The Gate

May 2, 2019

The other day, I accidentally drove by the state prison. Right in my line of vision, there were those giant steel gates again.

I don't think I exhaled for a full minute.

But you may be wondering how this happened by accident. Here's how: I had been blindly following my GPS directions to a workshop on Trauma. 

I know. The irony is not lost on me. 

Without thinking at all, I just hopped in my car, plugged in the address, and began to drive. Before I knew it, I was right there looking again at those giant, steel gates topped with swirls of barbed wire.

Seeing them brought lead to my belly and metal to my tongue.  

And, though my car windows were rolled all the way up, for just a moment, I could almost hear the inmates yelling, banging on the window bars, calling out their last-minute declarations to their visitors headed to the parking lot after visitation time was up.

A whirred blend of dread, anticipation, fear, hope, and love made up those Sunday afternoon visits to the prison.  With ever-varying amounts of each ingredient in this recipe, the concoction was never quite the same from week to week.  

Seeing those gates again triggered me. 

And they reminded me what it felt like to be on the outside looking in, not able to alter the reality of what I knew was on the other side. I could only show up to visit and hold the telephone receiver, stare into my boy's eyes and utter mother-ramblings and anecdotes about the family cat, ignoring the reality that a thick wall of plexiglass divided us.

But this post isn't about driving by the prison gates the other day and feeling triggered.

And it's not even about Trauma, though I should mention that my state officially declared May as Trauma Awareness Month. That, paired with the national observance of Mental Health Awareness Month during the month of May ought to give us plenty to talk about.

But no, this post isn't about Trauma, either. Not exactly.

When I was teaching middle school, I read a great book with my students that included this quote from an old poem:

"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage."

It appeared in the book when the young protagonist was pondering whether or not to help break someone out of jail. No, this post has nothing to do with breaking someone out of jail. 

But that quote matters. I can't stop thinking about it. Some people can physically be inside prisons, yet feel emotionally and spiritually free. And, some people may put themselves in prisons of their own making. But what about the walls, or gates, or bars that exist between us and the ones we love that we can't seem to penetrate? 

A barrier still stands between my son and me. It's thicker than the plexiglass and fiercer than the barbed wire-topped fencing. This barrier exists because of his illness and because of his repeating pattern of agreeing to and then refusing treatment.

I'm sitting on one side of the barrier and I can see him there on the other, but I just can't get through to him. I can almost hear him calling out a declaration of hope and acceptance, but then I realize I'm only dreaming.

For now, I wait. And gently stir my new recipe: equal parts anticipation, fear, grief, frustration, and love. And, I hope that someday he'll break through that stone wall, say he's ready, and this time, he'll mean it.

Measuring The Progress of Our Village

Nov. 10, 2018

It's important to measure progress. I wrote this more than three years ago as a blogger for the International Bipolar Foundation. My feelings are still the same but, thankfully, our village is ever-growing.


May 27, 2015

Parenting isn’t easy. Anyone who’s ever parented, or has even just been parented well knows that. Don’t they say, “It takes a village to raise a child”? As if to say raising children well takes more than just one person, it takes a community, right?

Let’s suppose, God forbid, that your child has been diagnosed with a very serious illness, such as diabetes or, dare I say it, cancer. My assumption is that the outpouring of support would be ample from the very start. From what I can tell, serious childhood illnesses like these are publicized and supported locally and nationally in many ways. There are 5K races, online campaigns, viral videos, fundraisers, and celebrity spokespersons offering their support to encourage donations and community involvement. And, of course, in our local communities, neighbors and friends seem to be willing and able to offer random daily kindnesses. They are bringing over lasagna, mowing the lawn, or caring for your other children when you take your sick child to the hospital. Yes, the entire village certainly seems to step in and help. And thank God, too. Because caring for a sick child is not only heart-wrenching, it is exhausting. Caring for a sick child can break you.

But now, let’s suppose, that your child has been diagnosed with a mental illness. What does the community do for you? How do they reach out and help?

