Prozac politics
Maybe we feel better about ourselves than we should. When Patrick
Kennedy said he was on antidepressants, no one batted an eye. Have we really
come that far?
by Robert David Sullivan
Last week, US Representative Patrick Kennedy let everybody know that he
needs a little help. The story began when one of Kennedy's friends -- Tipper
Gore, who happens to be the wife of the vice-president -- talked about the
depression that had forced her to get professional treatment. Emboldened by her
frankness, the Rhode Island congressman reassured Gore that she isn't alone --
that he, too, is taking medication and regularly sees a psychiatrist to cope
with the nagging sense that life just isn't worth the effort. It was the kind
of moment that's become a pop-culture cliché, familiar from works such
as Annie Hall and The Sopranos. But it also happens in real life
thousands of times a day.
This bonding between two people with the blues was unusual only in that it
happened in public, at a mental-health forum in Woonsocket that doubled as a
photo op for Al Gore's presidential campaign. But the reaction so far has been
about the same as if Kennedy had spilled his guts to a few friends over brunch.
"Well, who isn't crazy these days?" is the proper response to such an
admission. "I know I should be on Prozac" is also good, especially when
accompanied by an ironic glance at your fifth mimosa. At a minimum, you'd be
likely to praise your friend's honesty -- or his "uplifting candor," to use a
ponderous phrase from a Boston Globe editorial on Kennedy's disclosure.
The Providence Journal had a similar reaction, lauding Kennedy for
encouraging others to "confront their problems" and for proving that "highly
successful, highly public people can function well despite their mental
illness."
Neither editorial writer was rude enough to say that Kennedy, already known to
have been treated at a drug and alcohol rehabilitation clinic before he began
his political career, may have been making a pre-emptive strike against a
comprehensive biography by Brown University political science professor Darrell West that will hit bookstores this spring. And neither
pointed out that the admission will keep this particular Kennedy from ever
being treated as a prospective presidential candidate. We may take it in stride
when we see athletes and entertainers struggle with disease or mental illness,
but there's no evidence that we'd make the same allowances for our political
leaders.
Indeed, though the Globe praised Tipper Gore as a spokesperson for
mental illness, it failed to pose an obvious question for her husband, who was
not at the Woonsocket event: with all the stuff you've endured over the past 52
years, and given that your health insurance probably covers everything, how
come you're not seeing a therapist? No, the rule over the past 25 years has
been that a politician lets his wife be the one to confess mental-health
problems. Think not only of Tipper Gore, but also of Cindy McCain, who was
addicted to painkillers, and Betty Ford and Kitty Dukakis, who struggled with
alcoholism. (Tellingly, Elsa Walsh's recent profile of Tipper Gore in the
New Yorker suggests that her depression has been exacerbated by demands
that she cast aside her own professional ambitions to help her husband fulfill
his.) As for the candidate, he has enough trouble telling the public about his
cholesterol count and the suspicious moles on his back. We're just not ready to
hear about what's going on in his head.
I CERTAINLY have no problem with someone in Congress being on antidepressants.
(The Globe notes that only two other members publicly admit to having
suffered from depression.) If I spent each working day trying to do something
about poverty, discrimination, global warming, and greedy pharmaceutical
companies, I'd be tempted to open a vein every time I saw Trent Lott. It
doesn't make me feel better that most congressmen get around the problem by
denying the existence of poverty, discrimination, global warming, and greedy
pharmaceutical companies.
Kennedy's admission reminded me of a Cornell University study released a couple
of months ago called "Unskilled and Unaware of It: How Difficulties in
Recognizing One's Own Incompetence Lead to Inflated Self-Assessments." The
researchers argued that people with mediocre skills are quite content with
their work because they don't know any better, while more-talented people
always see room for improvement in their own. In other words, ignorance is
bliss. Perhaps the same holds true for mental health, and people who never
suffer from depression just don't realize how much they have to be depressed
about. In other words, bliss is ignorance. (Novelist Joseph Heller already
figured this out in Catch-22.)
This hypothesis, in turn, made me think about the man who could be our next
president. George W. Bush may be the Michael Bolton of American politics:
unfailingly self-confident and thus completely unaware of his total
schlockiness. Bolton destroys every song he can expel from his throat, but as
long as he gets attention and sells CDs, he shows no sign of recognizing that
his vocal range goes from "woman in labor" to "screaming newborn." Bush
destroys every rule of fair campaigning, but if he wins the White House, he's
not going to lose any sleep over how he got there. He may become our most
mentally serene and least introspective president ever (yes, even worse than
Ronald Reagan), and the country will be fine as long as we never expect him to
admit it when he makes a mistake.
BUT EVEN if depression can be considered a sign that you're paying attention,
that doesn't mean we're ready to elect a living, breathing person with a
prescription for Zoloft. Yes, as the Globe editorial on Patrick Kennedy
reminds us, many great people overcame bouts of depression, including Abraham
Lincoln, Ludwig van Beethoven, and Winston Churchill. But some may point out
that these guys had a lot to be depressed about (war, deafness, more war).
Anyway, we're always forgiving of people who are safely dead and aren't going
to ask us for votes.
