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.

Still Hope

July 26, 2017

It's been seven years since
the Wave of my son's illness first crashed over him.
Seven years since I realized he needed something
that neither he nor I could see nor taste, smell nor hear, touch nor feel.
Seven years since I tried to find the boy
who'd disappeared in Darkness
and smother out his Pain. And Sadness.

But Sadness swallowed him whole.

It's been more than four years since
my son went to Prison.
More than four years since he decided,
from the backseat of a Police Car,
to finally accept his Diagnosis.
More than four years since

I finally received the Call

and he stopped running
Four years since
I finally knew where he would sleep that night
and I felt Relief. And Sadness.

Sadness swallowed me whole.

It's been over a year since
my son left Prison.
Over a year since he came out the other side
and began to face the world of Recovery,
discovering it is a world of constant motion.
Like treading water,
Recovery expects constant Movement,
constant Effort, constant Work,
Recovery nags, never satisfied.
The journey of Recovery is always that.
A journey with no Destination.

It's been more than a year and
we are both Still just treading water.

It's been more than a month since
I left my teaching job
More than a month since
I began this new career
to Advocate and Support people
living with mental illness and their families
People like my son. And people like me.

And the work we do brings me joy.

But also, sadness.

Sadness that I can't solve all the Problems.
Sadness that there are not enough Resources
and not enough Hours and not enough Days
and not enough willing and capable People
to do this Work.
All this Work.
Not enough. Never enough.

So yes, Sadness.

But with the Sadness,
also Hope.

Still
Also Hope.

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.

Today- An Unlikely Day for Hope

November 2, 2015

Today is a strange day. 

So many things are happening and not happening today.

I wrote a YA novel called A Brother's Oath and it's part of an international writing contest called PitchWars hosted by Brenda-Drake.com. Today, well tonight at midnight, my "pitch" and the first page of my book "go live" on a website to be viewed by literary agents looking for new talent. For the next couple of days, the agents will peruse the "pitches" and select some to pursue for potential representation. So, basically, I may get an agent out of this. Even if I don't, I still won because I was matched with Trisha Leaver , YA author extraordinaire. The impact that her guidance has made on my book is immeasurable. I am humbled by her kindness and wisdom.  

So, yes, today I am grateful for her help. I am hopeful for the possibilities of landing an agent, but today I am also incredibly sad.

Today was supposed to be the day my son came home from prison.

We had first thought it would be Oct. 8, 2015, a date he was given by prison personnel in error. Then, it was changed to November 2, 2015. Today. 

Only, the conditions of his release were called into question.  We had been under the assumption (because my son was told this) that he'd qualify for "house arrest" instead of "work release halfway-house" placement because 1) the halfway house is full and 2) his home is "a good one".

We took the steps required to file for our home's clearance in the program. My husband brought documents to the designated office and signed commitment letters stating we were willing hosts for my son.

But we were wrong.

One week ago, they told him he was going to the work release halfway-house after all. Oh, and they told him he can't get a job while he's there because "they don't do that anymore." 

It's a good thing I stopped trying to make sense of DOC operations and "regulations" long ago. Their "procedures" are nothing more than moving targets of arbitrary rules, random dates and times, contradicting policies and ambiguous practices. 

So we took more lumps. We acknowledged the facts of the situation. He was NOT coming home just yet. He was going to live in a halfway house for up to 6 months before he could come home.  We called our attorney and asked him to do what he could, and he will, though he's been honest that the odds of changing his placement are grim.

It took the weekend for me to stop crying.

Then today came. The day he was to be transferred to the halfway house facility.  The day I would get to see him, touch him, hug him, without a thick bulletproof glass jammed between us.

According to his official documents, his Level 5 time (prison) expired at 11:59pm last night. He was told the Level 4 time (halfway house) began at midnight.  He expected to be moved this morning. So did we. Seemed logical...

But this morning came and went. 

I made my run to Target to pick up some more things he'll need, like shaving cream and socks. I held my phone in my hand all morning but it never rang.

Finally, he called me at 1:00pm today.