(Crickets, the sound of crickets)

Childhood Cancers and other similar illnesses are tragic diagnoses, life-changing, and sometimes terminal. Parenting a child with such an illness requires on-going support. Parents need to be thoroughly informed, comforted and encouraged to stay strong through the challenges ahead.

But, have we forgotten, Childhood and Teen Mental Illnesses are tragic as well? Life-changing...and yes, sometimes even terminal. Parenting a child with such an illness requires on-going support. Parents need to be thoroughly informed, comforted and encouraged to stay strong through the challenges ahead.

Parenting isn’t easy. But when you are parenting a child with mental illness, the walls cave in. I know this first hand. And there are no neighbors offering lasagna at your doorstep. Because it is likely, you haven’t told anyone. Because who would you tell? What would people think? What would they say? And what could they possibly do to help? So, often times, it’s just you. And your child. With perhaps their siblings, frightened and alone.

I met a mother this week, a mother of a son who has schizoaffective disorder. Her son is exactly my son’s age. We traded stories and some tears over coffee. The onset of my son’s bipolar diagnosis paralleled her son’s situation in many ways, only her son’s illness is relatively new, while my son’s illness has been a part of our lives for five years now.

As I relayed our family’s story to her, the tension in her neck, the quiver in her voice, the furrow in her brows all seemed to lessen a bit. She kept saying, “How do you do it? How have you been so strong? I am not sure I can do this…”

But, clearly, she can do this. Because she took a step I didn’t take when I should have. She reached out for help. When my son first presented with his illness five years ago, my walls all caved in. I didn’t tell anyone. And there was definitely no lasagna, no one to share stories, coffee and tears with. But now, thankfully, the stigma of mental illness is finally breaking down a bit. This other mother and I met through a local mental health organization that put us in touch when she contacted them for help. I became involved with the organization about a year after my son’s spiral into serious illness, after he’d begun self-medicating out of denial and after he made life-altering decisions that ultimately led to his incarceration. She, however, became involved at the onset of her son’s diagnosis. So her son, thankfully, is now getting help...and so is she.

This is progress.

Our communities need to acknowledge that parenting children with serious conditions, whether they are illnesses of the pancreas, the blood, or the mind, need help.

We need a village of support to do this right. I hope to be part of that village, if only for this one mother. Because nobody should have to do this alone.

Original post titled as "Be the Village" on http://www.ibpf.org/blog/be-village

Requiem for a Turkey

Nov. 22, 2017

Seven years ago, as Thanksgiving loomed, my household was slowly unraveling. I was a single mother with two teenage sons, one of whom was experiencing the onset of serious mental illness. We had not shared with our friends and family anything about his condition. We hadn't really acknowledged it yet ourselves. In fact, my sons' father was unwilling to discuss it with me at all, citing only typical teen angst and a mother's over-reaction. And, as far as I could tell, my younger son was well-distracted by video games, 13-year-old girls, and new pimples. I had hoped he had not noticed the gradual disintegration of our home.

Only my immediate family knew that my 18-year-old son was seeking mental health treatment and that he'd been diagnosed with depression. That was the extent of it, and most people didn't even know that.

I was denying the obvious, determined that silent resolve was my only option.

And, because I usually hosted my parents for Thanksgiving, I first thought I'd just put on my game face and power through it. Only a few times a year I attempt a Martha-Stewart-Style meal, so I figured I needed to suck it up. But as we reached mid-November, it became clear that I was not cooking a turkey this year.

I remember agonizing over how to tell my parents I wasn't hosting Thanksgiving Dinner. At no point did I recognize that what I really feared sharing was far more intense than the thought of thawing and stuffing a 12-pound Butterball.

Instead, I convinced them (and myself) that I wanted to do something for others on Thanksgiving rather than host the traditional, gluttonous holiday meal. I expressed disdain for our society's disgusting obsession with the "wrong" message, even dipping my toe into the Pilgrims-Natives historical perspective and claiming revenge for our American Indian ancestors.

