It May Hurt a Little

I'm the one in the center front, wearing the fluorescent green shirt
and blue hat, focusing on not feeling the pain.

April 17, 2016

My husband is a runner. Not the few-miles-on-the-weekend runner. No, he's a serious runner. In fact, he's on his way to a big race right now. He'll be running in his first Boston Marathon tomorrow, despite a nuisance injury that brought his training to a screeching halt last month.  He's going to run Boston anyway, knowing he probably won't run his best time, and, frankly, knowing he'll be running through pain for 26.2 miles.

"It'll hurt a little, yeah, but it'll be worth it," he shrugs with a grin as he loads up his car this morning. He's heading north to do something he's dreamed of since he was in high school.  Finally, he'll get to experience the Boston Marathon.

I wasn't thrilled about his decision to go at first. I urged him to consult a doctor who then sent him to a physical therapist. He was told his condition wasn't serious, just uncomfortable and could be corrected with lots of strength training and stretching. He was given the "go ahead" so I stopped my objections. Plus, I knew he couldn't be talked out of it, anyway. For him, quitting isn't an option. Lance Armstrong said, "Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever." That is how my husband lives every day.

It is one of the many things I love about him. And it's one of the many ways I aspire to be more like him.

My husband who never quits, even if it means running 26.2 miles in pain.

As a kid, I was a competitive swimmer. But finding pool time as a working adult wasn't easy, so in my thirties, I tried to teach myself to run. It started out as mostly walking with a little running, but eventually, I was running the whole way. I even ran some 5K races and discovered that I almost liked it...or, more honestly, I didn't completely hate it.

For my fortieth birthday, I trained for a short distance triathlon. I survived it and found that I was almost enjoying myself. Almost. Then this past fall, for my forty-fifth birthday, I trained and finished a half marathon. And now, I'm training for another one.

Running for me isn't bliss. It isn't escape. It isn't exhilarating. Despite my husband's ever-so-patient encouragement over the years and promises of the possibility of a "runner's high," I still don't like running. I only do it because it feels good AFTER I'm finished. It's complete drudgery while I'm actually doing it.

But I must admit, that for my mental health, running is good for me. I suffer from bipolar II, which is primarily depression, but includes sporadic episodes of hypomania, as well. When I'm feeling especially blue, running is not something I feel like doing. I'd rather crawl into bed under the covers, turn down the lights, and settle into the darkness until it passes over me. I'd rather quit.

"Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever."

Depression pain doesn't feel temporary. If I feel myself slipping into the dark, the weight crushing me down and pulling me away from everyone and everything that matters, the last thing I want to do is go for a run. But I try to remember that running may hurt a little, but it'll be worth it.  I'll feel better if I can just get through it.

"Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever."

My husband knows that his 26.2 mile race tomorrow will likely hurt a little, but he isn't going to quit. I want to be more like him. A man who isn't afraid of a little pain. A man who is determined to finish what he starts. A man who sees pain as something to get through not to fear.

I may not love running. I may not even like it most days...but I'm not going to quit it.

Renewed for Another Season, the Best One Yet

December 31, 2015

My husband and I enjoy binge-watching highly-rated TV series that we somehow missed. We've watched the entire series of 24 as well as Breaking Bad years past their air-dates. I love to analyze the story arcs, the characters, basically the writing itself, and so does my husband, whose first career was as a writer in Hollywood.

Our current series addiction is The West Wing and the writing of Aaron Sorkin.

I've decided two things based on my exposure to this incredible show. First, Jed Bartlett really SHOULD be our president. I love him. Seriously, he would be perfect, but that's a blog post for another time.

And second, our family's life could be re-written as a TV series.

No, really. Think about it. If you've ever watched an entire television series from start to finish, you'll see what I mean.

Season One of a TV Show: That's when you get to know the characters, learn about the setting, and you basically discover the main conflict, right?

So in our family, Season One would be all about my son's mental health crises and eventual diagnosis of bipolar disorder. There would be mis-diagnoses at first. Denial, misunderstandings, but by the season finale, you know the deal. Bipolar Disorder is the antagonist.

Second and Third Seasons of a TV Show: These are when the characters each take on their own mini-conflicts and the audience learns more about each character and how each subplot fits into the larger dynamic of the show itself.

So in our family, Season Two would be all about my older son's denial and self-medicating behaviors, my younger son's own denial (like his rebound to high-achieving academics despite his brother's struggles), and my own diagnosis and treatment issues. Season Three would be when my husband Tom comes into our lives, eventually moving in with us and his own story meshes into each of ours. Remember, the main conflict is still my older son's illness and how we are all affected by it.

