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HomeMy WebLinkAbout09-14-26 Correspondence - Disability Rights Montana - Growth Rings - What My Father’s Suicide Taught Me About Mental Health PolicyFrom:Disability Rights Montana - Growth Rings To:Bozeman Public Comment Subject:[EXTERNAL]What My Father’s Suicide Taught Me About Mental Health Policy Date:Monday, September 14, 2026 7:33:13 AM CAUTION: This email originated from outside of the organization. Do not click links or open attachments unless you recognize the sender and know the content is safe. Forwarded this email? Subscribe here for more Every paid subscription supports Disability Rights Montana’s work across Montana. Federal funding is nowhere near sufficient to meet the advocacy and culture change work that is needed. You can help fund the future you want to see! What My Father’s Suicide Taught MeAbout Mental Health Policy READ IN APP SEP 14 When people ask why I care so much about mental health policy, disability rights, housing, and community-based services, I usually give a professional answer. I talk about my decades working in disability rights advocacy. I talk about public policy, service systems, civil rights, and the importance of helping people remain in their communities. All of that is true. But it isn’t the whole truth. The whole truth begins with my father. Growing up, my dad lived with a serious mental illness. There were periods when he was doing well, and there were periods when he wasn’t. Like many families impacted by mental illness, our lives were often shaped by uncertainty. Sometimes he had housing. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he had a job. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes his ambitions matched reality. Often they did not. When I was in elementary school, my parents divorced. During that time, my father spent time in a psychiatric facility. Later, he experienced periods of homelessness. Sometimes he lived with other family members. Sometimes in inexpensive apartments. Sometimes he slept in his car. When he lost that, he stayed in shelters or slept wherever he could. Eventually, things improved. He received additional training. He found work. He found housing. And he built new relationships. But mental illness never entirely released its grip on his life. Years later, he died by suicide. For a long time, I thought about that loss the way many people think about suicide. I thought about the final crisis. The final decisions. The final weeks and days. But over the years, especially after working in disability rights and behavioral health policy, I have come to see things differently. The final crisis was not the whole story. It wasn’t even most of the story. The story was decades long. It included mental health care. It included housing. It included employment. It included relationships. It included purpose. It included self-worth. It included community. It included all the ordinary days that never make their way into newspaper articles, medical records, or public debate. When someone dies from suicide, it is natural to focus on the ending. But focusing only on the ending can obscure the larger lessons that a person’s life has to teach us. Mental health crises do not emerge from nowhere. They unfold in the context of a life. That realization changed the way I think about public policy. When I was younger, I assumed public policy was mostly about programs, funding streams, regulations, and government bureaucracy. Now I see it differently. At its core, policy is often a reflection of who we believe belongs. Do people with mental illness belong in our communities? Do they belong in our schools? Do they belong in our workplaces? Do they belong in our neighborhoods? Most people answer those questions with an immediate, reflexive “yes.” But I challenge you to really think about that question because for some reason or another, our actions do not always match our words. When communities fail to invest in mental health services, affordable housing, peer support, transportation, supported employment, and other community- based supports, we are often revealing something about our values. We are revealing that belonging has conditions. We are revealing that our generosity has limits. We are revealing that we think of support as charity rather than a responsibility we owe one another as members of the same community. As a culture we put moral limits to the belonging we meter out: You belong if you can manage on your own. You belong if your disability isn’t too disruptive. You belong if you don’t need too much help. You belong if you can keep up. You belong as long as you behave in ways that make us feel comfortable. The problem is that every one of us will eventually need support. Most of us simply haven’t realized it yet. Disability is not some rare condition affecting a small group of people somewhere else. If we live long enough, most of us will experience disability ourselves or love someone who does. The question is not whether disability exists. The question is how we respond to it. My father taught me that even when he wasn’t trying to teach me (which was most of the time). He taught me that people are always more complicated than the labels attached to them. He taught me that mental illness can coexist with intelligence, humor, creativity, stubbornness, generosity, and love. He taught me that struggling is not the same thing as failing. Most importantly, he taught me that human worth is not determined by a person’s diagnosis, productivity, housing status, or ability to navigate complicated systems. All people matter, inherently. That lesson, and many others learned the hard way, sit underneath nearly every issue we work on at Disability Rights Montana. Whether we’re fighting for community-based services, accessible housing, educational opportunities, employment, voting rights, or improvements to Montana’s behavioral health system, we eventually arrive at the same fundamental question: Do disabled people belong? Not after they take a shower. Not after they get sober. Not after they get better. Not after they become someone we think “deserves” to belong. Not after all their needs miraculously disappear and they stop needing support. Right now. Exactly as they are. I don’t often talk about my father, let alone wrote about him publicly. Part of that is because I still carry a sense of loss for what could have been and what should have been. Part of that is because his story belongs to him. Part of it is because every family’s experience with mental illness is different. But during Suicide Prevention Month, it feels important to acknowledge that much of what I believe about disability rights, mental health, and community started with watching someone I loved struggle to find his place in the world. Even if I rarely acknowledge it, my father’s life shaped the advocate I became. His story also shaped the questions I continue asking today. How do we build communities where people can find support before they are in crisis? How do we help people stay connected to work, family, housing, and relationships? How do we create systems that reflect the belief that people belong, even during the most difficult chapters of their lives, perhaps especially during those times? In a future essay, I’ll explore specific ways these questions changed the way I think about suicide prevention itself and why I have come to believe that suicide prevention cannot begin only when someone is already in crisis. For now, I’ll leave you with this: My father’s story ended in tragedy. But every story is bigger than its ending. And perhaps the most important lesson I have carried into my work is that every person’s life is bigger than the worst thing that has ever happened to them. Including my father’s. In solidarity, David Carlson, J.D. Executive Director Disability Rights Montana That’s the question at the heart of Week Without Driving (October 1-8), a national campaign I have been involved with since its inception and I would like you to join me in participating and spreading the word. The Week Without Driving invites people to experience some of the transportation barriers many Americans, including many people with disabilities, navigate every day. Whether you participate for a day, a few trips, or the entire week, the goal isn’t p.s. What would change in your life ifdriving wasn’t an option? perfection. The goal is perspective. I encourage you to sign up and see what your community looks like through a different lens. sign up now! You’re currently a free subscriber to Life Beyond Compliance. Upgrading to paid subscriptions supports Disability Rights Montana’s work across Montana. Federal funding is no where near sufficient to meet the advocacy and culture change work that is needed. You can help fund the future you want to see! Upgrade to paid LIKE COMMENT RESTACK © 2026 Disability Rights Montana1022 Chestnut Street, Helena, MT 59601 Unsubscribe