Choices


November 29, 2014

My younger son is applying to colleges and the deadlines are looming. The choices about where to visit, what questions to ask, and when to hit “send” are overwhelming. To help him with this arduous process, I offered to proofread his application essay.

The prompt was about identifying an event in his life that triggered his transition from childhood to adulthood. He chose to write about his older brother’s incarceration.

He was not eager to share it with me, assuming that the subject matter would be too difficult for me to handle.  He knows me well. I considered it for a moment. Would I finally be able to get a glimpse inside the iron fortress of my younger son’s mind? The emotional wall he has built over the last few years has grown tall and wide, but in this moment he offered me the lone key to the only door. I chose to step inside.

I took the essay and began to read. In doing so, I learned a few valuable lessons.

First, I realized that I am stronger than I thought. Not only was I able to read this moving account of his fallen hero and how he consequently discovered himself, I was able to compartmentalize my own emotions in order to help draw out his insightful viewpoint about that difficult time. I listened for his unique voice through the din of my own muddied memories, and I helped him shape his thoughts into a well-crafted piece about his personal journey of becoming a man.

Secondly, I remembered that we do not live in a vacuum. The choices we make do not only affect us, they affect those we care about, those we hold dear. And, because of those first choices, more choices must be made.  It is a ripple effect. Four years ago, my older son made the choice to ignore his bipolar disorder diagnosis. Eventually, he paid the price: he is now a convicted felon. My younger son, who is guilty only of being born into a household affected by mental illness, has faced difficult choices too. He could have easily played the victim. He could have allowed his brother’s illness and incarceration to destroy him too. Instead, though, he has made the choice to embrace the challenges in life as opportunities to become a better person every day. His brother’s choices have affected him, but he has chosen to use them for good.


Lastly, I discovered that my younger son is going to be okay. I see now that he is healing. While internalizing his feelings was his natural coping mechanism, in his own way, he has dealt with them too. He has sorted through his disappointment, his anger, and his despair and he has resolved to thrive despite them.

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.






An Innocent Bystander

September 22, 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




Delete

July 29, 2014


I have typed this first sentence more than thirty times.

But instead of deleting it again, I will continue describing what I am experiencing right now. Maybe you have felt this way too.

I feel anxious, incredibly anxious. I am worrying about the little things like the eye doctor appointment I need to reschedule and the weeds in the flower bed that just keep reappearing. And I am worrying about the big things like what job my older son will be able to get when he's released from prison and how I will afford to pay for my younger son to go to college next year. And I am worrying about worrying. And that worries me.
Seriously, it does.

I am unable to focus on any one task for more than a few minutes. Typing this blog post is going to take me all day. And I don't have all day. This summer is zooming by and I haven't got much to show for it. I had big plans for this summer: finish some home projects, start a second book, plan for my upcoming school year...But I'm finding it hard to focus at all.

As the calendar approaches August, the stress increases. I know I have important things to accomplish before I return to school in a few weeks. Right now, though, all I can see is a daunting to-do list and nowhere to begin. Would crawling into a hole and sleeping help at all? Because that is seriously an option right now. It's what I'd like to do, honestly. My logical side knows avoiding the workload is only going to make it worse, but it doesn't seem to matter. This anxiety is crushing me.

How can I be a good mother, a good wife, a good teacher, a good friend, if I feel this way?

After re-reading this post, I am tempted to just delete it all. My ramblings make little sense. But instead of wiping the screen clean and starting over, I will post this as is in hopes that someone else out there has felt this way too.

So I'm avoiding one more thing today: the DELETE key.


















Bipolar in Paradise


June 22, 2014

Moist, sugar-soft sand squeezed in between my toes as I ambled along the beach. The oranges, reds, and yellows swirled across the horizon and the rhythmic sounds of the ocean blended in perfect harmony with the steel drums tapping out an island tune. For seven days I was in a Caribbean heaven vacationing with my family. And yet, for seven days, bliss eluded me.

It's difficult to know just what kept me from feeling as carefree and euphoric as one might expect under the circumstances. It could be my recent change in medication for the treatment of my Bipolar II. Or it could be the simple fact that my firstborn son still sits in prison after more than a year. I don't know. But the truth is while my entire family celebrated the joyful occasion of my parents' 45th anniversary in ocean waves of St. Croix, I secretly battled a different set of waves all week, the waves of melancholy that have plagued me for as long as I can remember. In the midst of a week-long island vacation, I was sad, plain and simple.