He had just been told the following concerning his transfer, "Oh, we only do runs to the Plummer Center on Wednesday mornings. That's when you'll go."

Um, ok.

THAT would have been nice to know sometime BEFORE NOW. On the day my son was sentenced, our attorney said something to me I'll never forget. We were talking about when he might possibly, actually, realistically be released and our attorney said this, "I'll never understand prison math."

Neither will I.  

So here we are again: in the perpetual state of WAITING. In the strange, familiar place of happenings and non-happenings where things may be predicted but should not, can not be expected, or God-forbid assumed.

Where 

even the 

littlest 

sense 

of hope 

slips 

through 

your fingers.

Love You Forever-The Book and the Promise

Oct. 5, 2014

I used to read this book to my son every night before he went to bed. It's a wonderful story about the love a mother has for her son all through his life. No matter what trouble he got into from childhood to adulthood, she never stopped loving him.

While the concept of a mother crawling across the floor of a grown man's home to rock her adult son to sleep may seem silly, the message isn't silly at all. It's about unconditional love. It's clear that the mother would never desert her son; she just wants to comfort him. The boy in the story makes some bad choices, but she never stops loving him. She never stops rocking him back and forth, back and forth.

And though I can't crawl across the floor of his prison cell today, I feel that unconditional love for my son just like the day I first laid eyes on him 22 years ago.

So because I can't crawl across his floor, this morning I wrote him a letter. And I consider it quite an accomplishment whenever I complete one because it's never easy writing him letters. That may seem strange coming from someone who fancies herself a "writer," but it's true. It's incredibly difficult to write to my son in prison.

The challenge is really about balance, trying to share my thoughts with him without revealing too much of the gut-wrenching pain I feel when I think of where he is and why.

Tears pour down my face as I carefully select mundane topics like my plans for the show I'm directing or my ideas for re-landscaping our yard. I can't let my broken heart bleed through the drivel I'm crafting for him to read. I don't want him to know how hard this is for me because for him, it's already too hard.

But no matter what I write in his letters, I always conclude them the same way... with the lines from that special book. While she cradles her great big boy in her arms, she sings:

I'll love you forever

I'll like you for always

As long as I'm living

My baby you'll be.

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.

Unwrapped

December 26, 2013

Since Thanksgiving, I've been trying to live like a perfectly wrapped gift. Smiling, laughing, trying to seem "in the spirit" of the holidays... but I've hidden behind the fancy ribbon and shiny paper. I've tucked away my tears inside my perfectly wrapped gift box.

Today I've been unwrapped.

No more artificial smiles and empty laughter. I'm out of the box. I'm unwrapped.

Let me cry now. Let me feel now. Let me grasp the gristly heartache that comes with having a child in prison during the holidays.

I'm unwrapped. It happened last night.

My older son, imprisoned since March 28th, sent a beautiful letter to my family. So last night, after the presents and the feasts, after the stockings and the caroling, after the holiday ho ho hos and hugs all around, we passed around his letter. It was addressed to each of us individually, each of us named in his blue pen scrawl. His heartfelt words of jolly good cheer and best wishes for a healthy, happy new year leapt off the page like a sleigh full of toys and eight tiny reindeer.

My parents read it first, as grim, bleak looks darkened their faces. I took it next in my hands, trying not to shake. Then my stoic younger son read it and I swear tears welled up. And finally, my siblings each read it, growing solemn and tearful. With reverence we held it. Ritualistic almost, handling it like precious china as we passed it from one to the next. Each of us reacted in about the same way. The room deflated. The holiday cheer escaped.

Reading his letter shredded my shiny paper and yanked my red ribbon right off.

I came unwrapped in less than a minute.

StillHopefulMom...One Year and Counting

December 22, 2013

Today is day 364 of this blog. I remember typing out my story as tears streamed down my face that morning. And the tears stream down my face today as I type this now. So much has changed, but there is a thread that hasn't...that thread is HOPE. I am StillHopefulMom.

A year ago I was nervous about my son visiting my home for Christmas after two years of being away, being estranged from us.  Today, one year later, I just returned home from a visit to my son...in prison. He's been there since March 28, 2013.