Fourth Season of a TV Show: Here's where the television studios really start to take chances. The show has grown in popularity and they want to try some new things. Maybe some actors are demanding bigger paychecks or they're threatening to leave. Those who stay may decide they want to direct some episodes or they may suddenly appear with producer credits. Some are even killed off and replaced by different characters the audience must get to know. The writing takes some turns in the fourth season. There are flashback episodes, dream sequence episodes and maybe trips to Hawaii where the leads get lost in a cave. Some of these episodes may really suck. The characters may suffer and the audience may fear the series is doomed. And it may well be. Season Four is just about the time when risk becomes a player in the show's vitality. Sometimes the risks are worth it, and other times they lead to cancellation.

So in our family, Season Four has to be the Incarceration of my Son. Nothing more to say here. It's at least a season's worth of total setting shift, focus shift, attention shift. Risk. Pain. Fear. Conflict. You name it. We had it.

If you're lucky enough to make it past Season Four, there is a Season Five, maybe Season Six, and possibly even a Season Seven. These final seasons share one main thread: the search for resolution of the main conflict. Sometimes there are wild twists and turns, but you know if you've been on board since Season One, you're not giving up now. You're determined to see it through. As each character's subplots are stitched back up, the bigger conflict is slowly sewn together too. Season Finale: Resolution at last.

So in our family, our last few seasons would, of course, involve the resolving of our subplots: my younger son decides on a college and heads off to the freshman dorms; Tom and I return to Las Vegas for the third time and finally get married while we're there; and, after two and a half years, my older son is released from prison, committed to making a better life for himself.

I haven't actually seen the final seasons of The West Wing yet. 

And I haven't seen our series finale either. 

But there is good news on both fronts.

I trust in the writing of Aaron Sorkin. He crafts stories we can all understand. We feel inspired because, simply, his words capture the truth.

And I trust in the determination of my son. He envisions better days ahead. He is inspired to resolve his conflict. To take control of the writing; to take it away from bipolar disorder and bring it back to his eager hands so he may discover his own truth in the next season of his life.

My Lemon Tree

Oct. 18, 2015

They said, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

But, nobody ever told me what to do when life gives you a lemon tree. One that keeps sprouting new lemons over and over again. Season after season.

Over the last few years, I've gotten pretty good at making lemonade, tweaking the recipe for just the right combination of tangy and sweet, hoping to squelch the bitterness completely.

I stirred together my first pitcher of lemonade in December 2012, when I began writing this blog.

Desperate for a way to unload the pain of mothering a son who rejected my mothering, I yearned to reach him but he had spiraled so deeply into his own mental illness, he wanted nothing to do with me.

I'd been discarded with the lemon rinds and the seeds.

I made pitcher after pitcher of lemonade throughout the next couple of years, sharing more about our story, responding to readers with similar stories, and realizing that what I was talking about might actually be helping people.

But one thing bothered me with all the batches of lemonade I'd mixed together. No matter how hard I stirred, it was still so thick, so murky. Finally, I managed to whip up a batch that we could all see through.  Into the compost heap, with the rinds and the seeds, I threw out my pseudonym, Still Hopeful Mom.

No more hiding in the cloudy bitterness of anonymity anymore. No more hypocrisy. I had been talking about ending the stigma of mental illness but I hadn't been brave enough to tell anyone my real name.

I don't hide anymore. You can see right through the glass pitcher at who I am, Annie Slease. That batch of lemonade was especially sweet. Not just because there would be no more hiding, but because the supportive responses from friends and family were astounding.

All the while, my older son has been making lemonade too, from his prison cell. He's taking medication for his bipolar illness, and he's educated himself on his condition. He now understands the impact that his denial can have on himself and those he cares about, and he has vowed to never let that happen again. His lemonade is especially sweet. He tutors inmates to prepare them for their GED tests. Every single one of his students has passed the exam the first time.

That lemon tree we've been given keeps sprouting lemons, and there are times I am scrambling to gather them all up and glean their sweetness before the rotting sets in. 

I continue writing about our struggles here, and on other blogs.

I've written a young adult contemporary novel, A Brother's Oath, based on real events that occurred in our home. It's about a younger brother who witnesses his older brother spiral into the darkness of mental illness, exposing real issues kids face today and the dangers of denial.

I've done some public speaking for NAMI, telling our story at local events and training seminars.

My sons and I have been featured in a documentary film about mental illness and its stigma called Semper Est Sperare (Always Hope).

And most recently, I've been invited to take part in training for SandyHookPromise.org, where I will become the first from my state certified to present their educational programs: Say Something and Start with Hello at schools.

So if you discover a lemon tree sprouting in your own yard, don't worry. You'll find your own recipe. It just may take a few batches to get it right.