Frankly, I was off the rails with rejection about hosting a classic Thanksgiving. I researched local organizations that offered service opportunities for the day and opted for Meals on Wheels. Under the veil of social consciousness, I pitched the idea to my parents.

They weren't thrilled, but they agreed. My mom offered to help me make plans to "give back" for Thanksgiving. Funny, I don't even remember telling my sons about this. I suppose it didn't rile them one way or another or I'd remember, right? In hindsight, my suspicions are that my older son was so deep in the throes of his illness by then that he wasn't able to care, and my younger son was so traumatized by the daily uncertainty of his family life, that he wasn't able to care either.

My only recollection is that I stressed out about telling my parents that I wasn't cooking a turkey.

As all the planning for holiday humanitarianism was playing out, the symptoms of my son's illness were becoming more obvious and harder to ignore. Yet, somehow, I did just that. His volatile moods had become an expectation rather than a surprise. His swings between angry accusations and weepy apologies were now the norm.

Each day, driving home from the school where I taught and where my younger son attended, we avoided discussions about his older brother. He didn't ask any questions and I didn't offer any answers. It was as if we had made an unspoken pact of distraction and denial. Instead, we silently savored the steady, predictable hum of the engine as we traveled the 25-minute commute back home, never acknowledging the reality and unpredictability of what may be waiting for us there.

Thanksgiving Day went off without a hitch at first. We used two cars between the five of us and distributed hot meals to grateful individuals living in seclusion for various reasons. Some were elderly, some ill. All of them were alone and deeply appreciative of our offering.

I remember thinking, "This is really good for the boys to experience. I'm so glad we're doing this. They need to see what outreach looks like. They need to be involved in caring for those in need of support, those who really need help."

I never once realized that we, too, fit in that category.

Once we'd delivered all the dinners, it was time for us to seek out our own hot meal. I had imagined we'd go to a Chinese restaurant. In my mind, that would be the perfect outright objection to the holiday nonsense that I'd claimed had inspired me to skip all turkey prep this year.

We piled into one car and began our search for the perfect Anti-Thanksgiving respite. The Chinese restaurants that I had in mind were all - surprisingly - closed.

Somehow in my planning, I'd failed to actually call them to check. I had believed completely in my fantasy that our local Chinese restaurant owners would ignore their new home country's holiday and remain open to serve revolutionary families like ours.

So we drove up and down the highway in search of a restaurant that was open. My sons were hungry and so was my dad. I bit my nails nervously, scanning both sides of the street for someplace with lights on. The first time we circled, my dad had spotted a diner serving a "Traditional Turkey Meal". I immediately opposed the idea - citing my determination to rebel this year. As we made our second and third pass by Said Diner, the growling from my companions grew louder.

I finally relented.

We slid into a booth at our neighborhood diner less than one mile from my house. And, despite my strong objection, most of our party of five chose from the menu the Traditional Turkey Meal.

There's a lot to give thanks for these days, seven years later: my sons, my parents, my husband of three years. But, I really can't get into that right now.

I've got a turkey to cook.

Etched Deep: A Place Where Art Reclaims Lives

Aug. 4, 2017

There is a place downtown where creativity inspires dreams in those who had long ago stopped dreaming. Where vision reignites ambition in those who'd long since given up. Where praise encourages the ignored and trust empowers the doubted. 

There is a place downtown where Hope is etched deep.

Ken greets us at the door. He's happy to see us again but sorry that he can't remember our names. He says we do look familiar. He just isn't so good with names anymore because of all the ECT. He laughs nervously like he's convincing himself that this is somehow funny. He doesn't know what projects we're doing tonight, but he knows they'll be good.