A year ago I worried that we wouldn't have anything to say to each other when he visited. Yet today we filled all 45 minutes with tears and laughter, memories and promises.

In this hellish 364 days I have seen a twenty-one year old boy transform from a place of denial to a place of acceptance. I have reunited with my firstborn son--we are closer now than we have been in years. And I have renewed confidence that he will continue to seek the mental health support he needs as we await his release. Sentencing is February 14th.

I don't know when this hell will end yet, but there is hope. I still have hope. I am StillHopefulMom.

One Mother Who Cannot Be "Still Hopeful"

I just finished watching the movie Blackfish. I felt compelled to share my personal connection to this amazing film. I am not a radical animal rights person nor am I a film critic. I am simply a mother who misses her son.

The documentary reveals the inhumane treatment of orca whales by SeaWorld. These enormous, beautiful mammals have many similarities to humans. Besides the obvious mammal connection, they have their own language that has been studied extensively. They are smart, curious, playful. They live in complex social structures much like our communities. And one last similarity is the attachment a mother has to its young as so poignantly portayed in the film. Watching and hearing an orca mother as her young baby is seized and essentially kidnapped was heartbreaking. I could completely relate to this mother's anguish. Losing a child, no matter how or why, is a pain that cannot be explained.

SeaWorld, for years, has been holding orcas in tiny pools away from their families. They have "trained" them to do tricks for food. These mammals are secluded from their own families and instead, put in with other orcas from other waters and expected to get along with them. Fights break out and yes, the orcas become agitated. Wouldn't you?

The whale called Tilikum has quite a history. He was "extracted" from the wild when he was approximately 2 years old. One extremely difficult interview from this film is that of a crewmember from the ship that took Tilikum. He described the mother's cries as none he'd ever heard before.

Tilikum went on to become an enormous (literally and otherwise) hit at SeaWorld. And for years, things seemed to go along just fine. What the general public didn't know was that at numerous SeaWorld parks, trainers had suffered injuries and even death while working with orcas. These creatures had attacked the very people who were their caregivers. SeaWorld disputes these accusations, of course, saying that these accidents were due to trainer error.

But let's think about this for a moment: "Extracted" from one's family? Imprisoned with foreign strangers? Food withheld as punishment? What would you do? Some say Tilikum went "crazy"...

I think of my own son. Imprisoned. Away from his family and housed with strangers and I worry about his mental health. He is not violent. I do not fear that. But I do wonder if he will be forever changed by this experience.

And I think about Tilikum's mother. They say orcas in their natural habitats have lifespans upwards of one hundred years. So she's out there somewhere. Circling her waters. Missing her son. Only she has no chance to be hopeful.

Handcuffs Save Lives

Nov. 3, 2013

So much media attention has been given to the connection between crime and mental illness, but I am not here to join that fray. I am simply stating a fact: my 21 year old bipolar son is in prison.  Though he had no criminal record, he may serve more than 3 years for the crimes he committed. 

There are days when I barrage myself with questions, aching with anxiety over my son's new reality. Why him? Why us? Where did I go wrong? What did I miss? Why did he do it? And, Why didn't I just bail him out? Was I too upset? Too hurt? Too angry? Too frightened? Why didn't I just bail him out? 

There were so many factors involved in my decision not to bail him out. Not only was his bail set so high it exceeded the value of my home, I was standing behind something I'd been telling him—“If you get arrested, I am not bailing you out.” Tough love they call it. I'd been telling him this for over a year, “If you get arrested, I am not bailing you out.”

Today, seven months after his arrest, I definitely go through pangs of heavy guilt for not trying harder to gather the bail money. I probably could have done it with family and friends' help. But when I am really honest with myself, I know the truth: 

Being arrested saved my son's life.

During the time leading up to my son's arrest, he was a ticking time bomb. He self-medicated with drugs and alcohol, unable to hold down a job. He no longer lived with me, a choice he made when he refused mental health treatment the year before. Instead, he planted his belongings at his dad's house but more often than not, slept wherever his head hit a pillow or even floor. More than once, he was even kicked out of his dad's house for stealing, something he'd done to me too.