Bipolar in Paradise

June 22, 2014

Moist, sugar-soft sand squeezed in between my toes as I ambled along the beach. The oranges, reds, and yellows swirled across the horizon and the rhythmic sounds of the ocean blended in perfect harmony with the steel drums tapping out an island tune. For seven days I was in a Caribbean heaven vacationing with my family. And yet, for seven days, bliss eluded me.

It's difficult to know just what kept me from feeling as carefree and euphoric as one might expect under the circumstances. It could be my recent change in medication for the treatment of my Bipolar II. Or it could be the simple fact that my firstborn son still sits in prison after more than a year. I don't know. But the truth is while my entire family celebrated the joyful occasion of my parents' 45th anniversary in ocean waves of St. Croix, I secretly battled a different set of waves all week, the waves of melancholy that have plagued me for as long as I can remember. In the midst of a week-long island vacation, I was sad, plain and simple.

Now, don't get me wrong. I didn't spend my days in a darkened room with the covers pulled over my head. I was very active and quite social really. I jogged every morning followed by an elaborate breakfast at the resort restaurant. Then I sunned and swam, snorkeled and celebrated with everyone. But there was this gray cloud over my head all the time. I couldn't seem to thoroughly enjoy myself no matter how hard I tried. I knew how amazing this vacation was and how much I should be loving it, yet I couldn't. I just couldn't.

I suppose that's what living with bipolar really is for me-- being aware of how I should feel, yet feeling the opposite. I guess I am lucky that I am usually aware of what I am missing when my illness strikes. Others may not be.

After this vacation, I've learned that the waves of bipolar illness can crash any shore, even in paradise.

Sentenced With a Side of Stigma

May 23, 2014

Today my son was sentenced to 3 years in a level 5 facility for crimes he committed in March of 2013. Because he has been incarcerated since his arrest last March, he only has 2 years more to serve. The sentence he received was the mandatory minimum sentence so for that we are grateful. We are also hopeful that with time off for good behavior and with completing a court-ordered treatment program while in prison, he may be released earlier than scheduled.

So the sentencing is over. Now we know what to expect; we have a clearer picture of the future. But something else happened today in court that has me troubled. Actually, the more I think about it, the more it bothers me.

There is something in my state called Mental Health Court. This has different implications depending on the severity of the crimes committed. In my son's case, Mental Health Court would allow him to have a probation officer who has mental health training once he is released and put on probation. Today our attorney asked the judge to consider this as part of my son's sentence, citing the volumes of documentation he has of my son's mental illness history. The judge denied his request.

But that isn't what bothers me. What bothers me are the words that he used while denying this request.

The judge said instead of Mental Health Court, he thinks my son should "just do it himself."

Do what exactly, your honor? Do you mean he should manage his neverending waves of mania and depression alone?  Isn't that what landed him here in the first place?

While I would have liked to see my son assigned to Mental Health Court for his probation, I am not really angry about that decision. I don't understand it, but that's not what upsets me. No, what upsets me is that a person in such an important position of power, a well-educated, seasoned professional --a judge-- could be so ill-informed about mental illness that he thinks it is something one can simply self-regulate.

And to think, May is National Mental Health Awareness Month. Perhaps he missed the memo.

This experience is just one more in a long list of ways that the stigma of mental illness has affected our lives. The stigma kept us from revealing our crises and seeking help in the first place. Now it has surfaced once again, in what I hope is the last chapter of this hellish story.

A Big Step Forward

May 9, 2014

Today I took a big step forward. I told our story in public.

Our local NAMI organization hosted a Crisis Intervention Team training for police officers. It was a one week course designed to prepare them for mental health crises. I was asked to give a fifteen minute talk during the Family Perspective portion of the program. 

There were about forty people crammed in the stuffy room where I was scheduled to speak right after lunch. I was sure that my audience would be ready for a nap, not ready to witness an emotional mother blubber on about her bipolar son in prison. 

But I was wrong. They were ready and willing to listen to me and for that I am grateful.

It wasn't easy. I am a teacher so I can talk to a thousand twelve year olds without a problem, but put me in a room with forty grown ups, that's another story! My voice quivered as I began to speak. My tremor kicked in and my hands began to shake. I had to steady my papers on a nearby projector cart. I probably looked and sounded like I was falling apart...

But I made it through and I think I may have had an impact. Or at least I hope I did. Afterwards several people came up to thank me for sharing such a personal story, and they asked lots of questions. Many of them also shared their own personal mental health stories with me. One gentleman told me that he lost his fifteen year old daughter to suicide, calling it "the S word." He thanked me for talking about it because it's so rarely discussed in public. He reminded me that I still have a chance to reach my son and that I should be grateful. Talk about powerful. That really got me. Lump. In. Throat.

So what I did today was important, even if is was emotionally exhausting. 

One thing I said was, "Though my efforts ultimately weren't enough to keep my son from going to prison, I hope that by talking to you here today I may make a difference for someone else's child before it's too late for them."

