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.

Endurance

May 7, 2013

Today I learned the incredible story of Ernest Shackleton by viewing a film narrated by Kevin Spacey.  It's on You Tube if you want to check it out.

Normally, history is not my thing and certainly would not be a subject of my blog, however, this story affected me so much I wanted to share it with you.  I'll give you the very short version:

In 1915, Shackleton led a team of adventure-seeking men on the ship Endurance trying to cross Antarctica via the South Pole.  During the journey, the ship became trapped in ice.  Most would think all hope was lost.  But not Shackleton.  He took his men onto the ice and they camped there for months waiting for spring when the ice would thaw.

Unfortunately, while they waited, the Endurance wasn't freed by warmer weather.  Instead, the ship was crushed by ice and sank.  Luckily, before the ship was completely engulfed, the men were able to go aboard once more to retrieve their belongings, their sled dogs, and their life boats.  Though their situation appeared dire, they didn't give up.  They remained optimistic and journeyed on.  Their story is one of 635 days of survival.  But let me get to my point.

My point is Endurance.  Shackleton and his crew had incredible endurance.  They would not have ever survived without it.  Six hundred thirty-five days.

Sometimes we need to be reminded that we, too, have endurance.  We may not feel like we do, but it's there.  In fact, sometimes we may feel just like that ship wedged fatefully in that ice and we may just want to give up.

But we mustn't.  No, we mustn't give up hope.  I remain hopeful.  And you must too.

We each have a journey.  Probably not one that involves a ship and the ice of the South Pole, but we have one.  And our endurance will sometimes feel like it's frozen dormant inside of us, but it's there and we must find it. Dig deep for it.  Find it and use it.

Six hundred thirty-five days.  That could be the length of time my son is incarcerated.  Endurance.  I'm digging deep.

Who's Doing Time?

April 28, 2013

This marks exactly one month since my son's incarceration.  I went to visit him today.  I'd assume that the majority of you have never been to visit a prisoner in a level 5 correctional institution before, so allow me to set the stage.

First, you must call a week in advance and make an appointment after which they run a full background check on you before you are granted the visit.  Then once the day arrives, it's like an airport security check only more invasive.  You may only bring your keys and your ID (which they take during the visit).  There is a metal detector as well as a guard who scans you, asks you to show your pockets are empty, and has you lift your pant legs up.

Once you are granted admission, you wait.  And wait.  Until all of the visitors that will be seeing a loved one are through the security check.  Then you and the entire party plus a guard enter another room.  And you wait some more.  Until the previous wave of visitors comes down off the elevator and then you finally go upstairs.  On the second floor, after exiting the elevator, there is another short wait; and then finally your party is granted entry to the visiting room.

The photo above was the closest I could find to what the visiting room looks like, at least in our state.  But what you don't see in the photo is the row of inmates, men dressed in white, seated tall, leaning forward, eagerly waiting for their loved ones to come through the door.

Today my son sat behind two thick panes of plexiglass.  We locked eyes the moment I walked through the door and his broad, handsome smile lit up the room for me.  I took my seat at the stool and we both picked up the phone handsets.  He dialed his inmate number and suddenly I was able to hear that familiar voice say, "Hi, Mom."

Since everything we talk about is recorded, we didn't really discuss his case.  Instead we talked about what he does during the day, how he's feeling on his medications, what books he's finished reading, and the fact that he desperately needs a haircut.

Being able to talk to my son for 45 minutes without interruption, and look into my little boy's blue eyes while doing it, is worth all the waiting.  All the security hoops I am made to jump through seem like nothing when I know that for 45 minutes I can see and hear my son talking to me.  Really talking.

It occurred to me today:  I've spoken to my son more in the past month than I have in the last 2 1/2 years.

These visits are gut-wrenching as well as rejuvinating for us both.  The double-paned plexiglass not only keeps him in, but it keeps me out, unable to give my boy a hug, something we both desperately need.

He's not the only one doing time.

"Anything I Can Do..."

April 18, 2013

It's been 3 weeks since my son was arrested.

I count every new event from that day.  Easter was Day #3, for example.  My return to work after Spring Break was Day #10.  My first visit to see him was Day #16.  And so on.  I'm not sure when I'll stop counting.  Thursdays are just hard.

But through all of this I have been supported by amazing people.  Not only my family, and my friends, but people who know my son and me or used to know us.  My Facebook inbox is filled with messages promising prayers and offering kind words.  These messages usually end with "let me know if I can do anything for you".  While this is a standard closing phrase in messages of sympathy, and most people would just see it as such and leave it at that, I actually take people up on it.

Here's what I ask of them:

"If you hear anyone talking about my son and what has happened, be sure to tell them that he is a good boy and he just made a terrible mistake.  He is not a criminal; he's mentally ill, but he's now seeking treatment."

I hope that it's not too much to ask of these kind souls who really just want to make me feel better.  I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds by actually asking something of them in return.  But I don't regret my requests.  Hey, they asked if there was anything they can do.  And yes.  Yes, there is.