And the lies. The lies he told us just added to our pain. He had himself convinced that we didn't know about his lifestyle, but we knew. We all knew. In his own words, now seven months later, he calls himself “a lying, cheating, piece of sh*t con-artist.” I can't disagree. That's who he was. That's what his illness left untreated allowed him to become. So back then I was living day to day with this reality: I will someday get a phone call telling me one of two things—either my son has been arrested or my son is dead.

When I received the call in March, there were no theatrics. I didn't cry or yell. I simply sat down in a daze and thought, “At least he's not dead.” There were no tears that night, just a thick fog in my mind and a sick feeling in my gut, neither of which have subsided since.

These past seven months have been filled with a lifetime's worth of pain for our family. And the pain is not over yet. There will be years of it. But there is hope. Yes, there is indeed hope. On the day of his arrest, my son told the officers that he was bipolar and that he'd been off his medication. He asked if he could go back on it. So after a short bout of detox the hard way, cold turkey, my son began to take a prison prescribed regimen of bipolar medications. While these aren't the desired ones that his doctors would have prescribed, they are at least something in the right direction. His mania and depression are somewhat treated, though not completely. But in prison, mental health care is subpar, or at least that's what we've experienced.

Today, though, my son is a new man. Yes, he wears DOC whites and speaks to me through glass when I visit, but he is completely a brand new man. He has accepted the consequences of his actions. He is seeking forgiveness from all those in his life that he wronged. 

And he is himself again. He is the articulate, curious, clever, creative, witty, charming lover of life I knew before bipolar disorder took him from me. My son is back. And when he gets out of that cement hell, he will be a man whom people will respect and revere. 

Being arrested saved my son's life.

The Pain of Normal

October 13, 2013

Today was another visiting day. We are getting into a routine with this by now. It almost seems normal. My younger son and I go to meet his dad in the lobby of the prison. We sign in. We are scanned by metal detector. We are stripped of any belongings except our keys. And we are corralled like cattle from the lobby to a series of confined spaces including an over crowded elevator. Finally, we are escorted to the room where my son waits behind a glass wall much like the one in the picture above. For months now we've been doing this so we've become accustomed to the institutionalized way we are herded through the labyrinth of the prison in order to see our boy. Today, though, I noticed something different.

I noticed the children.

There are children for which this is normal, routine. Going to see Dad, Uncle, Grandpa, Brother in prison is part of their everyday lives. Like today, the children there seemed so relaxed, so casual as they were searched, jackets removed, pant legs lifted, and as they were guided through the concrete hallways of the correctional institution. For them, this was normal.

I noticed one little girl, about four years old. She held her younger brother's hand in the elevator. He was probably about three. They were with their grandmother. She seemed a bit frazzled as anyone with two toddlers waiting in a prison lobby might be. And she seemed too young to be a grandmother.  But the two little visitors giggled together inside the crammed elevator showing each other their chewed gum and giving each other what they called "bist fumps." For them, this was normal.

When it wasn't my turn to talk with my son, I observed these two tiny visitors. The girl sat on her grandmother's knee while she spoke on the phone to the inmate. She jabbered on and on in such an animated fashion using her hands to tell her stories. The inmate nodded and smiled clearly amused at what she had to say. Meanwhile, the younger brother sprawled himself out on the grimy linoleum floor flicking a dime and then chasing it. Flicking it again and then chasing it. For them, this was normal.

At the conclusion of our visit, after I'd said goodbye to my son, I looked over at the tiny visitors again. The younger brother had been whisked up by the exhausted grandmother and placed atop the table facing the inmate. "Say bye to Daddy," the grandmother said. The boy immediately put his palms up against the glass as his father did the same. The grandmother put the phone up against the boy's ear. "Bye, Daddy," said the little visitor. For him, this was normal. She then brought him back down to the floor and took each child's hand preparing to leave.

