Mental illness haunts me in two different ways. The first surrounds me, living and working in Los Angeles daily. When I see people half naked, lying on the hot sidewalk, on my way to the trendy new coffee house.
When I meet parents searching for their missing adult children and being turned away by agencies who can help—but will not—because it would be a “privacy violation.” When I hear of people with untreated mental illness finding themselves locked in claustrophobic jail cells and chained to furniture for the few hours a day that they are allowed out in order to ensure they do not harm themselves or someone else.
