A Quiet, Steady Hum: The Background Noise of a Mother's Fear

June 26, 2016

I recently read Kristin Hannah's The Nightingale, a wonderfully rich novel about two sisters in France during World War II. They each, in their own way, become heroes. While I don't have a sister, I could definitely relate to another strong theme of this book, the sacrifices of motherhood.

One part struck me as especially significant:


"The sound of his voice reminds me that I am a mother and mothers don't have the luxury of falling apart in front of their children, even when they are afraid, even when their children are adults."


While I have absolutely no experience struggling with the hardships of war, I do know a little bit about being a mother and being afraid. And I agree. We "don't have the luxury of falling apart in front of our children..."

These past few months have been challenging in our home. The newness of my 24-year-old son being released from prison has worn off. The "settling in" period has faded. And now we are faced with the "getting on with living" part of things.

And it hasn't been easy for him. He's had trouble finding consistent work and he's had trouble readjusting to daily life outside prison. He sacrificed so much and changed so much of himself just to survive almost three years behind bars, but it seems that the man he had to become when he was inside isn't the man he wants to be now that he's outside.

As his mother, it's so frustrating to see him frustrated. And I think that's what he is. Frustrated. He's definitely grateful, sure, because he's not in prison anymore. And he's more balanced, yes, because he's being treated with more effective medication. But he's still, from what I see, frustrated.

And, as his mother, I'm afraid. It's not the same kind of fear I used to have. It's not the kind of fear I had when he was unmedicated, when he was irrational and potentially dangerous. No, this fear is muffled, hushed. It's a quiet, steady hum, a muted background noise, swimming gently just below the surface of my mind. It's always there but I try not to hear it. I try to block it out or maybe even accept it as the new normal.

When I do acknowledge its existence, I ask myself what it is I'm afraid of.

I'm afraid of what happens next. I'm afraid of what may happen and of what may not. I'm afraid of unfulfilled potential, of dreams deferred. And I am afraid I may not see that son I once knew again. I am afraid he may fear this, too.

But, I'm his mother, and although I am afraid, I can't show it because I "don't have the luxury of falling apart..."

Hazard Lights Blinking on the Shoulder of the Road, Two WorldsCollided, Finally

November 5, 2015

On my way north toward Connecticut yesterday afternoon, I got the call. The one I'd been waiting for.

My son had finally been released from prison after two and a half years and had arrived at the halfway house to begin his six month sentence.

I expected the irony. Predicted it, actually.

At the very time I was driving north on the New Jersey Turnpike to attend presenter training for a youth violence prevention program, one that I never would have even known about had my own son not suffered from a serious mental health crisis years ago, I missed the chance to go see him in person without prison glass between us for the first time in nearly three years.

I saw it coming. As clear as if it were a vision in a crystal ball, I knew it would happen this way.

He called and my Bluetooth sent his voice swimming into every corner of my little sedan. He said, "I'm here, Mom. Can you bring me my stuff now? There are some rules though. Can you write this all down?"

I pulled over, hit my hazard lights, and grabbed a pen. On the back of the printed out Google Maps directions to Sandy Hook, Connecticut, I jotted down the details he listed off to me:

"I can have razors, but no liquid soap. It has to be bars.
I can only have a travel size toothpaste. Nothing bigger.
I need a towel and two wash clothes, and they have to be white.
I can't have more than nine pairs of anything, no more than nine pairs of socks, or t-shirts, or pants. No more than nine, Mom."

And the list went on.

I scribbled it all down in my purple pen, the one I use to grade English papers. My handwriting was haphazard, frenzied; I made giant circles and squiggly lines pointing to notes about what my husband needed to remove from the pre-packed duffel I'd left in our hallway and what he needed to add to it.

My little blue sedan sat along the New Jersey Turnpike for what felt like hours and only seconds all at once. It was as if somehow time had stood on its end. Tilted slightly, almost falling over, but not quite.

If you scroll back to my very first blog entry here, you'll find it's dated December 2012, and you will see something.

You will see that my first blog entry was inspired by the tragic events that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Two years after my son walked out my door in 2010, the tragedy of Sandy Hook finally WOKE ME UP and MADE ME SEE what lies I'd been telling myself.  What shame I'd allowed myself to live with. What stigma I'd hidden behind for so long.

At that moment yesterday afternoon on the shoulder of the road, two worlds finally collided.

My son's entire world --the one of self-hatred, of self-medication, of self-destruction had finally collapsed, completely deflated.

And my entire world--the one of a mother's fear, the one of a mother's blame, the one of a mother's regret had finally imploded, too.

And yesterday, in the middle of New Jersey somewhere, our two worlds, my son's and mine, began, at that very moment, to breathe life again, renewed with the power of hope, the strength of acceptance, and the force of love.