And if I do make a difference for someone's child some day, even just one, then I've begun to turn this tragic chapter of our lives into something more positive. That's definitely one big step forward.

"Black Box" is a Black Hole for Bipolar

April 26, 2014

ABC attempted to do what no other network television show has been able to do: depict bipolar disorder realistically and openly. Unfortunately, ABC failed miserably with "Black Box" which debuted this week.

If you want to see bipolar illness portrayed in a classically cliched way, act fast. This show won't last long unless the writers wake up and smell the stereotype. "Black Box" follows Dr. Catherine Black who specializes in rare brain disorders. The audience "sees" these illnesses through her eyes as she diagnoses and treats the patients affected by them. But Dr. Black has her own secret. The "clever twist"...wait for it... is that she has bipolar disorder. 

In the pilot episode, we learn that Dr. Black has been dating Will for a year. He wants to marry her but she is afraid to commit and it isn't long before we learn why: she hasn't told him about her bipolar diagnosis. Not only does Dr. Black perpetuate the stigma of mental illness by keeping this secret, as a medical professional who specializes in brain disorders, she certainly should know better. Do know harm? I think not. What does this say about how society views mental illness still today? While I can understand if the writers are planning for Catherine Black to recognize over time that her illness isn't something to hide, the way the plot of the first episode unfolds suggests a terrible misunderstanding about how bipolar illness actually affects people.

In the pilot, Dr. Black decides to go off her medication one day and within a few hours she is in the midst of what seems to be a full blown psychotic episode. During this "psychosis" Dr. Black dances erotically to music no one else hears, she stumbles through the city streets mumbling to herself and climbing lamp posts, and she instigates a fight with a complete stranger. While any one of these events could possibly happen to someone in a manic phase of bipolar, none of them could happen within hours of ending medication. I don't know who to blame for this stereotyped portrayal of someone "crazy" but it's a shame. Finally, a show comes along that appears to offer a wide-eyed view of what bipolar looks and feels like, and instead it continues the on-going misunderstandings society has of this very treatable illness.

Those of us who understand mental illness know that people who have bipolar are not defined by it, so why paint Catherine Black as just one dimensional? Despite her apparent brilliance and obvious beauty, she is simply a crude caricature of what society believes mental illness to be. Why not take a lesson from Silver Linings Playbook? Bipolar illness isn't a one size fits all disorder. Bradley Cooper's portrayal of Pat Solatano offered a more nuanced view of what bipolar can look like. He was real. He had depth. Couldn't Catherine Black have layers too? 

While ABC may have made the first network television attempt at ending the stigma of mental illness, it may be doing more harm than good. In true Stillhopeful mom fashion, I plan on giving this show another chance. Maybe it can redeem itself before it loses every last viewer.

FAQ One Year Later

March 16, 2014

On March 28, 2013 my world turned upside down. My then-20 year old son was arrested. He had been spiraling downward psychologically for some time, preferring to treat his diagnosed bipolar disorder with excessive alcohol and drugs rather than effective medication and therapy. I knew he was running with the wrong crowd, and I had warned him that if he were ever arrested, I would not bail him out. Sadly, that day came. It was the hardest decision I've ever had to make, but I decided that he needed to remain locked up until he got sober, received bipolar medication, and had time to reassess his life.

It has been nearly a year now...easily the worst year of my life. I have been asked many questions over the past year. Here are some of them along with my answers:

How are you?

Would you like the real answer or the polite one? The polite one is easy: I'm fine. But the real answer is not so simple. Let's start with this: How do you think I am? My son is in prison and I am partly responsible for the reason he is still there. Guilt haunts me constantly. Though I know my decision was the right one, the fact remains that he is still behind bars and not out on bail because of me. So I am shitty. That's how I am.

How is he?

He is sorry. Every minute of every day he is sorry. He completely accepts his circumstances as the natural consequences for his actions. He is also healthier. Not only is he sober, he is medicated somewhat effectively for his bipolar symptoms so he can think more clearly now. And he is hopeful.

How often do you see or talk to him?

He calls a lot, but I am not always available to answer like when I'm teaching. But we talk several times a week. And he writes some too. We don't exchange letters quite as often as we used to but we still do sometimes. We see him about every two weeks which is plenty for us all. Seeing each other may seem like a wonderful thing, but it is actually gut-wrenching for everyone involved. He has told me that the days we visit are days he looks forward to but also dreads because it is so painful when we leave. It is the same for me. It takes so much emotional energy out of me that every two weeks is about as often as I could manage.

How do you keep going day after day?

