Examining Fear

Nov. 4, 2018

Today I dug up an old post from six years ago. Looking back, I still identify with a lot of it, but there are a couple of key differences. First, I claimed that "I am speaking out for all other parents..." yet, at that time, I was still writing blog posts anonymously fearing the stigma. Eventually, I would find the courage to overcome my anonymity. And second, in this post, I am really fearful. I remember, six years ago my son was so unpredictable. He'd already shown that he was potentially dangerous. I lived in a constant state of fear. At the time, he had not yet been arrested, but his erratic behavior was increasing and his arrest was imminent. Of course, I did not know that then.

But looking back, perhaps the fear I expressed here is less about him being dangerous and more about the uncertainty I felt. Not knowing what might happen terrified me. Today, six years later, I cannot say that my son's situation has completely stabilized. But in a way, I think I have. My stability comes from gradually accepting the uncertainty of serious mental illness, not only his illness but mine. That fear came from not knowing. My evolving courage comes from accepting the fact I may never know.

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Sometime in early 2013


If my twenty-year-old son knew I was writing this, I'm not sure what he'd do. Bipolar disorder can be a dangerous thing when it goes untreated. I am a mother who is afraid of her son, but I am speaking out for all the other parents out there who fear their own children.

First, you should know something about me. I have bipolar II. I was diagnosed in 2011, a year after my world crumbled. A year after my older son walked out my door. With a right-for-now cocktail of medications plus a wonderful therapist, I function well day to day. My colleagues would never guess that I have bipolar II. They probably attribute my high spirited antics to being a creative teacher. They don't know there is electricity tingling underneath my skin when I'm hypomanic. And when the melancholy settles in, I rely on my finest acting skills at work and my peers are none the wiser. From the outside, I seem just fine. But on the inside, I struggle.

Thanks to a proper diagnosis and treatment I manage my life better now than I ever did before. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for my older son. Though his diagnosis came over two years ago, he has refused any treatment. Instead, he self-medicates with drugs and alcohol. He dropped out of college. Twice. And he's usually unemployed. He is trapped by his own apathy and sees no way out. And I am powerless to help him.

His story is my story and I want to share it with you. His story, my story is one of heartache and tragedy, broken promises and last chances. But it is also a story of hope. I am still hopeful that he will get help for himself. I am still hopeful that his life will turn around. I am still hopeful that he will become whole again. I am his mother and I will always love him. But because I fear him, for now, I will have to love him from a safe distance.

This post was originally used as a blogger biography on http://ibpf.org/blog/stillhopefulmom.

A Promising Conversation of Hope

September 17, 2016

The other night, at my request, my friend Diane graciously hosted a casual get together in her home. There were four moms and one dad there, as well as one university student and one high school student. The goal of the evening was to have an an informal dialogue and build awareness about Sandy Hook Promise's mission and no-cost violence prevention programs. Meaningful conversations like ours were happening all over the country this week as Promise Leaders talked to people in their communities about overcoming feelings of helplessness when it comes to preventing gun violence. We were all talking about hope.

I began the evening with the story of how I became involved with Sandy Hook Promise:

Up until a year ago, I hadn't heard of Sandy Hook Promise. I had, of course, heard about the tragedy that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School on December 14, 2012. That event was life-changing for me. I didn't know any of the innocent victims or their families. No, but it shook me to the core because when I heard about that troubled, 20-year-old young man, armed with multiple weapons, entering an elementary school building and taking the lives of 20 first graders and 6 adult employees before turning the gun on himself, I had to face a hard reality: that shooter, that troubled 20-year-old young man reminded me of my own son.

Until that day in 2012, I had shielded myself from the truth. I couldn't possibly fathom the idea that my first born child was that troubled. Because if I'd faced that thought, I would have also had to admit that I had failed him.

My son spiraled into mental illness after graduating high school and despite my attempts at getting him to seek treatment, he walked out my front door on December 31, 2010, refusing to admit he needed help. So when that shooting happened in December 2012, and I learned about the shooter's past, I couldn't deny reality any longer.

Days after the Sandy Hook shooting, I began to write a blog. I began to tell my story. My son's story. Our family's story. 

