Am I Adam Lanza?

Two years ago a young man off his medication went on a shooting spree in my town.  Two crime scenes, a high speed chase and a hostage situation later there were eight dead people including the gunman. 
Yesterday, in Pakistan 6 people were killed in a police shoot out.
Today, two people were shot and killed about 5 miles from where I work while sitting in their car at a health clinic.  No additional explanation why yet.
Yes, I’m reeling from what happened in CT, and the world is reeling still. And I understand why every one is reeling. But shootings happen all over the world every day.

Am I being cynical?  Cold-hearted?  Maybe.  I cried.  I was sad.  Now I’m angry and scared, but not of what you think.

I’m angry at a society that shuns mental health problems to the back of the class.  I’m angry at the government that tells parents it can’t help until the child has broken a law and can be charged.  So to receive help, a person must be thrown in jail?  Must be perceived as an immediate danger to others?  I’ve been to very dark places.  I’ve known that I needed help, but had no place to really go.  My friends and family could only help so far.  I needed professional help.  I needed real assistance.  And I knew the only way I could get it is if I did something really dangerous.  If I swerved into oncoming traffic.  If I lit my apartment on fire.  If I slit my wrists down to the bone.  If I threatened the life of someone else.

I don’t know if that is what he was thinking.  Or the VA Tech shooter.  Or the Aurora shooter.  I can hear the arguments that I’m not the same as those people because I didn’t act on those thoughts.  I kept them to myself and I kept my hands to myself.  Thoughts don’t kill.  Actions can kill.  There is that.  Except I still can relate to a thought process that leads to those kinds of actions.  Did I stop myself because I’m a better person than those people?  Or was it only that I’ve been able to stop myself those times?

A functioning bipolar.  That’s my label.  I suffer, yes, but I can function.  I can hide it, some of the time.  I can misdirect and fool and place facades and mirrors so one would never know the reality.  But its still a reality.  And days like this I feel like I’m merely a ticking time bomb.  I fear that I could be the Newtown shooter.  I could be the VA Tech shooter.  I could be the Columbine shooters.  Is it really just a matter of time?

Maybe I’ll never get to that point.  Maybe I’ll always be able to find another way.  Maybe I’ll live long enough to see a society and culture that takes care of the mentally ill before these tragedies happen.

But the fear my heart feels is not terror for my mother (a teacher) or my father (a first responder) or for myself as a victim.  The fear I keep hidden deep away that gnaws at my soul each time something like this happens is….

Am I Adam Lanza?

A few people have noted that by merely asking that question, I will probably not be able to do those things.  Or because I have good moral grounding.  Or because I am in someway so very different from those people.  That may be true.  And I don’t walk around constantly terrified that I’ll turn around suddenly and go on a killing spree.  But, I know how dark and twisted reality can get when struggling with mental illness.  I know how convincing those scary arguments can become.  I know how close to the edge I’ve gotten in the past – of hurting myself or hurting others.  It took a lot to get me there, but I still got there.  I started into that abyss and saw nothing in my world but darkness.  Every time some one posts or says they cannot possibly imagine doing something so terrible, my heart twitches every so slightly.  Because I can imagine.  I have imagined doing something terrible.  But you can’t say that in the aftermath of such an event.  And hence, I suffer in silence and wonder if I am Adam Lanza, too?