Holiday From Madness On the Internet, the Troubled Spirits of Christmas Find a Moment of Peace. The Washington Post, December 25, 1994, FINAL Edition By: Robert H. Williams Section: OUTLOOK, p. c05 Story Type: Features Line Count: 115 Word Count: 1265 AFTER A recent hard night's heroics in the computer hell of Doom II, it came to me that the "Downtown" level of that so-called game was perhaps the most inhospitable environment I'd ever been in, except possibly Breslin's Bar in Queens one evening in 1967. In Downtown's gutted buildings and smoke-and-flame-filled streets there was no friend to hold me, no kind word, no human being at all, only beasts and zombies and agents of Satan dedicated to killing me as I roamed the maze, trying to survive and find the exit. Well, I thought, that's life. But here's the kick: In the hostile world of Doom, gunshots and plasma bursts graphically reduce the "health" of the self-character whose face appears at the bottom of the screen, so that after a half-dozen encounters I can barely look at myself, blood streaming from glazed, fearful eyes. Yet around any corner, in any pit or tunnel or secret chamber, I am soon apt to find a Medikit, or a Stimpak, containing vitamedicines to restore me to a fully functioning man. Who left these restoratives for me in the horror of Doom? Is it somehow important that I continue, however wounded, through Doom, one Exit to another, until the end? Not wanting to get bogged down in thinking any more than I had to, I turned my computer's attention to the Internet, and to "Madness," an interactive group I've been visiting for a couple of months. I'd been asked to write about Madness for The Washington Post's CyberSurfing column, and in doing so found a highly charged group of around 200 customers and victims and even purveyors of the world's mental health care delivery system. After writing the piece, I stayed on with the Madness list and its "owner," Sylvia Caras, a 59-year-old survivor in Santa Cruz, Calif., who manages the list, tends the flock, pays the bills and dotes on her daughter, who is also in the list. Madness is the latest level of therapy, 2001: internationally based, from Brazil to Australia to London, technologically hip, scientifically attuned, feet clearly on a spiritual path, survivors of Doom and, perhaps, the ones who leave those little Medikits lying around where I can find them. "Listen to the voices of Madness (VOOM)," writes Joanna Cook on the Internet. "They have wonderful, wise things to say and really do care. They have been there and have survived, and I know their thoughts have helped me so much as I feel I am still making my way through this great swirling ick." So I asked this group to tell me about Christmas. "Christmas is supposed to be a time of joy, yet for many of us, it can be a lonely trying time," wrote Bert Wiefels. "What do you say to lighting the yule log and bringing a little warmth to the wonderful hearth called Madness? Just for a few days . . . ." Evan, only last Tuesday, wrote: " . . . yesterday I had to see the doctor because my pain was so great that I took some Indocid for a few days and went mad. The doc says Indocid screws up your brain, and it did. He also says I may have pancreatitis (just what I need) so I will be going to hospital for Christmas. So you could say I'm going away for Christmas. Anyway, I won't have mail till I get out, and last time that took five weeks! This time should be shorter. Christmas wishes and love to you all." Mike Weaver, in an unusually brief message, wrote: "How to get through the holidays-holidays are difficult-many a Christmas was spent in the hospital. Family is difficult for me and my wife. We don't mix family and holidays. We see family before or after Thanksgiving and Christmas, not during. My wife and I spend Thanksgiving and Christmas together and maybe with a good friend." Margaret has a longer tale: "A number of years ago, I redefined Christmas for myself. I had to. Maintaining the societal myth of what Christmas entailed only left me in despair for what I was missing. Estranged from my family, I watched each year as friends and acquaintances dispersed, off to their families, for the traditional gathering. Christmas wasn't a season of reunion, renewal, family, home and hearth. It was a reminder, that I was alone, that I had not (and never had) what others seemed to have. A warm safe place where people cared. After one particularly difficult Christmas-I got severe food poisoning from a pizza I ordered Christmas day-I knew I had to change things. I'm not religious, so the church had little to offer. What now? "Well, I sat and thought about what the season ought to embody for me. I decided that it didn't include duty to be with those who hadn't interacted with me the other 51 weeks of the year. It didn't include forcing myself to go to get-togethers which I really couldn't give a hoot about. Instead, it was to be a time to embrace myself and those around me whom I did care about . . . . A time to find peaceful and restorative things to do for myself and friends . . . . A time, most of all, just to care with no strings attached. I started my own Christmas tradition. A Christmas Gift Drive that benefits individuals in my local mental health community . . . . I remember the faces on the recipients, surprised, astonished, tears that someone thought of them, and I know I'll make a small difference again this year . . . ." Early in December, Brian Campbell wrote: "I'm here in my flat 12 miles from the English Channel and the wind is howling. Predictions are for gale force winds gusting to as much as 90 mph. I was just thinking about Madness, how it has changed my life and how appreciative I am for all of you, even the lurkers. When I'm cold, Madness keeps me warm. When I'm sad, Madness helps me see the other side. When I'm lonely, Madness is always there and when I feel good, Madness helps me to share." Later, addressing Christmas, Brian said it "was always difficult. I had little money and few friends. My family rejected me because of my problems. I remember stealing small items to give as gifts. I usually made sure I was medicated and drunk at Christmas . . . . I now consider myself recovered and wouldn't change my past at all. The insight, wisdom and humanity I gained through my journey is a gift. I have now rejected Christmas and try not to celebrate. I have been involved in helping other people for the last few years and have seen my pain repeated in others too many times. This year, I will be going to a drop-in for people with mental health problems and will try to help them. I'll serve up the turkey and help hand out a few gifts. Mostly, I'll be there to listen and share with them. Most of them will be strangers. Strangers in one way and long-lost friends in another." Only in the last two weeks "Junniper" reported a slight break in her routine: "Actually, when I tore up my dorm room I did not feel better, between my rantings and ravings I managed to slash my wrists, so I went to the e.r. It wasn't too terrible. I had three friends with me, and two of them managed to steal two hospital gowns because they thought they were cool . . . . I did make a promise not to physically harm myself anymore . . . . I am really trying hard here. It is just unpleasant for me to envision the future. It is soooo iffy, and I hate it when things are not carved in stone." A week later, she wrote: "It makes me warm inside to know that I can always turn to you guys . . . to a bunch of caring and big-hearted people. I need friends so bad right now. You friends make me smile and think about how worthwhile I am . . . ." And the lady who leaves the Medikits, Sylvia Caras, leaves us with this: "This year, so far, I spent Thanksgiving not getting dressed and plan the same for Christmas. I lit Hanukkah candles alone and gave my granddaughter a gift on the first and last nights. For New Year's, Santa Cruz is having a first First Night, and I am anticipating that with great relish." Robert Williams is a Washington Post editor.