Pharoah comes in and puts his crumpled grocery bag on the table--it isn't filled with groceries, it's filled with notebooks. Removing each one reverently, he stacks them, then lays a hand down on the top one as if to swear an oath. Quietly, he asks if we'd like to hear a poem. If we do, he'll need a minute to find one that is appropriate for all audiences, one that doesn't have curse words and that doesn't require yelling.

And Nate arrives to drop off his hand drawn flyers advertising his debut art show coming up next month. He shuffles on the balls of his feet, nodding proudly when he learns his show will be the most well-attended one to date. He tells us of his girlfriend Sheila and how she's had Lyme Disease. He's very pleased to meet us and repeats our names again as if to memorize them before he disappears out into the city.

We sit down and we each pick up a tile. Yellow or pink. We pick up our carving tools and begin to create our own unique designs. Anything we want to imagine. We are told we can do whatever we think of as long as we carve deep. Get down below the color surface so it sticks when they fire the tile. So it stays. Just carve it in. Dig down deep. Dream hard.

Ken and Pharoah, Nate and Sheila know how to dig deep. And they have remembered how to dream and to imagine and to create right here. Their freedom to hope was etched deep into them when they first stepped inside this place.

Yes, we know Poverty and Homelessness lurk just outside that door. And we see Mental illness and Addiction hovering there too. But Ken and Pharoah, Nate and Sheila don't get distracted by that gloom. 

Their Hope, like ours, is etched deep.

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.

An Open Letter to Mr. Andy Parker, Father of Slain Journalist Alison Parker

August 31, 2015

Dear Mr. Parker, 

First, let me extend my deepest sympathies for your loss of your beloved daughter Alison. No parent should ever outlive their child, but to lose a child in this horrific way must be the worst hell on earth. Please know you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.

I am writing in support of your mission to do "whatever it takes" to stop guns from getting into the wrong hands in our country. Mr. Parker, five years ago, a loaded handgun got into my 18 year old son's hands.

My son was an outpatient at a mental health facility being treated for what at first was diagnosed as depression. Though he'd been physically threatening to me and his younger brother, he was able to charm the intake nurses into admitting him to the day program rather than the inpatient program of this reputable facility. He was to attend sessions between 9:00am and 3:00pm Monday through Friday for three weeks.  And because he had just turned 18, he was grouped with adults of various ages and diagnoses.

During this program, my son befriended a fellow patient who met him in the mental health facility's parking lot during a break one day and sold him a loaded handgun.

My son came home intending to kill himself, however, that's not what happened.

My younger son, then 13, found the gun in his older brother's room, and, thinking it was an Airsoft gun, held it up as if to shoot it. By the grace of God, my older son came into the room just at that moment and stopped him, admitting that the gun was real and that it was loaded.

Mr. Parker, my two teenage sons kept the secret of this loaded handgun in my house for several weeks.  I had no idea it even existed.

Thankfully, my younger son eventually did tell me about the gun before anyone used it. Unfortunately, though, when my older son was faced with the choice of being admitted to a different, hopefully better, mental health facility as an inpatient or leaving my home for good, he chose the latter. He walked out my door on December 31, 2010.

Today, my son is in prison.

Mr. Parker, I am writing to you because I want to be sure you know our story, just one of so many stories that have not ended well in our country. It is the story of gun control as well as mental illness.

The issues are intertwined, yes, however, it is not as easy as requiring universal background checks to curb the gun violence in our country.

My son would have passed a background check. He'd never had more than a speeding ticket in his life. But Mr. Parker, remember, my son bought this gun illegally, so a background check, even if it would have flagged him, would not have been done anyway.

The heart of this matter lies so far beyond gun control itself. While I am a firm believer that we do not need the same Second Amendment that once allowed our country's citizens to protect themselves against the British so long ago, there are so many more things to consider.

First and foremost, our country's mental health care system must change. We need to identify mental illnesses sooner and much more comprehensively. American teenagers need to be educated about the signs of mental illness and what to do if they recognize them in themselves or others.