Now, don't get me wrong. I didn't spend my days in a darkened room with the covers pulled over my head. I was very active and quite social really. I jogged every morning followed by an elaborate breakfast at the resort restaurant. Then I sunned and swam, snorkeled and celebrated with everyone. But there was this gray cloud over my head all the time. I couldn't seem to thoroughly enjoy myself no matter how hard I tried. I knew how amazing this vacation was and how much I should be loving it, yet I couldn't. I just couldn't.

I suppose that's what living with bipolar really is for me-- being aware of how I should feel, yet feeling the opposite. I guess I am lucky that I am usually aware of what I am missing when my illness strikes. Others may not be.

After this vacation, I've learned that the waves of bipolar illness can crash any shore, even in paradise.






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.




A Big Step Forward


May 9, 2014

Today I took a big step forward. I told our story in public.

Our local NAMI organization hosted a Crisis Intervention Team training for police officers. It was a one week course designed to prepare them for mental health crises. I was asked to give a fifteen minute talk during the Family Perspective portion of the program. 

There were about forty people crammed in the stuffy room where I was scheduled to speak right after lunch. I was sure that my audience would be ready for a nap, not ready to witness an emotional mother blubber on about her bipolar son in prison. 

But I was wrong. They were ready and willing to listen to me and for that I am grateful.

It wasn't easy. I am a teacher so I can talk to a thousand twelve year olds without a problem, but put me in a room with forty grown ups, that's another story! My voice quivered as I began to speak. My tremor kicked in and my hands began to shake. I had to steady my papers on a nearby projector cart. I probably looked and sounded like I was falling apart...

But I made it through and I think I may have had an impact. Or at least I hope I did. Afterwards several people came up to thank me for sharing such a personal story, and they asked lots of questions. Many of them also shared their own personal mental health stories with me. One gentleman told me that he lost his fifteen year old daughter to suicide, calling it "the S word." He thanked me for talking about it because it's so rarely discussed in public. He reminded me that I still have a chance to reach my son and that I should be grateful. Talk about powerful. That really got me. Lump. In. Throat.

So what I did today was important, even if is was emotionally exhausting. 

One thing I said was, "Though my efforts ultimately weren't enough to keep my son from going to prison, I hope that by talking to you here today I may make a difference for someone else's child before it's too late for them."

And if I do make a difference for someone's child some day, even just one, then I've begun to turn this tragic chapter of our lives into something more positive. That's definitely one big step forward.







"Black Box" is a Black Hole for Bipolar



April 26, 2014

ABC attempted to do what no other network television show has been able to do: depict bipolar disorder realistically and openly. Unfortunately, ABC failed miserably with "Black Box" which debuted this week.

If you want to see bipolar illness portrayed in a classically cliched way, act fast. This show won't last long unless the writers wake up and smell the stereotype. "Black Box" follows Dr. Catherine Black who specializes in rare brain disorders. The audience "sees" these illnesses through her eyes as she diagnoses and treats the patients affected by them. But Dr. Black has her own secret. The "clever twist"...wait for it... is that she has bipolar disorder. 

In the pilot episode, we learn that Dr. Black has been dating Will for a year. He wants to marry her but she is afraid to commit and it isn't long before we learn why: she hasn't told him about her bipolar diagnosis. Not only does Dr. Black perpetuate the stigma of mental illness by keeping this secret, as a medical professional who specializes in brain disorders, she certainly should know better. Do know harm? I think not. What does this say about how society views mental illness still today? While I can understand if the writers are planning for Catherine Black to recognize over time that her illness isn't something to hide, the way the plot of the first episode unfolds suggests a terrible misunderstanding about how bipolar illness actually affects people.

In the pilot, Dr. Black decides to go off her medication one day and within a few hours she is in the midst of what seems to be a full blown psychotic episode. During this "psychosis" Dr. Black dances erotically to music no one else hears, she stumbles through the city streets mumbling to herself and climbing lamp posts, and she instigates a fight with a complete stranger. While any one of these events could possibly happen to someone in a manic phase of bipolar, none of them could happen within hours of ending medication. I don't know who to blame for this stereotyped portrayal of someone "crazy" but it's a shame. Finally, a show comes along that appears to offer a wide-eyed view of what bipolar looks and feels like, and instead it continues the on-going misunderstandings society has of this very treatable illness.