I just do. I'm not sure how I do it, but I do it. This year has certainly taken its toll on me though. While I have been able to continue working full time, I have not had the strength or commitment it takes to maintain my health as well as I should. I have put on weight. My sleep is erratic. And my diet is not ideal. I suffer from chronic neck pain which is exacerbated by stress. And my exercise routine is virtually non-existent. Though I am only 43 years old, I study the new lines on my face and the new gray hairs on my head and I see a women much older than that.

How is your younger son?

Honestly, this question may be the hardest one to answer. He and I have always been close and through this we seem to have become closer. From what he says, he has been able to compartmentalize this and move on with his life. And from the outside to most people that is what it looks like. His grades are quite good, he participates in after school activities, and he has a wonderful close knit group of friends with whom he spends a good deal of time. But I still worry. Because he has not spoken much about his feelings over the last year, always saying he's "fine," I worry that he's not dealing with them and instead, only stuffing them down deeper into himself. I suppose only time will tell.

You call yourself "Stillhopefulmom." How do you still have hope?

 Let me first say that I remember joy but I can't feel it anymore. I am numb to it. I remain hopeful that there will be a day that joy may wash over me again, but for now, I must be satisfied with the few moments I have each day that distract me from my nagging fears. So hope is all I can have right now, and I'm clinging to it for dear life.

A Watched Pot Eventually Boils

February 16, 2014

This morning I had a scheduled visit with my 21 year old son in prison. But as I was being ushered through the security line this morning, much like I have been every other Sunday for nearly a year, something hit me.

For the first time since my older son's arrest last March, I stood in that line and felt something other than anticipation, fear, sympathy, or regret. Instead, I actually felt rage.

Suddenly it dawned on me that because of my son's actions (or inaction in the case of seeking mental health treatment), my life and the life of his younger brother will never be the same.

I will never be able to erase the gut-wrenching experiences from my memory. And neither will my younger son. What 17 year old knows just what to wear in order to move quickly through the security line at the state prison? What 17 year old even knows someone in prison? My 17 year old visits his older brother there.

What 17 year old has to endure the echoing sounds of inmates' heckling while walking from the parking lot to the entrance of prison? What 17 year old has to listen to the jingling sound of the prison guard's keys while being escorted through several locked doors and up an elevator to a filthy telephone room? And what 17 year old has to see the image of his older brother dressed in gray-white scrubs perched on a stool beyond a grimy plexiglass wall? My 17 year old does.

So yes, I feel angry today.

And I think it's about time to be angry. The last eleven months have been the absolute worst days of my life and I'm sure my younger son would agree. Do I have sympathy for my incarcerated son? Of course I do. But today I am letting myself feel angry for once. I'm allowing the rage to wash over me and fill me up to the brim. Because it's time.

Emerson Nailed It

January 4, 2014

We recently had a snow storm here and I was reminded of this poem...

The Snow Storm

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,

And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet

Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

"A tumultuous privacy of storm." Read that line again. "A tumultuous privacy of storm."

What a perfect way to describe a snow storm. And what a perfect way to describe how it feels to have Bipolar Disorder. A tumultuous privacy of storm. 

According to the dictionary, tumultuous means: making a loud confused noise; uproarious. 

But Emerson says the tumultuous storm is private. Isn't that what goes on in our minds when we are battling episodes of mania or even depression? The "storm" is private, yet "tumultuous." No one else can come in to help..."all friends shut out." It's our private storm.

I've read that Ralph Waldo Emerson may have suffered from Bipolar Disorder. I wonder if it occurred to him that his poem could be compared not only to a snow storm but to what it feels like to have a mental illness. Or maybe my bipolar mind has just twisted Emerson's words to apply to what's going on in my mind today.

I have a private tumultuous storm brewing.

As I watch the blanket of white "veil" my backyard, I embrace my "tumultuous privacy of storm." Days like today pass. Just like snow storms.

The Wait Is Almost Over and Yet Has Only Just Begun

Oct. 7, 2013

Through blurry eyes streaming with tears I type this today. Gasping for breath, nearly vomiting with nausea, I struggle to manage my fingers on the keyboard to spell out my thoughts. Maybe I should have waited to post something once I calmed down? No. I need to share this now. While the pain is still fresh, ripping me open. I need to document this agony.

Waiting. That's all we've been doing for months. Waiting for news about my son's potential sentence. Well, the news has finally arrived.

All we've wanted to know for 7 months is what time will he actually have to serve for his crime? This first offender with a history of mental illness. This man-child who has been nothing but cooperative from the start, confessing to everything and asking for help with his substance abuse and bipolar disorder. This boy. My boy. What kind of time will he be away from society unable to make positive contributions of his talents to the world outside cement walls?

I yearn for the feeling I had yesterday of not knowing. That hope of hearing, "Time Served" or something equally as positive. That feeling of hope that maybe they'll see the boy I know and realize that he doesn't belong there.

