Personally Speaking: Joy will lead the way
By Sabah Muhammad
My mother has always pondered my nose. She never could place it. “Whose smallish, button nose do you have? It’s not mine. It’s not your dad’s.” Growing up in a big family, you share everything. I couldn’t even 
have my own nose.
When my brother was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, my family blamed everything from “big pharma” to DNA. We couldn’t know, but wonder: Does having one sibling with SMI mean it runs in the family?
When my brother first started showing symptoms of psychosis, I didn’t tell anyone. When people would ask me how he was doing, “he’s fine,” was all I could say. The reality and stigma associated with SMI were too horrifying for me.
Today, I no longer hide that I have a brother diagnosed with SMI, and as a result, I feel as if a great weight has lifted. As a result, a stigma-free family dialogue surrounding mental illness has opened up.
But, that, too, has a downside, as I have discovered.
“Your grandmother wasn’t moody. Those were episodes of depression. Your grandfather wasn’t battling demons. It was PTSD.” Suddenly, my untraceable nose carries a threat. Could I have inherited the potential for delusions from some unknown relative?
Now, each time I get a bit gloomy or wrestle one night with insomnia, I pause and ask myself: Is this how it begins? Now should I worry?
Earlier this year, another loved one stopped having lucid conversations with us. Like my brother, they lack insight and refuses to see a doctor. Now feels like an appropriate time to start worrying.
What do you do when mental illness runs in your family? The answer lies in looking farther than the end of your nose. I value peace above all things and strive for joy in everything I do. Instead of worrying, I plan. Generational curses and trauma must end here.
Before I committed to mental health, personally and professionally, I thought life was a miserable journey that would one-day lead to happiness -- if I just put my unique nose to the grindstone and worked hard. Yet my brother’s numerous preventable tragedies, including homelessness, trespassing and assault, revealed that I could work myself to death without ever reaching the Promised Land.
Waiting for happiness is no way to live, I’ve discovered. Learning mindfulness has taught me that I held the power to change my point-of-view. Now I see that happiness is the journey. Even in the face of unimaginable obstacles, I have a choice: sink or swim.
Over the past eight years, I’ve cultivated a life of wellness. I call it my DNA armor. I speak to my therapist about my fears; I face the realistic and heal the toxic. My family’s reality does not have to overwhelm my own. Ten years ago, a family history of mental illness, plus a sick brother and a sick mother would have crippled me. Now I am able to navigate trauma and hardships, instead of drowning in them.
I don’t always do it with grace, I admit. Sometimes, a preventable tragedy or helpline call will cause me to break down.
I remember the case of Jamycheal Mitchell, a young man diagnosed with SMI who was arrested for stealing $5 worth of snacks from a convenience store. He died in his cell while awaiting transfer to a hospital, his paperwork was found stuffed in a drawer, forgotten, while he screamed through the night. I remember using my lunch break to sit outside.
I was a legal intern at the Treatment Advocacy Center at the time, and the facts of his case were so disturbing to me that I cried all through my lunch break. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this work, I thought to myself.
Later that day, the legislative advocate called me into her office. She had just finished working on the amicus brief for Jamycheal Mitchell’s case. She also needed to reflect on the haunting details of the case.
I realized in that moment that I wasn’t under-equipped to handle this work. I am only human. And my colleagues at the Treatment Advocacy Center are too.
Our work isn’t about cases; it’s about real people with real problems. Working through lunch and taking the work home with us at night feels natural.
The reality of working for an organization that seeks to end preventable tragedies and advocate for individuals with SMI is that we must often face up to difficult facts. But tears are welcome here, and nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes, they’re even tears of joy.
I live for those moments.
Whether in my personal life, or work for my advocacy, I am committed to striving for joy as a continual protest in the face of despair. No matter what secrets my DNA might contain, or what the shape of my nose reveals, in my life, joy will lead the way.
Sabah Muhammad is legislative and policy counsel at Treatment Advocacy Center.