Fast-forward three years. A lot had changed in our family's story, but not much had changed in our country's. In our family's story, my son had struggled with unemployment, homelessness, addiction, and criminal activity. Eventually, he ended up behind bars, sentenced to a mandatory minimum of three years. In our country's story, unfortunately, not much had changed when it came to mass shootings. Though America was hopeful that the Sandy Hook tragedy would at least lead to better gun laws, mass shootings were still happening frequently and Americans were becoming numb to the nightly news stories of innocent lives lost and families forever broken.

On August 26, 2015, Allison Parker, a TV news reporter and her cameraman, Adam Ward, were shot and killed on live television. Andy Parker, Allison's father, swore on national TV that he would do "whatever it takes" to end gun violence. I offered my condolences to Mr. Parker in an open letter. to him I posted on my blog. I echoed his commitment to ending gun violence, but I also noted that our country's problem wasn't just about guns. It was about mental health. And it was about stigma. And it was about health care. It wasn't just about access to weapons.

Mr. Parker never responded to my letter. But Nicole Hockley did.

Nicole is the mother of Dylan Hockley, one of the 20 first graders killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School on December 14, 2012. Nicole had read my open letter to Mr. Parker on my blog. And I believe she also scrolled back and read through entries I'd written spanning all the way to December 2012. She must have read the first post, the one where I talked about the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary and compared myself to the mother of the shooter. Despite that, Nicole reached out to me and wanted to talk, mother to mother.

She thanked me for writing my blog and sharing it with the world. And, this mother who'd lost her six-year-old child to a senseless act of gun violence, had the incredible grace to express her sympathy to me because I was another grieving mother. Though I hadn't lost my son by death, I had most certainly lost my son.

Nicole told me she believed we shared the same goals, the same viewpoints. She said she thought we should work together somehow. She told me about an organization she had co-founded called Sandy Hook Promise.

And now, here I am tonight, a year later, telling you about this incredible organization and its mission to prevent preventable acts of violence so no one else has to suffer such senseless loss.

Our hopeful conversation continued with a short video featuring Promise Leaders in action. Then we turned to specific details about Sandy Hook Promise's programs. Each of Diane's guests shared their concerns about gun violence in our community and across our country. We discussed the climates of local schools and universities, and the two student guests spoke up, as well. The high schooler shared examples of witnesses social isolation first-hand, while the university student told us her plans to start a Students Against Gun Violence club on campus. The parent-guests asked me questions about how they can bring SHP to their children's schools and what other measures they could take to become involved with Sandy Hook Promise.

Despite my emotional exhaustion, I felt myself smiling as I got into my car to head home. The promise of hope just does that to me.

Two Year Anniversary of the Worst Day of My Life

March 28, 2015

It's been two years. Two years since I finally received that call I'd been expecting I'd get. Two years since my world was turned completely upside down. Two years since the wide open field of my son's future was squeezed into an ever-narrowing shaft of fading darkness.

It has been two years since my son was arrested and incarcerated.

So much has happened since then. Our entire family has endured so much heartache. But my son has definitely suffered the most.

He has been attacked on numerous occasions (the most recent one resulted in a cracked molar that wasn't repaired for 3 days). He has witnessed two deaths, one, a murder by stabbing with a homemade shank, and the other, his cell mate who died in his sleep apparently of natural causes. He has been sent to "the hole" (solitary confinement for defending himself in a fist fight). He has been put on suicide watch, sent to a padded room and left naked for 48 hours (a conscious choice he made due to fear he'd be jumped by his co-defendant who had been placed in my son's pod in error). And he has received sub-par medical care: his bipolar condition has been treated with the cheapest, least effective medication with the most side effects, and his wisdom teeth were all extracted without adequate pain medication. He has gained weight from the poor diet high in refined sugars and low in protein and lack of opportunity to exercise, and his skin has become pasty and gray from such little sun exposure.

And these things I mention because they are the things my son has told me about. He said he won't tell me all the "bad stuff" because he doesn't want me to worry.

But we can finally see the end of this nightmare now. We expect that he'll be released by the end of this calendar year though they haven't told him a specific date yet.

His little brother has been working on lining up a possible job for him when he gets out.

He's making plans to attend college classes as soon as he's released.

And, most importantly, he is finally being realistic about his illness. He has learned more about it, and he has accepted it as a reality. It is part of who he is. It does not define him, but it is something that mustn't be ignored. He knows firsthand what kind of tragedies denial can cause.

And here I am.

I feel like I've aged ten years not just two.

But I am still here.

And I'm hopeful. Still.