Secondly, the stigma associated with mental illness in our country must end. People need not fear what others will think of them. Mental illness occurs in one out of four adults in our country, yet people are ashamed and afraid of judgment. Years ago, people whispered the "C" word. Now they boldly announce: I have cancer. Why can't people see that mental illness is a physical illness just like diabetes or cancer? And it is treatable, very treatable, but those who are diagnosed have to seek the treatment, thus, they have to challenge the stigma. And the three in four American adults who are not diagnosed have to end the stigma and embrace our loved ones with support rather than shame.

Finally, our insurance companies must be forced to provide proper and thorough treatment for those diagnosed with mental illnesses. Even if someone is brave enough to seek treatment and is diagnosed, there is no guarantee that they will receive the essential care they need.

Mr. Parker, I stand beside you in your commitment to stop gun violence. I urge you not only to advocate for legislative measures with gun laws, but also advocate for our mental health community. We need better preventative measures to identify and treat mental illness. We need more comprehensive insurance coverage for it. And we need to encourage our citizens to recognize and end its stigma.

If there is anything I can do to help you continue your mission, please let me know. You have my deepest sympathies as well as my utmost respect.

Sincerely,

Anne Slease
Wilmington, Delaware

A Documentary about Mental Illness and Its Stigma

May 11, 2015

In June 2013, my younger son and I were interviewed by a documentary film maker who was traveling the globe for his project about mental illness and its stigma. Here is the link to the original post from my blog.

We were honored to be involved in this powerful film with such an important message. The film is now finished. I hope you'll take a peek at the film. The director, Tim Hill, plans to submit it to film festivals later this year, but hopefully, you'll help us share it via the internet as well.

A New Perspective from the Cab of a Tow Truck

January 18, 2015

The other day I had a flat tire. The night before I had run over a good-sized rock that must have slowly deflated my tire overnight. So the next morning, I went out to the car and discovered the flat.

As luck would have it, both my husband and my son had already left for work and school so I was on my own to solve the problem.

And these new cars don't have spares in the trunk. (Not that I would have been able to change the tire anyway...) Good thing I had a service program in place. I called for a tow truck.

When the tow truck driver arrived, my first instinct was to snap a photograph or two and "check in" on social media so that if the driver was some kind of maniacal killer at least my "friends" would know where and when I disappeared. (Yes, I watch too much Dateline.)

But the driver of the tow truck didn't frighten me at all. Instead, he reminded me of my sons. He was young, early twenties, with a round, boyish face. He wore silver wire-framed glasses and his dark brown hair was short and combed. I didn't catch his name.

We first talked about how he became a tow truck driver. He joined the crew a year ago when his cousin told him about a job opening. He had been "a pizza guy" before that and had not been satisfied.

But driving a tow truck is not his goal. He plans to join the Air Force next month. In his words, "I just need to get out."

I certainly could relate to his sense of urgency. My younger son seems to feel that way, too. With all that has happened over the last few years, my younger son yearns to break free from the dark clouds of his older brother's poor choices and his father's struggles with alcohol. So, because I could relate to this young man's feelings, I shared with him a small part of our story.

It's funny how just a few words can make a difference.

After hearing about my sons' struggles, including my older son's battle with mental illness, suicide intentions, and eventual felony arrest, the young man said this, "That reminds me of my brother."

And then he was quiet.

I wasn't sure if I should ask anymore. He gripped the large steering wheel firmly and stared directly ahead pursing his lips.

I waited.

Then he said, "My older brother had mental problems since middle school. But he was a really good student. He was valedictorian. And he got a free ride to Drexel... But then he killed himself."

Suddenly, a series of realizations occurred to me:

I had hit a rock.
That rock had caused a flat.
That flat had required a tow truck.
The tow truck I was assigned had this driver.
This young driver needed to tell me this.
And I needed to hear it.

The silence was broken eventually. We went on to discuss mental illness and those it affects beyond the patients themselves. I told him about NAMI and what I'd been doing with it lately. I urged him to check it out for himself or suggest it to his dad. His mother, unfortunately, was out of the picture.

