At age four, I had an experience of profound loss. I was told my grandfather had passed away, but I had no memory of ever meeting this man they called my grandfather. They spoke about him in whispers before his death, “Maury-this… Maury-that,” but he was not part of our lives. He lived 200 miles away in a veteran's hospital in South Dakota.

My grandfather suffered from schizophrenia during a time when that word meant a life sentence of institutionalization and separation from society. He was diagnosed during WWII, and my grandmother signed the papers for an experimental lobotomy without knowing the consequences. In her defense, she had three small children to think of, and she wanted the violence and the drinking to end.

After the surgery, I was later told, my grandfather slipped into long periods of lethargy and silence, broken by outbursts of shouting and violence. Every aspect of his life was controlled by sedating medication and the hospital staff. His wife and children visited him each year, but my grandfather was unresponsive. He eventually died of colon cancer. I remember he had a hero's funeral with a gun salute and taps, and they folded the flag into a triangle and placed it in my grandmother's lap. I remember my aunts collapsing in grief…grief for the father they had lost long before.

It wasn't until I found his box of personal effects from the hospital in the corner of my dad's basement workshop that I learned the whole story. My grandfather was an artist. I found his canvases, brushes and the old acrylic paints my parents had taken to him in the hospital. Dad said Grandpa had been a sign painter as a young man, and he even painted portraits of my grandmother when they first met. Dad said Grandpa was very intelligent--he had graduated salutatorian of a high school class of 500 in Omaha. He also told how Grandpa's illness had thrown the whole family into poverty and chaos.

Things are very different in the 21st century. With scientific advances and a better understanding of how the brain functions, medications and interventions have been developed that help people living with severe mental illnesses to live meaningful and productive lives in mainstream society. Today, people living with mental illnesses can earn educations, excel in the workplace, have satisfying relationships, and make important contributions to society.

Colorado Arts of Recovery is my way of making peace with the life lived by my grandfather. It is a way to connect society with the inspiring stories and life experiences of people who bravely face the challenges of every day in spite of a mental illness. It is my way of connecting, empowering, and fostering understanding. It is my hope that we will create opportunities for people with severe mental illnesses to break out of the social bindings that hold them back. 

This one's for you, Maury. And for all of us.

Nancy Harris, Founder & Board Chair, 2007