Those of us who understand mental illness know that people who have bipolar are not defined by it, so why paint Catherine Black as just one dimensional? Despite her apparent brilliance and obvious beauty, she is simply a crude caricature of what society believes mental illness to be. Why not take a lesson from Silver Linings Playbook? Bipolar illness isn't a one size fits all disorder. Bradley Cooper's portrayal of Pat Solatano offered a more nuanced view of what bipolar can look like. He was real. He had depth. Couldn't Catherine Black have layers too? 

While ABC may have made the first network television attempt at ending the stigma of mental illness, it may be doing more harm than good. In true Stillhopeful mom fashion, I plan on giving this show another chance. Maybe it can redeem itself before it loses every last viewer.

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.

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.










My Secret


February 8, 2014

Electricity pulses just underneath my skin, racing from my fingertips to my toes and back again. I tremor. My legs and my arms betray my will to remain motionless; instead they shake uncontrollably. Thoughts of varying lengths and value flash in my mind one after the other. Anxiety creeps behind my eyes and rattles my brain.

I am suffering withdrawl.

Worries taunt me. Tease me. Strings of endless ramblings chant inside my head. Stuttering, stammering I try to overcome them, attempting to be the old me. The good me. I do not want you to know what is really happening to me.

It was my fault. I had accidentally been taking the wrong dose of sleep medication for weeks. When I discovered this, my doctor prescribed a replacement with little concern. I thought my mistake was easily corrected.

But after a week I began to shake. It was minor at first. Just little tappings and rattles. But they became more and more intense over the next few days. With the tremors came fears. Anxiety beyond anything I've ever experienced. Worries about the future, the present, the past. I've even wondered if I was becoming psychotic.

All along, over the last two and a half weeks, I've gone to work. I've fulfilled my responsibilities as a daughter, a mother, a lover, a friend. But secretly I've been suffering. And now I need to tell you I am afraid it won't go away.

My doctor says it is just a reaction. Temporary. It is my body missing that medication. 

But how long will it go on? How long will I tremor? When will I be able to write neatly on the board at school again? When will I be able to focus on just one thought at a time? How long will I drive without seeing the road, instead, seeing only glimpses of "what ifs" flash before my eyes? How much more must I pay for my careless mistake?

When will I be the old me again?

I Am



January 22, 2014

I am a writer. This is what I call myself. I am also a daughter, a mother, a teacher, a lover, a friend. I am many things to many people, but today I call myself a writer.

These words "I am a writer" mean I am a world traveler. A dreamer. A memory-maker. A wish-giver. A confidant. A whisperer of words.

"Writing is nothing more than talking on paper." This is what I tell my students to encourage them to write. This is what I say to let them to see how easy it is to write. But writing is so much more than just talking on paper, isn't it?

Writing is seeing that baby boy's toothless grin smiling back at you. Writing is hearing those hearty giggles and soothing those tears. Writing is smelling the fresh soil as you plant the little seed in the paper cup with him eager to see it grow. Writing is feeling that little boy's hand gripping yours as you walk through the apple orchard on that crisp Autumn afternoon.

I am a writer today. I am a handprint from Kindergarten. I am a sea shell necklace sitting on the dresser. I am a trophy standing proudly on the shelf. I am a pair of basketball sneakers tired and worn. I am a dusty treasure chest of photographs.

I am a mother missing her son.

I am a writer.


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.



Emerson Nailed It


January 4, 2014

We recently had a snow storm here and I was reminded of this poem...

The Snow Storm

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

"A tumultuous privacy of storm." Read that line again. "A tumultuous privacy of storm."

What a perfect way to describe a snow storm. And what a perfect way to describe how it feels to have Bipolar Disorder. A tumultuous privacy of storm. 

According to the dictionary, tumultuous means: making a loud confused noise; uproarious. 

But Emerson says the tumultuous storm is private. Isn't that what goes on in our minds when we are battling episodes of mania or even depression? The "storm" is private, yet "tumultuous." No one else can come in to help..."all friends shut out." It's our private storm.

I've read that Ralph Waldo Emerson may have suffered from Bipolar Disorder. I wonder if it occurred to him that his poem could be compared not only to a snow storm but to what it feels like to have a mental illness. Or maybe my bipolar mind has just twisted Emerson's words to apply to what's going on in my mind today.

I have a private tumultuous storm brewing.

As I watch the blanket of white "veil" my backyard, I embrace my "tumultuous privacy of storm." Days like today pass. Just like snow storms.




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.