The girl let go and ran back to the table. Without lifting the phone receiver, she yelled, "Hey Daddy, I love you!" But the father never heard her because he had already fallen in line with the other inmates heading back to their cells.

This little moment made me think. We are now living our new normal so I hope that my son always hears us when we tell him we love him.

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.

Can a Little Getaway Get You Far Enough?

July 16, 2013

I'm on vacation. I can sleep in. I can stay up late. I can spend my days with my toes in the sand. I've even eaten dessert two nights in a row and not felt guilty about it (well, not too guilty.) My younger son, my boyfriend and I are spending the week with my family at the beach. But even with great chic lit on my Kindle, my mind can't escape the realities of my life. 

Don't worry. I brought my medication: the high dose of anti-depressant and the new mood stabilizer that together work as my psychological cocktail to keep me in relative balance. Lately, my psychiatrist has been working overtime to keep me out of bed and off the ceiling. Being bipolar II, I know my meds are not optional no matter what paradise my suitcase and I land in. I've ventured off meds a few times in the past but never successfully. And I would never even think to try that with the life I'm living to date.

For those of you who do not know my story, my older son, 21, has bipolar disorder. In a two year downward spiral, experimenting with self-medication and ignoring his diagnosis, he ended up in prison with six felony charges. He's been incaracerated since March 28. And so have I. We all have to some degree. But as a mother who shares her son's illness, I am indeed in prison too.

Vacationing doesn't feel the same this summer. And I suppose it shouldn't. There is a guilt cloud floating over my head. How do I deserve to bask in the sun when my boy hasn't felt solar rays regularly for almost four months? How do I deserve to enjoy relaxing jogs along a shaded seaside trail when my son is only limited to every other day yard time within the perimeter of an electric fence? I can't shake the guilt. It haunts me.

But now, with so much time to think, I wonder, are we all a little guilty of feeling guilty when we experience pleasure? Do we all carry some weight of something that makes us feel unworthy of happiness? Unworthy of joy? Is it my bipolar mind that makes me feel this way? Or is it motherhood? Could it be both? I do not have bipolar friends to ask. Only those who read this blog. I would love to know if my feelings sound familiar to you.

In any case, this little getaway hasn't gotten me far enough away. It has only gotten me far enough to see that happiness remains out of reach, unattainable. With every moment of laughter, there is a dull weight in my gut reminding me that laughter isn't allowed. Joy is not an option. And freedom only exists in my dreams. When I awake, whether it's with sand between my toes or at home in my own bed, the nightmare of my reality is still there to greet me. This vacation doesn't get me far enough away.

My Son's Battered Lighthouse

June 15, 2013

My son called me last night from prison.  Yelling and screaming underscored his hollow, shaken, breathless tone.  He was not himself.  It was not his typical, yet forced, chipper voice that I heard on the other end of the line.  He had called to report that there had been a stabbing that day.  He had seen it close up.  "So much blood," he said.  "So much blood, Mom,"  and he shuddered with fear.

And I shuddered too.  Lighthouse.  Be the lighthouse.

Whenever he calls, I must be the lighthouse in the dark storm of his incarceration.  I don't let my voice quiver or weaken in fear.  I don't let him hear my terror, my panic, my anxiety.  I only allow myself to speak in the "mom voice" he knows.  The one with all the answers.  The one who loves him unconditionally, without judgment.  The one with strength and light.

I am the lighthouse for my son in the blackest of his hours.  He knows he can call me and I will illuminate his darkest night.

"You're OK, right?  You weren't hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, Mom."

"Well, did you know the guys?"

"Not really."

"OK.  So these guys are all dangerous.  Just stay to yourself.  Keep your eyes open and be kind to everyone.  You're going to be OK."

"Yeah, I know Mom. Thanks."

And with those quick words, my son's anxiety decreased and his volume increased.  The breathlessness dissipated and he began to sound like himself again.

*SIXTY SECOND WARNING*  This means our conversation must end.  So we said our quick "I love yous" and hung up.

As I turned off my phone, my hand was shaking.  A shortness of breath and quickened heartbeat caught my attention.  I have been battered by another wave of pain, but I still stand.