But instead, when his attorney calls today to tell me what is likely on the table at this point, I hear "3 years." There were more legal details discussed explaining that they have to go before the judge who ultimately hands down the final sentence, but all I remember were those words: 3 years. He entered prison almost 21 years old. He will be nearly 24 before he is out. A third of his twenties will be gone.

I'm trying to wrap my head around this news, trying so hard to find the good here. It could have been much worse and I realize that. His attorney did a wonderful job and got some other charges dropped or brought down to lesser charges.  My brain sees that. It's my heart that is so very broken.

So the wait is just about over and a new wait will begin.

This Unexpected Road

Sept. 22, 2013

When I started this blog back in December of last year, it was a form of therapy. I was venting about the problems I was having with my 20 year old bipolar son. I poured my heart out into the anonymous abyss of the internet hoping to feel some kind of relief.

That early December morning I found blogspot.com and set up this page. I decided to call myself "Still Hopeful Mom" because I still had hope that my son would acknowledge his illness and finally seek treatment. Then I wondered how I could share my story without revealing it to my friends and/or family. How could I find others who may want to read my story while still remaining anonymous?

With very little experience using Twitter, I decided to give that a go and set up an account. Posting a link to my very first entry, I wondered if anyone would even read it. I checked my Twitter account over the next few hours. One. Two. Five. Ten. I was getting readers who then "followed" me on Twitter and I in turn "followed back." Within a few days I was up to about fifty followers. That felt good, like I was making a difference. Like something I was sharing may be positively impacting others' lives. I kept blogging and people kept reading.

It has been about nine months now. As I've continued on my blogging journey using Twitter and later Reddit as my vehicles, I have had the privilege to "meet" hundreds of people whom I consider cyber-friends. These people come from all over the world. They are mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, and daughters. They are mental health care workers, teachers, film makers, and writers, and most importantly they are stigma fighters. Because over time, this blog has morphed into one voice for ending the stigma of mental illness.

Through this blog, I've heard from people facing all sorts of challenges and I've been asked for advice on a variety of mental health related subjects. I have never pretended to be any kind of psychiatry expert. Who knows? Maybe that's a plus. All I have to offer is my own experience which seems to be actually helping other people.

I know I am merely a whisper in this vast cyber universe. And I'm so thankful that my whispers sometimes strike a chord with people. I've heard from mothers trying to connect with their bipolar sons and sons trying to detach from their emotionally abusive fathers. I've even heard from teenagers seeking a "mother's advice" while on the verge of self-harm. I never expected this blog to be anything more than a place for me to unload. And yet, somehow it has become so much more. Now I've found myself on an unexpected road traveling with courageous people who have stories of their own to tell. I feel so privileged to walk beside them.

Foresight (Updated)

September 1, 2013

Pictured above is Van Gogh's Rain. Van Gogh is my older son's favorite artist. For his 20th birthday in May of 2012, I took him to see the Van Gogh Exhibit which happened to be near our hometown that month.

He loved it. And I loved that he loved it. That day was an amazing respite from the days we'd been living. We hadn't seen each other or spoken in months at that point. He was in the midst of his diagnosis denial and living a wild life of booze and drugs.

But that day he settled down and went with me to the art exhibit. One of the features of the exhibit was an opportunity to write a haiku inspired by Van Gogh's Rain.  He and I both wrote one.

Mine:

Springtime sadness seeps

through the grey blue misty sky

waiting for my son

His:

The field swells with guilt

wallowing, faded, almost

swallowed by the view

How did we each capture the future in 17 syllables? How did we know that there would be sadness and waiting and guilt to come?  I have no idea. I have no idea. I truly, have no idea. But somehow we did. Today, a year and a half later, I would do anything to have that poetry card back again. I'd write a new haiku. 

I'd write:

Weep, misty skyline

But see the sun shining through

There is hope ahead

Oct. 6, 2013
I asked my son to write his own haiku. Here it is:

Little figures fall
building a giant steel trap
time is not wasted

The Give and the Take

[Originally posted on http://internationalbipolarfoundation.org August 13, 2013]

August 18, 2013

Recently, I went to my first mental health support group meeting. I must admit I was nervous. What would people talk about? What would people think of me? Would I have to talk? If so, what would I say? Though I've never been afraid to speak my mind, this was different. I was actually nervous to tell my story. That is, until I started hearing the other stories. I quickly realized that there are a lot of people right here in my community who live with bigger challenges than mine.

The meeting was held in a nearby church inside a small conference room. Chairs and love seats were turned inward surrounding a coffee table filled with mental health pamphlets and a strategically placed box of tissues. We were a circle of solemn faces, some young, some older, some in pairs, some alone. And we were united with one goal: support for the mental illness affecting our lives.