Do I regret my choice to travel to Sandy Hook, Connecticut to attend a two-day training session so that I can make school-wide presentations, teaching students how to "Say Something" and prevent school violence, identify kids in crisis, secure safer, healthier school communities?

No, I don't.

Do I wish that instead of my husband, I had been the one to deliver the duffel bag and give that first real hug to my son last night? Of course I do.

But if given the choice again, I would do the very same thing.

Two worlds, our worlds collided yesterday, even if we didn't touch each other at all.

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.

A Thread of Hope

April 11, 2015

Today was Decision Day at the college my younger son plans to attend this fall. From the moment we arrived on campus, the positive energy was palpable. Helium-filled balloons, giant welcome signs, blue and gold pom-poms and, of course, excited college students welcomed the thousand or so high school seniors as well as their parents for a day of university pride. Once we were checked in, and given our $20 gift card to the school book store, my younger son and I entered a giant reception area where we could fill up on “free” muffins, coffee, juice, and fresh fruit. I say it was “free” because it technically didn’t cost us anything…but once you pay the tuition and room & board fees, those breakfast treats work out to be about $10,000 each! Enough negativity though. The day was about school pride and we bought into it hook, line and sinker.  Since the school is in our home state, he was happy to see a few kids he knew from high school while I had a chance to meet and chit chat with their parents. Everyone was brimming with excitement and it was contagious. I fought back tears all morning. Not because I’m sad he’s growing up, though I certainly am. No, my tears were tears of pride and relief because my baby is going to be ok and this morning it finally hit me that he really is. He’s going to be ok. After a few helpful presentations, we walked around the beautiful campus, took some pictures at the admissions building and visited the book store, where we spent more than $20, by the way. All in all, it was a pretty great Saturday morning.

We left just after lunch because I had an appointment; I was scheduled to visit my older son in prison.

Though my son has been incarcerated since March of 2013, I’ve never visited him alone. I’ve always either gone with my ex-husband or my younger son. Today, though, I was solo. What struck me as I walked in was the stark difference between my morning and my afternoon’s activities. When I arrived at the prison, there were no balloons, no friendly faces, and certainly no free food. Instead, I was led through a metal detector and then made to reveal the contents of my pants pockets as well as lift up my pants legs to ensure I wasn’t armed. And the crowd that gathered with me definitely contrasted from my morning’s company. The afternoon bunch consisted of young mothers quieting their babies, older couples frowning to one another, and single visitors like me just politely smiling, not making eye contact, and hoping the visit will begin soon. And, though I was grateful to see my older son again, I wasn’t able to muster the same level of excitement for him as I did for my younger son just a few hours before. Just like every visit I have with him, the tears welled in my eyes from the moment I saw him through the plexi-glass when he lifted up the receiver of the phone. We talked about his most recent run-in with the pod bully and the progress of his current GED students that he tutors. And though he still faces several more months of prison, we can see the end now and we talked about what he’ll do when he’s released. We talked about the halfway house rules he’ll need to follow and how he’ll have to use the city bus since he no longer has a car. We talked for the entire hour and some of it was mundane, but all of it mattered to me because it was all evidence that reminded me that he’s going to be ok. He really is.

Though my morning and afternoon experiences couldn’t have been more different, I have managed to find one thread of similarity between them: Both experiences involved hope. While this morning’s hope was about new opportunities, this afternoon’s hope was about simple survival. 

Either way, though, both my sons are going to be ok. They’re going to be ok.

Top Ten Reasons I Should Still Be Hopeful or How Hollywood Compares to My Life

December 7, 2013

10. My younger son is thriving in school, in activities, and in life. (Though he's much like Ferris Bueller sometimes, he has a heart of gold and brings me joy everyday.)

9. My significant other completes me. (Seriously. Just like in Jerry Maguire.)

8. My place of employment continues to make me happy after all these years. (No Office Space problems here. I truly love my job.)

7. My extended family is happy and healthy and we all get along. (We're basically the Cleavers, with a dash of Modern Family thrown in.)

6. I am healthy. (So I'm not a size 0 Hollywood type, but I've got good genes.)

5. I have amazing friends who I trust and can always count on. (Think Steel Magnolias minus the terminal illness.)

4. I have a good solid home and a reliable car, both affordable. (No Money Pit issues.)

3. I have creative hobbies that occupy my ever-worrying mind. (But I'm no Martha Stewart.)

2. So far I have been strong enough to handle what life has thrown at me. (Like in Finding Nemo, I just keep swimming, swimming, swimming...)

1. And, most importantly, my older son is alive and healing. (Sometimes there is no comparison to be made.)