sick systems that we're operating in and amongst, and perhaps they are indeed in need of diagnoses. 

So, let's talk about systems. And if it seems to soon to talk about this in the wake of the shootings in Sutherland, TX, that's ok. Just assume this is a belated post about Manhattan. Or Las Vegas. Or...God dammit, really, sincerely: God damn the lengthy, blood soaked list. Let's talk about it now.

What We're Talking About When We Talk About Systems

Dr. Cedric C. Johnson, in his book Race, Religion, and Resilience in the Neoliberal Age, writes about an "integrative approach" to soul care:

An integrative approach argues that understanding human functioning is not possible without comprehending the context in which it is formed as a subsystem within a matrix of interlocking historically situated systems. It entails assessing interpersonal dynamics, family systems, sociocultural systems outside the family, economic and political systems, as well as religious, spiritual, or other meaning-making systems. An integrative approach considers the potential influence these systems may have on those who come for care. It thus requires one to "think systems" at all times, even if the practitioner of care is seeing only one member of a family. Strategies for care are derived from an ongoing assessment of where and how to intervene, whether the practitioner is addressing interpersonal dynamics, family dynamics, or the larger systems within which the person or group exists (pg. 6).

Maybe that seems like a lot. Never fear! Dr. Johnson provides a helpful graphic:

From Race, Religion, and Resilience in the Neoliberal Age, pg. 7

The behaviors, strengths, and pathologies of an individual are impacted by the multiple systems they operate in, and vice versa.

This, by the way, is true even for folks who really do have a diagnosable mental illness. Here's John Swinton writing in his book Resurrecting the Person: Friendship and the Care of People with Mental Health Problems:

Mental health problems are incredibly complex phenomena that occur to human beings, who are themselves highly complex creatures. Because of this, there can be no such thing as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression, or any other form of mental health problem, apart from the person who is experiencing it....Likewise, there can be no such thing as a person apart from the particular communities within which the person exists.....Mental health problems, rather than being definable in terms of biology or diagnosis, are an ultimately indefinable combination of pathology, personhood, and community; the aspects are inextricably interlinked. If we omit one from our caring equation, we risk misunderstanding the others (pg. 27).

In other words, even for folks who do indeed have a diagnosable mental health challenge, the diagnosis is only one aspect of a complex human, in community, impacted by systems. We can't just say, "X person had a mental illness" as if that explains their behavior or their personhood. It's an oversimplification, and an ineffective and stigmatizing one at that.

So when we're talking about systems, we're talking about the relationships, communities, and broader forces that impact (and are impacted by) the actions of individuals.

Sick Systems

So what are some of the systems whose sickness I think we should be diagnosing in order to prevent horrific acts of mass violence in this country?

Sick systems, not a sick person

Here is a by-no-means complete list:

Toxic Masculinity
The vast majority of acts of mass violence in this country (and, I would venture to guess, throughout the whole damn history of the whole damn globe) are committed by men. Men, particularly white men, commit the majority of mass shootings in the U.S. (here's one source on that). There's a strong correlation between men who commit acts of mass violence and a previous history of domestic violence or abuse against women (again, here's just one source on that). Why? Here's my friend Jay Yoder, writing a month ago:

Masculinity is all the ideas about what being a man means that we’ve decided as a culture are true and important and necessary. So: being a man means being strong, violent, aggressive. Being a man means being in charge. Etc. etc. etc. ....When we demand certain things of someone because of what gender we need them to be, and in the case of manhood, when we punish it with ridicule, shame, violence, degradation, humiliation (see frat rituals, team rituals, etc.), it creates a toxic masculinity that is bound up in and enforced by violence.

When we teach men, and before that, when we teach young boys, that being a man means being dominant, aggressive, and in control, this has consequences. When those young boys grow into men and find out that they can't, in fact, always be strong, always be in control, always win, this has consequences. Violent consequences.