I am his lighthouse.

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.

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.

An Open Letter to the Hater

May 4, 2013

Dear Hater,

I know who you are.  I know what you're doing to hurt my family and me.  I won't let you continue to do it anymore.

My son is not a monster.  You do not even know him.  Your life is not in the least affected by his choices.  So stop making this about you.

You can only hurt us if I let you.  And I won't let you do it anymore.  I've shed my last tear because of your hatred.  I've spent my last moment worrying about what others think.

I am done with you, hater.  I am done.

~SHM

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.

Swimming Lessons

April 13, 2013
It's been two weeks since my son was incarcerated.  Since then, we've learned to tread water in the judicial system of our state.  We've hired an attorney, our life raft, and we've discovered that the word "strict" doesn't cover what a level 5 correctional institution is.

Once we learned that we had to have phone accounts with at least $25 deposited in them for him to call us, his dad and I have each received several calls.  It seems our son is learning to swim in this new murky water too.

And once I learned that he had to buy his own socks, deodorant, and the like, I followed the directions about depositing money into his commissary account.  This "order" gets filled weekly, every Sunday.  Last Sunday, there was a mistake with his order. So he's been handwashing his one pair of socks for the past 14 days.  He's written us letters that he cannot mail because his commissary order for stamps and envelopes was not filled.
He's not permitted to be mailed anything but letters and money orders (for the commissary).  Ironic?  And he's lost 15 pounds.

While all of this may sound like he's miserable, and he most likely is, he maintains a remarkably hopeful attitude when he calls me.  He says "I love you" at least five times per call.  In fact, in the past 14 days, I've spoken more to my son than I have in the past year.

His sunny mood when he calls reminds me of all the beautiful summer days we spent at the beach over the years.  He loved to body surf.  He didn't use a boogie board or any sort of raft.  He wanted to do it alone.  And he was good at it.  Thank God for that.  Because now he is alone.  Swimming in murky water facing waves that may engulf him or that may bring him safely to shore.  He doesn't know and neither do we.

Hope Behind Bars

April 4, 2013
My 20 year old son is behind bars.  The charges are serious. Very serious.  It's been a week since our world was turned upside down with his arrest.  In the past week I have learned a few things:

First, after our experience, I would say to any new parent, "Along with teaching your children not to talk to strangers and always look both ways before crossing the street, teach them that if they ever get arrested, ask for an attorney and don't say a word."

I've also learned a lot about the crucial part a good attorney plays in the process.  Whether innocent or guilty, a good attorney can help guide the accused and the family through the jungles of the court system.  It is well worth the money.

I've learned that no matter what your child is accused of doing, it is still your child and the sound of your child's voice on the other end of the phone is one of the most beautiful sounds one can hear in times like these.  Even with a limit of 15 minutes and the fear of every word being recorded, hearing his voice saying, "I love you Mom" has been the nourishment I've needed to survive the last several days.

I've learned that the entire situation is dynamic, everchanging.  I've learned not to take anything at face value as circumstances won't remain as they are. Appointments may be rescheduled, rules may not apply, court dates may be changed, and waters may become more muddied.  The "case" will become uglier before it gets resolved.  I've learned to trust our attorney with these fluctuations and focus only on our family's needs.

And I've learned, that a 16 year old younger brother can be the most rational one of us all.  In his words, "Well, it was bound to happen, Mom."

Now we wait for the formal charges to be brought to the courts.  We will soon learn what the future may hold for him.  In the meantime, I have one bit of good news.  My son revealed to the prison physician that he was bipolar and hadn't been on his meds for a long time and he asked to be medicated again.  They complied.  They only gave him an antidepressant, but it's a start.

They say each person in trouble must "hit bottom" and they have to realize for themselves that they need help.  I think behind these bars, my son finally realized that he couldn't deny his mental illness anymore.  Asking for medication was a remarkable step for him to make on his own.  Obviously, treatment for bipolar is more than taking a pill, but it is a step in the right direction.  He knows he needs psychological help.  And he's asking for it.

Behind bars there may be hope.