Our conversation continued until the moment he shifted the large truck into park. He tilted his head and gave me a crooked, awkward smile before hopping out to unhitch my car. I climbed down and stood beside his giant vehicle suddenly feeling exceptionally small.

What had happened to me in that 25 minute drive? My head was still spinning when he approached me with paperwork to sign.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome," he said sheepishly.

"No, really. Thank you. For talking to me. That was very brave and I really do appreciate it. You're a strong guy. And I think you'll do great in the Air Force. Good luck."

"Thanks," he shrugged.

I extended my hand to shake his, but then quickly decided that wasn't enough. "Can I hug you?" I asked. "I feel like I should hug you."

He smiled, "Sure, yeah, thanks."

And we hugged. Then he climbed back up into the cab of his giant tow truck and drove away.
I never did catch his name.

An Innocent Bystander

September 22, 2014

About two weeks ago during a busy work day, I discovered three missed calls from my ex-husband. Though he and I have been divorced for 13 years, we remain on good terms and have always tried to stay unified when it came to decisions about our two sons. So when I realized he had tried to reach me three times in quick succession, I thought something must be wrong.

My hunch was right. It turns out that he'd lost his job that day. He was devastated and rightly so. He'd worked there for more than 15 years and had an excellent reputation. While he certainly has had his share of personal issues, he'd always been on top when it came to his job, but not anymore. He was suddenly unemployed.

While this news doesn't exactly have a direct impact on my life because I'm not married to him anymore, it definitely affects our two sons, especially our younger son.

At 17 years old, our younger son is planning his future. He's a senior in high school making big decisions about the man he wants to become. He's got so much on his mind already: school work, his job, college applications, his friends...Then there's the fact that his older brother is in prison. And now this. His father is suddenly unemployed. Obviously, he's worried about his dad now just like he's been worrying about his older brother for the last year and half. My concern is that he's going to get so tangled up in their messes that he will lose sight of his own needs. And while I've referred him to his counselor at school, he isn't the type of kid who expresses his feelings too well. He plays his cards close to the vest.

As his mother, I just want him to escape all of this and be free. I want him to reach his full potential without the distractions of his brother and father holding him back. I fear that they will always be burdens he must bear. He's just an innocent bystander in all of this. Why must he suffer? He's already seen much too much in his 17 years. He has learned firsthand what mental illness looks like and how it rips open a family. And he's seen what happens to a man whose lifelong career vanishes in a heartbeat. He has done nothing to deserve such heartache.

I love both my sons. And I want what's best for both of them. My older son is in the midst of turning his life around, but it can't happen until he's released from prison. My younger son has his whole life ahead of him, and he's got such amazing potential. I just hope that the pain he's suffered watching his brother and father struggle will make him a stronger person. I wish there was more I could do to keep him safe and get him away from all of this sadness.

I suppose I need to remember that I am still hopeful mom. That's just what I have to be.

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.

Two Sets of Bars

August 30, 2013

It isn't easy to find the right medication for mental illnesses. Some people try for years to get just the right "cocktail" of meds to work for them. They call their doctors, report the side effects, and try again until they get it right. But they eventually will get it right.

But when you're in prison with a mental illness, the rules change.

When you're in prison with a mental illness, there are certain medications that are not allowed at all. Medications that are easily abused are not permitted. These medications may be what you took before, but that doesn't matter. The rules change when you're in prison.

When you're in prison with a mental illness, you get what they give you when they give it to you. If you complain of side effects, you risk being taken off all meds completely.

When you're in prison with a mental illness, you are visited by psychiatrists once a month if you're lucky. You might get to see a counselor or you might not. Your symptoms might get reported accurately or they might not. You might receive adequate treatment or you might not. The rules change when you're in prison.

When you're in prison with mental illness, there are two sets of bars: the ones that keep you from the world and the ones that keep you from the you you used to be.