If any current presidential candidate were to own up to a mental illness,
however, the pundits would likely remind us of Thomas Eagleton, the Missouri
senator who spent one week as George McGovern's nominee for vice-president in
1972. Eagleton was kicked off the ticket after an anonymous source told the
Detroit Free Press that the senator had undergone electroshock therapy
and had been hospitalized three times for depression. The fact that Eagleton
had concealed this information from McGovern gave party leaders a reason to
dump him, but of course he wouldn't have been picked in the first place if the
truth had been known. Whatever McGovern personally thought about Eagleton's
ability to serve, the press would have been all over the issue of mental
instability for the rest of the campaign. During the few interim days when
Eagleton was still the official nominee, Washington columnist Jack Anderson
falsely reported (based on an unverifiable tip) that the senator had been
arrested several times for drunk driving. Coming clean with the facts sounds
like a quick and easy solution, but a candidate would still have to respond to
new rumors throughout the campaign season.
In 1972, there were still a limited number of news organizations that decided
whether a political story would get national exposure. But with the rise of the
Internet, it's nearly impossible to contain any reasonably plausible rumor
about a public figure. In the 1988 election, for example, George W. Bush's
father was helped (how much is impossible to say) by a whispering campaign
about the mental health of his opponent, Michael Dukakis. The Massachusetts
governor was vulnerable to the rumor because his brother, who died in 1973, had
been diagnosed as mentally ill, and because Dukakis had apparently (and
understandably) been depressed after losing his bid for re-election in 1978.
(He wasn't too depressed to win back the office four years later.) Given how
easy it was to spread such rumors about an unflappable guy like Dukakis, it's
not surprising that this year John McCain has been dogged by "Is he stable?"
questions connected to the numerous times he's lost his temper in public and
the lasting effects of five years' imprisonment in a Vietnamese POW camp. The
beneficiary of those rumors, of course, has been George W. Bush.
An apparently abandoned Web page, www.tarpley.net/pdukakis.htm, gives some
flavor of the crackpot coverage of the 1988 campaign. Called "Dukakis: New Face
for the Fascist Corporate State," it includes a section titled "Is Dukakis the
New Senator Eagleton?" The writer asserts that "Michael Dukakis suffers from a
deep-seated mental instability that could paralyze him . . . in the
event of a severe economic or strategic crisis. . . . This
tendency appears to be linked to his family background." He also asks, "Why are
psychiatrists so prominent a part of his personal circle of friends?" (That
query reflects American discomfort not only with mental illness, but with
intellectuals of any kind.) And he attacks Dukakis for "his small
physical stature," suggesting that he must have been bullied in school and
therefore would easily be bullied by the Russians. I don't mean to give
credibility to this Web site, but it is worth remembering that most people
don't base their political opinions on the editorial page of the Boston
Globe.
OF COURSE, it's nice to think that Americans in the year 2000 can accept our
political leaders' human limitations, including physical problems much more
serious than small stature. It's nice to think we would elect someone
like Franklin Delano Roosevelt even if we knew that he couldn't walk, for
example, or John F. Kennedy even if we knew about his debilitating back pain
and Addison's disease. Jesse Jackson tapped into this sentiment with one of his
biggest applause lines in the 1980s: "I'd rather have Roosevelt in a wheelchair
than Reagan on a horse!" The media conspired to hide the medical conditions of
Roosevelt and Kennedy when they ran for president, but surely we can handle the
truth about our leaders today.
Well, maybe. One of the unintended consequences of using primaries to pick
presidential and congressional candidates is that voters have to consider
"electability" -- which is affected by every imaginable ailment, not just
depression. In 1992, Paul Tsongas was doomed by questions about how strongly he
would run against President Bush, and the fact that he'd been treated for
cancer pushed a lot of primary voters toward the more robust Bill Clinton. This
year, Bill Bradley didn't help his campaign by disclosing that he has an
arrhythmic heart. Why give the Republicans that issue when there aren't so many
ideological differences between Bradley and Gore anyway? If you have to choose
from among candidates who are all saying pretty much the same thing, it can
seem like a pointless risk to nominate the guy with diabetes or the one taking
Prozac (or, for that matter, the black one, or the Jewish one, or the gay one).
Voters may overlook these things if they come out when someone is already in
office, but Patrick Kennedy's disclosure isn't going to erase the stigma of
depression for someone trying to begin a political career.
And though Kennedy deserves credit for his honesty, he may be the member of
Congress least likely to be hurt by such a revelation.
"The constituents already knew about it in a manner of speaking," Kennedy told
the Providence Journal. "They knew I had substance-abuse problems.
That's not a mystery. They also know if they have read the paper in the last
several years . . . that my family has had a lot of trials and
tribulations."
Knowing what we do about his family, including the headlines we can't turn away
from in the supermarket checkout line, it's only to be expected that Ted
Kennedy's son would need some help with his coping skills. It might be a
different story if we found out that a prospective president needed a weekly
session with a psychiatrist. We've grown accustomed to learning the truth about
our candidates, but I'm not sure we've figured out what to do with it.
Stay tuned.
Robert David Sullivan can be reached at Robt555@aol.com.