FAQ One Year Later

March 16, 2014

On March 28, 2013 my world turned upside down. My then-20 year old son was arrested. He had been spiraling downward psychologically for some time, preferring to treat his diagnosed bipolar disorder with excessive alcohol and drugs rather than effective medication and therapy. I knew he was running with the wrong crowd, and I had warned him that if he were ever arrested, I would not bail him out. Sadly, that day came. It was the hardest decision I've ever had to make, but I decided that he needed to remain locked up until he got sober, received bipolar medication, and had time to reassess his life.

It has been nearly a year now...easily the worst year of my life. I have been asked many questions over the past year. Here are some of them along with my answers:

How are you?

Would you like the real answer or the polite one? The polite one is easy: I'm fine. But the real answer is not so simple. Let's start with this: How do you think I am? My son is in prison and I am partly responsible for the reason he is still there. Guilt haunts me constantly. Though I know my decision was the right one, the fact remains that he is still behind bars and not out on bail because of me. So I am shitty. That's how I am.

How is he?

He is sorry. Every minute of every day he is sorry. He completely accepts his circumstances as the natural consequences for his actions. He is also healthier. Not only is he sober, he is medicated somewhat effectively for his bipolar symptoms so he can think more clearly now. And he is hopeful.

How often do you see or talk to him?

He calls a lot, but I am not always available to answer like when I'm teaching. But we talk several times a week. And he writes some too. We don't exchange letters quite as often as we used to but we still do sometimes. We see him about every two weeks which is plenty for us all. Seeing each other may seem like a wonderful thing, but it is actually gut-wrenching for everyone involved. He has told me that the days we visit are days he looks forward to but also dreads because it is so painful when we leave. It is the same for me. It takes so much emotional energy out of me that every two weeks is about as often as I could manage.

How do you keep going day after day?

I just do. I'm not sure how I do it, but I do it. This year has certainly taken its toll on me though. While I have been able to continue working full time, I have not had the strength or commitment it takes to maintain my health as well as I should. I have put on weight. My sleep is erratic. And my diet is not ideal. I suffer from chronic neck pain which is exacerbated by stress. And my exercise routine is virtually non-existent. Though I am only 43 years old, I study the new lines on my face and the new gray hairs on my head and I see a women much older than that.

How is your younger son?

Honestly, this question may be the hardest one to answer. He and I have always been close and through this we seem to have become closer. From what he says, he has been able to compartmentalize this and move on with his life. And from the outside to most people that is what it looks like. His grades are quite good, he participates in after school activities, and he has a wonderful close knit group of friends with whom he spends a good deal of time. But I still worry. Because he has not spoken much about his feelings over the last year, always saying he's "fine," I worry that he's not dealing with them and instead, only stuffing them down deeper into himself. I suppose only time will tell.

You call yourself "Stillhopefulmom." How do you still have hope?

 Let me first say that I remember joy but I can't feel it anymore. I am numb to it. I remain hopeful that there will be a day that joy may wash over me again, but for now, I must be satisfied with the few moments I have each day that distract me from my nagging fears. So hope is all I can have right now, and I'm clinging to it for dear life.

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.

Days Like Today

June 26, 2013

Some days I forget I'm "Stillhopefulmom". This is one of those days. The only good thing I've accomplished today is this blog post (which technically I haven't finished yet.)

People say that I'm so strong. They say I've inspired them because of how well I've managed the circumstances of my life as of late. What people don't know is I need to be stronger...for days like today.

There are days when walking downstairs to let out my dog takes great effort. Days that I do not answer the phone. Days that I stay in my pajamas. Days that I may sustain myself on cheese sticks and Diet Coke. These are days of extreme sadness. Days when it is obvious I'm depressed.

Today, I woke up and went out for a run. It was really hot and I was not very motivated but I managed to finish two miles. Then I handled some business emails and phone calls as well as made myself a healthy breakfast, but that's where the productivity stopped.

I have actually spent the rest of the entire day (it's now 6:30pm) sitting on my bed with an NCIS marathon and my ipad playing an array of mindless games while half-listening to Mark Harmon solve military-related crimes.

There are days like today where I need to be stronger. I need to remember that sometimes I just get sad. I just do. And I suppose it's something I must accept. But I wish I were stronger. I wish I could be that "stillhopefulmom" I pretend to be...the one you readers believe me to be.

Sorry, she isn't here today. Hopefully, she'll be back tomorrow.