White Supremacy, Race, and Racism
As already noted, mass shootings in the U.S. correlate not just with masculinity but, more often than not, with white masculinity. I've already written about white supremacy and violence after being in Charlottesville in August. My friend Alicia Crosby offers this definition of white supremacy, which stretches beyond the overt white nationalism of neo-Nazis and KKK members:

White supremacy establishes whiteness as superior to other racial identities through the elevation of the needs, wants, concerns, perspectives, feelings, and desires of white people over that of people of color. This includes the centering of the theological, rhetorical, aesthetic, and economic priorities and preferences rooted in whiteness as well as the appropriation and rebranding of cultural expressions sourced from people of color.

To this, I'd add that white supremacy teaches white people that we deserve to succeed, that we deserve to be in charge, that we are supposed to be the most successful and most important and the peak of civilization.

And then we aren't.

Then we fail at things, and we lose jobs, and we mess things up, and we're sort of mediocre most of the time just like most other people are, and because we've been taught (often subconsciously, sometimes overtly) that by virtue of the color of our skins we are supposed to be superior, and we don't feel very superior at all, we experience this unnamed type of shame. Stir that in with toxic masculinity and violence very quickly becomes a way to re-assert this felt need for control, for success, for extra-ordinary-ness, that is falsely promised to us by white supremacy. Which makes young white men susceptible not only to individual acts of violence, but to intentional radicalization and recruitment.

Radicalization and Recruitment in the Neoliberal Age
Here's just one article (from Vox) about the radicalization of white Americans, about how many of the people who are radicalized are perceived as, and experience themselves as, "losers," and how certain extremist groups can take advantage of that. After Charlottesville, my friend Julie Norman wrote in the Washington Post about her research on youth radicalization, drawing connections between her research with youth in the Middle East and North Africa and the Charlottesville attack. Julie and her research collaborator Drew Mikhael wrote:

From our focus groups, youths who were the most susceptible to radical messaging were those who perceived themselves to be politically and/or economically marginalized, resulting in a pervasive sense of purposelessness and lack of hope for the future. However, it was not poor socio-economic status itself that pointed toward susceptibility, but rather a sense of relative deprivation, coupled with feelings of political and/or social exclusion.

So if you've been told that you're supposed to be in control, and successful, and in charge, but instead you feel excluded, or like a failure, or like a loser...well, it's that much easier for you to radicalize yourself on the internet, or to be intentionally radicalized by a particular organization. The folks who are most susceptible to this are the cast-offs of the neoliberal age, the ones who have been promised much but offered little. And so they go looking for something that can provide them meaning, purpose, a sense of superiority or at least of value. Julie and Drew again:

Ideology matters, but not necessarily its core messaging, be it Islamic fundamentalism or white supremacy. Rather, radical groups use religion and ideologies to legitimize grievances, placing themselves as agents of change and promising empowerment and a sense of purpose.

And if you're looking for meaning and purpose and power, in this culture, there's no promise no alluring than the meaning-making power of violence.

A Culture of Violence, or, Violence as Meaning-Making System
Remember Dr. Johnson's handy diagram? The largest circle in the multi-systems model is "Religious, Spiritual, and Meaning-Making Systems." Ideologies such as white supremacy can fill this role; but I'd argue that in our country, violence itself functions as a meaning-making system. We could talk about theologian Walter Wink's work on "redemptive violence" here, or Chris Hedges' excellent book War is a Force that Gives Us Meaning, or any number of other pieces. We could talk here about an entertainment industry that relies on portrayals of violence to make sales. In a culture of violence, enactments of violence promise meaning, purpose, and power, obscuring the fact that violence gives none of those things. It just gives injury and death.