Time to Heal

Dec. 22, 2013

Time to Heal

video


I can hardly stand it
staring at my phone
don't even want to think of you
in there all alone

Then back inside my pocket you must go
I'm wearing that same mask that they all know
I'm trying not to show it
But I can tell they see
The face they're looking at just isn't me
How could it be?

Sitting by the window
waiting for the rain
thinking of our mem'ries so that
I can feel the pain

Then back inside my pocket you must go
I'm wearing that same mask that they all know
I'm trying not to show it
But I can tell they see
The face they're looking at just isn't me
When will it be?

Suddenly, it occurs to me
that none of this seems real
when is it my turn 
to feel?

When I finally hear you
you simply let me know
with your laughs and promises
that you love me so

Then back inside my pocket you must go
I'm wearing that same mask that they all know
But suddenly it's clear to me
that all of this 
is real
Finally it's my turn 
to heal

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.

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.)

Freedom is Relative

Nov. 23, 2013

My son is finally out of "The Hole" now. The powers that be gave him a "hearing" and found him "not guilty" of fighting. There's a shocker. Had they given him the hearing BEFORE putting him in there, he'd never have gone in there in the first place. He would have never had to live that horrifying experience at all.

So now he's in a new part of the prison with new cell mates whom he finds nice enough. He is "free." Relatively speaking. His letter to me sounded upbeat. He was pleased to be in just a regular cell with new "cellies." He was glad that he'd get back his phone privileges and get back to "normal" life.

He's still awaiting the oral surgery which was put on hold due to the fighting incident. He'll have that surgery soon but he doesn't know when. Information is given on an as needed basis in there. Apparently he doesn't need to know when they'll be cutting out four of his teeth.

Life inside is a life so different from ours. It pains me to know that he is beginning to see his life inside those cement walls as normal. How I wish he could experience what a "normal" 21 year old's life could be.




The Hole

November 19, 2013

My son finally reached me today. I received a letter. It has been ten days since I have heard from him. That's because he's been in "The Hole"--solitary confinement.

According to his letter, he was jumped by two guys who had been giving him a hard time for a while. He defended himself. He ended up with two black eyes and stitches over his left eye. And he ended up in The Hole.

This means he spends 23 hours a day in a small room. He may only write and sleep. "No phones, no books, nothing," were his exact words. The hour he gets out includes a shower. They told him that they seemed to misplace his towel so he doesn't have one. Also, his food is squished down into a "loaf" and served to him that way.

What more can they do to humiliate and demean him? He has to sit in there for 23 hours a day completely isolated. He showers and drips dry. And his food is a squished up loaf. They have told him he could be in there for as many as 20 days.

How is this humane?

He was only defending himself. He did NOT initiate this assault. He was JUMPED. How is this humane?

Someone tell me?

Please, I do not understand. I do not understand. I do not understand...







The Not Knowing

November 17, 2013

Do all mothers worry when they haven't heard from their adult kids in a while? Do they jump each time the phone rings? Do their imaginations run wild with the possibilities for not receiving a call?

Or is it just me?

It's been a week and I haven't heard a word from my incarcerated, twenty-one year old son. This is very unusual--we speak almost everyday-- so I am quite worried. After checking in with his dad, I've discovered he hasn't heard from him either. This has me doubly worried. Why no call?

My son was scheduled to have his wisdom teeth removed--all four--sometime this week. We didn't want him to do it behind bars fearing the quality of the health care would be subpar, but his pain had become unbearable and the prison dentist insisted on taking immediate action... but he wasn't told exactly what day it would happen--only that it would happen this week sometime.

What they did tell him was he would not receive the anesthetic typically used in this kind of oral surgery. He was terrified and so were we.

Now, today marks one week since we've heard from him. We've called the prison and received no assistance.

So not only am I worried about my son's well-being behind bars (like I am every day), now I'm worried that his oral surgery has gone wrong and he's suffering terribly. I can't get this vision out of my head that he's writhing in pain and no one is there to comfort him. Though he's twenty-one years old, he's still my baby.

When he was younger and skinned his knees, I cried when I cleaned his wound. After he tore his ACL in a high school basketball game, I actually passed out in the ER as they examined his injury. I feel it when my sons are hurt. Isn't that part of being a mother?

This time, though, I don't even know if he is hurt. I don't know if he's had the surgery, and I don't know if he's recovering well.

This time I don't know anything at all. So for now...I just wait.


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.

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 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.