Statistics abstract pandemic's mental health toll

Beyond the dire data, there's a whole lot of hurting people. How can you help?

This word “cloud” from the trauma-informed grass roots organization Sarasota Strong, envisions “a community that cares for itself.”

For the past year, I’ve received a daily email based on a Google alert I set up for the words “mental health.” Lately, it’s been chock full of articles with headlines like “COVID has taken toll on mental health,” “Professionals see uptick in teen mental health issues due to pandemic” and “Mental health experts warn of ‘second pandemic’ stemming from COVID-19.”

Every article cites the same alarming statistical trends, sparked by the the financial, societal and emotional upheavals of the past year: Depression and anxiety skyrocketing; instances of suicide, self-harm and substance abuse on the rise; increasing behavioral issues in children and feelings of isolation among seniors; signs of trauma and self-medication in first responders and emergency personnel. Most predict the worst of the pandemic’s psychological toll remains to be seen.

It’s an alarmingly dark picture, but one that, in its abstraction, removes us from the genuine weight of the human suffering and absolves us of the responsibility to address it. Because what’s missing in most of these articles are real stories about the real people who are really suffering. Or suggestions on how we might help alleviate some of their pain.

If you are doing nothing more than going through a typical pandemic day — scrolling through Facebook, puttering in your yard, talking on the phone or by Zoom with friends or family — I’m assuming that, like me, you are hearing these stories that are often left out of the traditional news media.

For example, let me tell you about one typical recent day.

Scrolling through my social media feed, I see multiple posts from an elderly Facebook “friend” just returning home after a major health incident; she asks for suggestions on hospital beds, advice on diarrhea and reports feeling “so far from a hug.”

Another friend who celebrated her 100th birthday during the pandemic and remains in isolation, sends an email with the subject line: Wasting time! “I am very inactive these days. Sometimes wonder why I am still around. What purpose am I serving?”

During a Zoom with one of my sisters, I can see the heaviness beneath her typically resilient pragmatism. She’s yearning for her grandchildren, all of whom live outside the U.S. and out of reach. Like me, she’s also recently stepped away from a career that kept her every minute filled and now finds herself “without a way to help anyone, which feels awful.”

Raking my yard of leaves, I have a distanced chat with my neighbor across the street, inquiring after his two girls who, at 8 and 9, turned cartwheels on my front lawn when I moved in 10 years ago. The older one is away at college now, though taking her classes online, and struggling emotionally. Her worried father says she hasn’t showered in three days and is smoking a lot of weed, “which she says makes her feel better.”

A young friend’s little boy has started wetting the bed again, years after toilet training. He’s ashamed and embarrassed; she’s freaked out. He says he’s afraid to go back to school, but he can’t put into words what he’s afraid of.

A distraught woman in the lobby of my friend’s condo pleads with the front desk person to help her sign up to receive a COVID-19 vaccination. “Just Google the county health department,” the employee says cursorily. The woman, who does not use the Internet, bursts into tears.

And then there’s me. Feeling confused and unproductive after ending a 40-year newspaper career, separated from my siblings for more than a year, struggling to find a new direction and a renewed passion; wondering about my responsibility to address the angst I see all around me.

Whether we have consciously acknowledged it or not, we’ve all been operating for the past year under a level of disruption and stress that our bodies are biologically attuned to react to in destructive ways. And while there has been plenty written about how technology has blessedly addressed our emerging needs — Zoom sessions and tele-health appointments, crisis text lines, a national 988 suicide hotline — none are a replacement for what is at the core of what is likely the biggest catalyst for our rising mental health distress: The lack of human touch and support.

This morning I was listening to Nadine Burke Harris — California’s surgeon general and the pediatrician who was at the forefront of promoting ACES (adverse childhood experiences) as a predictor of later life physical and mental health problems — on a podcast talking about the difference between “tolerable” stress (that which will not result in long term negative effects) and “toxic” stress (which results in significant and lasting harm).

“The biggest difference between stress that is tolerable and stress that is toxic is the buffering response of a loving caregiver,” Harris said. “Even for significant stressors, if you have adequate nurturing, caregiving that provides a sense of safety, you won’t see long term negative health effects.”

As a pediatrician, she was talking primarily about parental (or caregiver) response to children. But that need for a nurturing response, an assurance of safety, a stress “buffer” is something we never outgrow. And when it is the caregivers who are stressed, the responsibility for that support falls to the entire community — not just faith leaders, educators and elected officials, but neighbors.

“If a caregiver is stressed to the max themselves, the community context makes a huge difference in responding with that same buffering, nurturing support that is required to regulate that stress response,” Harris said.

That’s the idea behind the grassroots group SRQ Strong, which was founded two years ago with the vision of “creating a community that cares for itself.” SRQ Strong actively supports all efforts in Sarasota County to prevent and address trauma — including the trauma that has resulted from the pandemic — and believes that awareness and healing must ultimately begin within each of us.

I’ve increasingly relied on my friends and loved ones to help me stay on track when the demeaning demons take up residence on my shoulder. And, knowing that helping others is a way to feel better about ourselves, I’m consciously trying to be that “buffer” when I see or hear others in pain. 

For starters, I offered to help my neighbor find a college support group or group therapy session for his daughter. I shared the name of a great child psychologist with my younger friend. I touch base with my sister more often and send a snail mail card without an occasion. I offer to meet with the woman who doesn’t use the Internet to help her sign up for a vaccination. And now that I’m vaccinated myself, I’m looking forward to visiting my shut-in friend at her home this afternoon. It will do us both good.

There’s nothing particularly significant, magnanimous or remarkable about any of these gestures. But think about the potential cumulative benefit if each of us were committed to responding to the stress manifested around us in the most caring, nurturing way possible. I’ll take that over cold, dire statistics any day.