Gun Companies and War Profiteering
Of course, all of these factors are exacerbated and made more deadly by the ready availability of guns. Groups like Moms Demand Action and Everytown for Gun Safety lobby for legislative changes, which is important; but of course, the biggest obstacle they face is the big money available from the gun lobby and, behind that, from gun companies. The biggest guns in the room, literally and figuratively, are corporations that make billions off of selling weapons. And you know who the biggest buyer of weapons from private companies is? Why, the U.S. government. We've normalized war profiteering in this country. How are gun companies that sell personal firearms doing anything different than what the military industrial complex has been promoting on a massive, hundreds-of-billions-of-dollars scale? These are big, big, money making industries that make donations to political campaigns and lobby members of Congress. What's a few dozen dead church members or concertgoers against trillions of dollars?

The Stigmatizing and Scapegoating of Mental Illness
I wrote already in the previous post about the inaccurate representation of people with mental illnesses as violent. But I'd add to that, here, and say that the stigmatizing scapegoating of people with mental illnesses is itself an aspect of the violent systems at play in mass shootings. For one thing, people who genuinely do have a mental illness are discouraged from seeking help and sharing their pain by the stigma. For another thing, mental illness provides an easy scapegoat and a "pretend" response to violence -- we can easily talk about the invisible thing that is mental health, not do anything about it, and allow the violence to continue while patting ourselves on the back about our statements. How many people who talked about mental health after the Las Vegas shooting have genuinely rolled up their sleeves and gotten to work to fix the mental health care system in this country in the month since? Very few, I suspect. And of course, we then have a whole other set of overlapping systems we could talk about an analyze as far as mental health care in this country: insurance companies, pharmaceutical companies, national legislation, lack of mental health parity, and more.

Multiple Systems Are Always at Play...So What Do We Do?

As I've already said, this isn't an exhaustive list of the systems at play, nor an exhaustive diagnosis of each of these systems. Multiple systems, visible and invisible, are always at play, impacting and being impacted by the actions of individuals. Which can seem very overwhelming. So, what do we do?

I've written before about self-care in a systems context, and how action at one level of a system affects the other component parts of a system. Remember Dr. Cedric C. Johnson's words: "Strategies for care are derived from an ongoing assessment of where and how to intervene, whether the practitioner is addressing interpersonal dynamics, family dynamics, or the larger systems within which the person or group exists" (Race, Religion, and Resilience, pg. 6-7, emphasis added). And Dr. John Swinton's words: "Mental health problems, rather than being definable in terms of biology or diagnosis, are an ultimately indefinable combination of pathology, personhood, and community; the aspects are inextricably interlinked. If we omit one from our caring equation, we risk misunderstanding the others" (Resurrecting the Person, pg. 27).

So. We think systems. We look at the many different systems impacting a particular person or situation, knowing that we might be missing things, that we probably can't understand the whole picture with 100% accuracy. And then we choose where to intervene, where to put energy, where to try to affect the system, while being mindful of the intersections and interactions between our interventions and other parts of the system.

Which means, if you want to advocate for better mental health care....please do!!!! I do. It's a big part of what I do.

But keep in mind the broader contexts. Look at how race and gender, how racism and sexism, impacts mental health. Understand how associating mental illness with violence re-inscribes stigma (see Part I of this blog post for more on that). Think systems, choose an intervention, act, look at the system again.

Mental illness isn't violence. But our systems do create a lot of violence, and our conversation about mental health and mental healthcare in this country ought to include an analysis of the many systems that impact an individual who is struggling with mental health.

A Quick Note on Thoughts and Prayers

Recently, after acts of mass violence in this country, a weird sort of internet debate has inevitably swirled around the appropriateness (or lack thereof) of offering "thoughts and prayers."

Obviously, a big part of this is just a reaction to the hypocrisy of "leaders" who take money from gun lobbyists and refuse to take any real action against gun violence. From these leaders, "thoughts and prayers" does indeed sound like an empty phrase, the useless clanging of a gong.

After the most recent shooting in Texas, this weird debate was even more pronounced because the shooting happened in a church while people were praying and worshipping.

I've already written a bit in a previous post about how I understand the role of prayer in response to violence -- how it's an act of intentional compassion and solidarity that leads to action just as action itself is a form prayer.

