Today’s “Finding the Beauty” blog post is about a little understood topic.

I'm 56 years old and I've never known a single day that wasn't touched by mental illness, in one way or another.

My daughter is heavily bi-polar with borderline personality disorder and mild schizophrenia. She has attempted suicide; partly out of despair and partly because she thought she was being told to do so. The thought of my only child hearing voices terrifies me.

My great grandfather, grandfather and father were also mentally ill. My father’s family presents a long line of folks who have angrily struggled; many of whom didn’t have medications to soften the pain. They hadn’t been invented yet.

I am clinically depressed.

The depression I've always battled is controlled with a cocktail of prescriptions written by a psychiatrist that's been treating me for years. His regimen has been a life-saver, literally. It wasn't so long ago that I could barely get out of bed. The depression clouded my brain like a heavy wet towel. I was unable to make sense of my daily activities. Ordinary conversation was difficult. Problem solving was nearly impossible. I slept. A lot.

There are days when the wet towel catches up to me. No matter how many pills are swallowed and how many sessions of counseling are received, depression is an insidious monster that must be monitored. One day you're ok, the next day you're not. 

It’s horrifying that the event that forced us to become more aware of mental illness was the not-so-long ago loss of a brilliant and decent human being. Robin Williams’ death brought the subject to the forefront. So many hadn’t a clue that he suffered so deeply.

His death reminded many of us that in spite of that loss, we have the ability to right some serious wrongs.

Many Facebook posts at the time of his death said that we need to lose the "stigma" that surrounds the discussion and treatment of mental illness.

No doubt.

So what can we do help those who are horribly sick, whose very existence is built on shifting sand?

So here’s a few ideas that we can all work on together.

First and foremost we must watch what we say.

Don’t call anyone names in jest that make fun of conditions that are anything but amusing. Crazy, maniac, nut job. You know where I’m going with this.

Don’t do it even if you’re only kidding around with friends or family. You never know who among you is suffering in silence. I’ve had friends who were profoundly depressed, but hid it so well that most never suspected.

If we lose the negative vernacular, we might stand a chance of helping some folks who are presently terrified to reach out and get well.

Here is the beauty.

Speak to those with disabilities as Jesus would.

With tenderness, and compassion. The words that you're about to say; could you hear HIM saying them? Would he dismiss the suffering?

No.

He would reach out to them, speak love to them.

It’s too late to save Robin Williams and so many others who thought there was no other way out.

But it’s not too late for others who feel ashamed and alone, who believe they will never see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Change can and MUST begin with us.

After all, we are the only Jesus that some will ever see.

So let's do it.