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.

The Gavel

May 21, 2014

This Friday at 9:30 am EST, my 22 year old son will stand before a judge and receive his sentence for crimes he committed over a year ago. He has been incarcerated since March of 2013. I will not share the details of his arrest. I will only say the crimes were committed while he was heavily intoxicated, he did not harm anyone or himself, and he made a complete confession upon his arrest. I am past the point of blaming him for what he did. Or at least I think I am. At this point I just want to know what his sentence is. I'm just so tired of waiting.

But now, the wait is almost over. In just a couple of days we will know how long my son will have to sit behind bars before he can begin the next chapter in his life, before he can really begin his young adulthood in earnest.

Nausea has settled into the pit of my stomach. My hands and legs tremble. My mind darts from one worry to the next. The anxiety I feel is growing more intense each day. I know my son feels it too. He has called me nearly every night. He talks about his fears. He tries to remain hopeful without setting himself up for a great disappointment. Instead of dreaming of the best case scenario, he is trying to prepare himself for the worst case scenario only that's not easy to do since we really don't know what that is. Our attorney has given us as much information as he knows which isn't that much. What can a defense attorney really say to prepare a defendant for sentencing? What can he tell a defendant's mother? I do not blame him for the tension I feel. And I do not blame my son. I just want some resolution.

To say I am ready for the gavel to strike the judge's bench is not exactly true. I don't think I will ever be ready to hear a judge announce the sentence my son face, but it's time. And I am doing all I can do to prepare myself and my son for what that sentence may be.

These Letters Spell H-O-P-E

January 13, 2014

If writing is conveying important thoughts and feelings using words, and words are created by rearranging letters into different configurations, then letters convey important thoughts and feelings when they've been configured accurately. Right?

Letters, when crafted with care and honesty, can spell hope.

My son's attorney suggested that I ask some family and friends of my son to write letters to the judge who will be sentencing him. The purpose of the letters is for the judge to get to know my son through the eyes of those who know him best, before deciding his sentence.

Over the last week or so, several letters have arrived. Each time I read one, I cry.

Not only am I awestruck by the incredible love that envelopes my son from his friends and family,  I am astounded at the accuracy with which each person has described him.  From his gift for working with children and older adults to his talents as a visual artist, writer, musician, and actor, these letters verify what I've known for the past 21 years. My son is a wonderful, caring, gifted human being. My son is not a criminal.

Most letters mention that my son has struggled with mental illness, but not one uses it as an excuse for his behavior. Most letters emphasize his geniune contrition about the events that led him to prison and his 100% cooperation since the moment of his arrest. But all the letters convey the overarching message that my son has amazing potential and, when released, is determined to use his gifts in meaningful ways. 

These letters have served as validation for me as a mother too. I read them over and over again. I just want to be reminded that it's not just me who sees my son as a kind, talented, bright young man just waiting to be given a chance to begin his life as a productive adult. There are others who do too.

I am (still)hopeful that the judge will read these letters and view my son through a compassionate lens, recognizing what kind of man my son will be once he is allowed back into society.

For me, these letters spell H-O-P-E.

I Wonder How Much the Commissary Charges for My Heart

October 29, 2013

We made it over another hurdle in my son's case today. The plea.

This has been such an arduous, gut-wrenching, not to mention expensive seven months. All the waiting, all the crying, and all the costs. The attorney's fees are one thing, but the prison system gouges inmates left and right with unreasonable commissary prices. $1 per envelope, $2 for a bar of soap, and $4 for a single dose of Tylenol.

And it's not over yet.

But today we made it over an important hurdle. Now the sentencing date has been set...it will be Valentine's Day. Yes, that Hallmark-hyped, over-priced flowers and mediocre chocolates day will be the day we will finally hear the legal consequences of my son's actions last March.

It's kind of ironic. I never liked that holiday much anyway, but now and for years to come, it will remind me of this long, painful process we've been enduring for seven months. And the day will come just like the Valentine's Day flowers--late and overpriced.

Yes, today we made it another step of the way. A bittersweet hurdle. We now have a timeline--we're no longer left wondering when the sentencing will come. And, best of all, thankfully, it seems we have a judge assigned to the case who is said to be fair and kind. Finally, some good news. Finally.

So now we wait with our wallets and our hearts. Just like waiting by the mailbox for our Sweetheart's Valentine, we wait. Just like hoping for those $15 chocolates, those $45 flowers, that $5 card. Only this time, we're hoping for something that won't melt, or wilt, or fade on a shelf. This time, we're only hoping for a fair sentence. One that will allow him to be a healthier, better version of the boy he was before. How much do they charge for that?

The Wait Is Almost Over and Yet Has Only Just Begun

Oct. 7, 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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