So let me just add to that by saying: by all mean, send thoughts and send prayers.

Send prayers by extending real compassion to the people who have been hurt and killed.

Pray for the wisdom and the insight to know how to respond responsibly.

And think. Put your mind to work. Think systems. Think about the multiple factors that impact a person to lead them to violence. And think carefully and prayerfully -- what the Christian tradition has referred to as "discernment" -- about how you, too, and the communities you inhabit, are impacted by and in turn can impact those systems.

Thoughts and prayers? Yes, by all means -- we will need both. Actions? Yes, those too.

Putting them all together?

That's thinking systems.

That's the kind of thing that might just lead us to properly diagnose this problem. And maybe, just maybe, find a cure.

Mental Illness Isn't Violence (But Our Systems Sure Are Sick), Pt. I

I have been trying to write this post for more than a week now. It's been a very difficult one to write. And then it was getting very long. So, I have divided it into two posts. Part I looks at the inaccurate public perception of a connection between mental illness and mass violence. Part II looks more closely at systems.

Even as I share this post, I am mindful of the fact that for those directly affected by violence, no think piece and no blog post can address the pain they are going through. For a lot of people, the world feels like it has ended right now. Let's try to honor that with our words, our reflection, and our action.

---

First, here is how it goes for me.

I hear the news, or see it in that early morning social media check that I keep telling myself I should stop doing.

“Oh, no,” I say, softly, to myself.

I try to stop for a second, before I react, before I think. It rarely works, but I try. I try to just shut up for a second. To extend some empathy, some compassion out into the universe. I try to imagine the unimaginable. I try to feel, just for a moment, some of the terror that the people on the scene must have felt. It is a vain attempt, of course. I try, and fail, anyway.

“There’s been another one.” How terrible to be able to say that, “another one.” Another name, another place, in the litany of mass shootings in this country. “Another one.” How blasphemous that we keep saying that. How horrific.

“The deadliest.” We say that again, too. Of course, it’s only true if we ignore other horrors, other massacres whose blood is still dried on our hands. But even if we add some qualifiers, I wish we’d stop saying “the deadliest.” Every bullet that invades a fleshly home, that kicks down the doors of skin to stop a heart and break countless more. Every sacrifice to this false God is the deadliest for someone,
some family,
some child,
some friend.

The deadliest, the deadliest. Who cares about the number when the blood is still drying on the pavement? That day, whatever day it was, whether children, or Bible-studying elders, or concertgoers, that day the clocks stopped for someone for whom that day will always be the deadliest.

The deadliest. I react to that.

And then I wait.

And I don’t usually have to wait long. To be informed by some “source” or another that --
Since this killer was white
And a male
And we can find no way to blame his violence on people we are killing in much larger numbers than this latest massacre --
then
surely
he must be insane.

"Mentally ill," they say, as if using medical language makes the insinuation feel less like a knife in my already twisted gut.

And I breathe in sharply. And the tension rises in my chest. And I let myself feel the hurt in my body. In my bones where, I imagine, I can still feel my sickness, even though it hurts me less right now, scares me less. Just for a moment. Just for a moment.

Hold the silence.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Speak.

I have a mental illness. That's something you likely know, if you've been on this page before. If not, that's ok, I'll name it again. I have bipolar disorder. Type II, if you're into those kind of details. This does not make me statistically more likely to commit a violent act than anyone else (and not just because I'm an aspiring pacifist). According to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, only 3-5% of violent acts can be attributed to people with serious mental illnesses. The same source reports that people with severe mental illness are more than 10 times more likely to be victims of violent crime than other folks. Here's the link, if you're curious. And yet, according to researchers from Johns Hopkins, more than one out of two articles on popular news sites that mention mental illness also mention violence, fueling (and being fueled by) a public perception that mental illness correlates with violence. I've seen this correlation play out personally: at my seminary, after students pushed the administration to provide more resources related to mental health and mental illness, one of the first responses of the administration was to provide training for RAs on dealing with someone with a mental illness who, you guessed it, was acting violently. Despite the inaccuracy of this perception, and its stigmatizing nature, it's proven to have a lot of staying power.