There were tragic stories of loss as well as inspiring stories of hope. Mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, friends. Each of us, in clockwise order, took our turn guided by the encouraging kindness of our group leader. Some had lots to say, while others uttered very little. It was obvious who had told their stories before. Theirs were told with stoic poise and sometimes slightly uncomfortable humor. Those who were new to this were obvious too, as tears streamed down their faces as they spoke of their suffering.

Since I sat nearest to the group leader, I didn't share until last. Secretly, part of me hoped we would run out of time so I wouldn't have to say anything. But another part of me was anxious to speak, to share the grief that clouded the room.

“I'm here because of my son. In the fall of 2010 he wanted to kill himself...” I began to tell my story aloud for the very first time. Sure, I had told it in pieces to my loved ones and friends over the last couple of years. I'd written many posts on my blog, too, but never had I laid it out so openly, so raw, to a group of total strangers. I told them everything. My voice quivered as I told them about the gun my son acquired at the mental health hospital. Tears swelled up when I confessed the fear I felt for my very own child. My stomach clenched as I spoke so freely. My story just told itself.

My listeners were more than kind. They hung on my every word. They nodded in recognition of my feelings, my experiences, my story. They chuckled at my attempts to lighten up such a heavy topic. And they shared the tissue box.

When I'd poured out everything, I was surprised at how I felt. It wasn't a void of losing something I'd been secretly harboring so long, but instead, a renewed sense of strength that had grown inside of me. I'd emptied my heart into the laps of strangers and in return, I'd gained hope and understanding from them. I was even marked a “success”, a “survivor” a “model of strength”. The people there listened to my story with hope of learning something from me. That's what was the most surprising. While I attended the meeting hoping to find support, after sharing, I discovered I actually provided support and hope to others. That was the best part of all.

"So Maybe You're Not Bipolar"

August 6, 2013

Seek Treatment. That's what we hope people with mental illnesses do. We want them to feel free to acknowledge their condition and seek treatment. Talk to a therapist. Try medication. Follow a doctor's plan to treat your illness. "You can feel better if you seek treatment." Isn't that what we say?

Well, that's what my 21 year old son has done. Finally. After over two years of ignoring his diagnosis, he's finally acknowledged it and sought treatment. In prison.

See where it's gotten him.

He is currently incarcerated in our state prison. Inside, he has had to convince the DOC psychiatrists that his Bipolar Disorder is real. The psychiatrists on the payroll who are expected to treat inmates for mental illnesses have been less than helpful.

All this time, while my son has been in prison, he's been trying to tell them he's "Bipolar". At first, they believed him and gave him a generic anti-depressant and a low dose of a mood stabilizer. Not the meds he'd been on in the past, but at least they were something. Then he was experiencing bad side effects so he reported them to the psychiatrist making her rounds on his tier that day. This was her response:

"So maybe you're not Bipolar!"

You can imagine my shock when my son told me a medical professional said this to him. Isn't it her job to diagnose and treat mental illnesses? Yet she can speak to a patient like this?

But the worst part was what she did next.

She took him off the anti-depressant completely. She told him that in order to receive any more treatment, his doctor needed to contact her and inform her of his Bipolar diagnosis. She left him on the low dose of mood stabilizer which he said did "nothing". Subsequent visits from her and other psychiatrists doing their rounds on his tier did nothing to improve the limbo in which he'd been damned.

So for the last several months I've been trying to acquire all of his records to prove that he IS, in fact, Bipolar. First, I called his regular doctor who was unable to call the doctor at the prison- this is because the diagnosis did not come from his regular doctor, it came from a psychiatric hospital. Makes sense.

So then I went the route of requesting his medical records. Sounds easy enough. But consider the fact that he's 21 years old. This means every single medical professional he saw in his lifetime required a separate release form signed by my son. So, through snail mail, I began my quest of accessing the forms, sending them to him to be signed, having him send them back to me, and then sending them to the correct establishments in hopes of receiving the records. This was a nightmare. Thankfully, the nurse at his regular doctor's office helped me with this and eased the stress considerably.

We were almost home free when we realized that the release forms we'd been using were not accepted at certain mental health facilities. 

Back to the drawing board.

Thankfully, at this point our attorney stepped in and worked his magic to acquire the records more quickly. It's amazing what attorneys can accomplish. What took us months took him less than a week. So now, we may have finally struck gold. The last of the records have been acquired and presented to the prison mental health ward director along with a personal note from our attorney.

After FIVE MONTHS, my inmate son may finally be given the proper medication for his Bipolar Disorder.

So Maybe he IS Bipolar like he's been saying all along.

Days Like Today

June 26, 2013

Some days I forget I'm "Stillhopefulmom". This is one of those days. The only good thing I've accomplished today is this blog post (which technically I haven't finished yet.)

People say that I'm so strong. They say I've inspired them because of how well I've managed the circumstances of my life as of late. What people don't know is I need to be stronger...for days like today.

There are days when walking downstairs to let out my dog takes great effort. Days that I do not answer the phone. Days that I stay in my pajamas. Days that I may sustain myself on cheese sticks and Diet Coke. These are days of extreme sadness. Days when it is obvious I'm depressed.

Today, I woke up and went out for a run. It was really hot and I was not very motivated but I managed to finish two miles. Then I handled some business emails and phone calls as well as made myself a healthy breakfast, but that's where the productivity stopped.

I have actually spent the rest of the entire day (it's now 6:30pm) sitting on my bed with an NCIS marathon and my ipad playing an array of mindless games while half-listening to Mark Harmon solve military-related crimes.

There are days like today where I need to be stronger. I need to remember that sometimes I just get sad. I just do. And I suppose it's something I must accept. But I wish I were stronger. I wish I could be that "stillhopefulmom" I pretend to be...the one you readers believe me to be.

Sorry, she isn't here today. Hopefully, she'll be back tomorrow.

Coming Out from Behind the Shadows

June 1, 2013

Today my son and I were interviewed by British filmmaker @erinamos2013 for the film "Semper Est Sperare" (http://semperestsperare.wordpress.com/) --a film about mental illness and the people it affects across the globe.

While it was a gut-wrenching experience to travel back to 2010 again and retell our story, I believe it was well worth it.  My older son called home from prison during the interview so he was able to be part of the filming too.  I am grateful to have had such a warm, empathetic listener today.  It was therapeutic to say the least.

Then we finished off the day by going out to dinner at a local "British" pub.  To our surprise, our guest confirmed that the pub met his standards!

I look forward to following @erinamos2013's progress as he meets more people who have stories to tell.  And I look forward to the finished product as I am sure it will be one step closer to ending the stigma of mental illness.

Shine a Little Light

This week I will be interviewed by a filmmaker from England for his film "Semper Est Sperare". We are hoping to include both my sons in the interview (older son by phone) if possible too.

The film title (I had to look it up) is Latin for "There is always Hope".  How appropriate for "Stillhopefulmom"?!

It's a feature length documentary film about people all over the world who have Mental Health issues and how they are overcoming them.  Ending stigma is a primary goal of the film.  I'm so honored to be a part of such a powerful project.  Check out the website and find out what it's all about.   http://semperestsperare.wordpress.com/

It was very important for me to have both my sons' blessings and I do.  They are completely supportive of this.  They want people to learn about what we've been through in hopes that other families don't have to endure what we did.

This interview will be the first time I've used anything other than my blog handle: Stillhopefulmom.  The first time a little light will shine on the shadows we've been living in for the last three years.

Birthday Behind Bars

May 18, 2013

My son turns 21 today.  Behind Bars.

He will celebrate with orange-jumpsuited strangers and armed guards.  His birthday meal will be served on a divided tray with plastic utensils. And there will be no cake, nor candles, nor song sung. He will celebrate alone.

The photo above is a picture of my son when he was just under a year old.  He loved to look out of the sliding glass door of our apartment which faced the forest.  He loved to hear the birds sing.  Today he is surrounded by cement walls and barbed wire.  He cannot hear the birds nor see the forest.  Instead, he is trapped inside a living hell filled with screaming inmates banging on bars and fights breaking out randomly all around him.  This is the reality of his life now.

He has been incarcerated since March 28 and it still hasn't completely sunk in.  Not to me.  Especially when I look at these pictures of my baby.  When I think of the days, weeks, months, years that led up to his incarceration, I have to remind myself that he made choices.  He chose not to accept his Bipolar Disorder diagnosis and seek treatment.  He chose to act impulsively, self-medicate with alcohol, and surround himself with people who didn't care about him or perhaps themselves.

I have to remind myself that this baby boy has grown into a man.  And this man has to face the consequences of his actions.  We still are awaiting the sentencing of his charges.  We still don't know what he will need to do to pay his debts to society for his foolish acts.  And everyday his reality is nothing like what he dreamed of staring out that sliding glass window.  There are no birds singing.  There is no forest to view.  Only cement and isolation.

Happy 21st Birthday my beautiful baby boy.  I love you.

These Hands

These handprints in a frame mean more this year than ever.  My son's three year old hands so open to life.  So welcoming to all that lay ahead for him.  Riding a bike, learning to swim, shooting baskets.  Going to school, making the team, meeting a girl.  Going to prom, driving a car, graduating school.

How could I ever know that these hands, these little hands would someday be behind bars?

This Mother's Day, love your babies.  Love your children.  Love your grown up kids.  And grab their hands.  Both of them.  Hold them tight.

This Mother's Day, all I can do is look at this set of handprints.  And remember.