There's a few important clarifications to make about this general information. One is just that there's really not one thing called "mental illness" -- there's a bunch of different diagnoses, which in turn are based on a bunch of different presenting symptoms. In my book, which is coming out soon, I write about diagnoses as stories we tell to make sense of human experiences, an idea some people might be surprised to learn I got from one of my psychiatrists. But anyway. Some of these particular diagnoses do include as particular symptoms feelings or urges or compulsions toward violence. This is really important to acknowledge, because these types of feelings can be super scary, and silence and stigma around them can keep people from seeking help.

When I admitted myself into the hospital back in 2011, I was asked several times during the admissions process if I felt like I wanted to hurt myself (I most certainly did, which is why I was there) and if I wanted to hurt anyone else (I did not, though I made a snarky remark about my internet service provider). Those questions are standard because mental health struggles can sometimes include these kind of thoughts. In my case, these compulsions were (and are, though now I've got much better coping tools) directed toward myself. That's not the case for everyone. These kind of urges and compulsions are very scary for people. They're called "intrusive thoughts" because that's just what they do: intrude, invade even, a mind that does not want them there. If you or someone you know is having scary, intrusive thoughts like that, reach out for help. There are a few resources in the sidebar; you can always email me if you need more. 

But having intrusive thoughts is not the same thing as going out and buying dozens of firearms and then meticulously planning a mass shooting. And while some mass shootings have been carried out by people with mental illnesses, since mental illness is actually relatively common in the general population (about 1 in 5 people have some form of diagnosable mental illness at some point in their lifetime), the number isn't really statistically significant.

Do you know what is statistically significant in these cases?

White men with guns. That's what's statistically significant.

We'll get back to that.

Another important clarification I want to make here involves a sort of instinct or gut feeling that people have when such a shooting occurs, which is articulated sort of like this: "Whether or not this person had some sort of diagnosis or not, surely a mentally healthy person would not do something like this?" There's a certain logic to this--shouldn't being willing to shoot hundreds of people in and of itself constitute some sort of unhealthy mindset?

There are problems with this reasoning. For one thing, it's a circular argument: if you define "willing to commit violence" as a mental health problem, then ta-da, every act of violence is committed by someone with a mental health problem. The premise supports itself. It's begging the question.

More important than that, though, the actual effect such reasoning has is to (a) stigmatize those with mental illness, (b) give us an easy out from having difficult conversations about guns, (c) dodge all the other issues involved such as toxic masculinity and white supremacy, all while (d) not actually helping people with mental health issues, because -- and this is important -- if we only bring up the brokenness of this country's mental health care system after a shooting, we make zero progress and just reinforce the stigma that prevents us from making progress in the first place. 

Image from "Mind Your Mind"

But -- and here's the clarification, which gets us, I think, closer to the crux of the matter -- there's some wisdom in wanting to name mass violence as a mentally (and emotionally and spiritually, not to mention physically) unhealthy thing. If we want to talk about violence as form of illness, a form of dis-ease, that's fine. Let's talk about it. It's just that mental illness, which deals with an individual's struggle with experiences that prevent them from functioning the way they want to function, is exactly the wrong category for such a naming. Rather, violence represents a systemic un-health, an interaction between an individual and larger forces that are harmful, that are in-and-of-themselves violent. Paul called them "the powers and principalities."

Such unhealthy systems do very much impact our health, mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual. But that doesn't mean they can be diagnosed by pathologizing an individual's violent actions.

Mental illness isn't violence. But violence might well be an illness, and a systemic one at that. We've got some very sick systems that we're operating in and amongst, and perhaps they are indeed in need of diagnoses. 

---

Part II of this post will look at a systems perspective and examine some of the systems that are at play in 'diagnosing' violence.