-----------------------------
Thinking the Unthinkable
 |
| Michael holding a butterfly |
The Anarchist Soccer Mom
In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.
Three days before 20 year-old Adam Lanza killed his mother, then opened fire on a classroom full of Connecticut kindergartners, my 13-year old son Michael (name changed) missed his bus because he was wearing the wrong color pants.
“I can wear these pants,” he said, his tone increasingly
belligerent, the black-hole pupils of his eyes swallowing the blue irises.
“They are navy blue,” I told him. “Your school’s dress code
says black or khaki pants only.”
“They told me I could wear these,” he insisted. “You’re a
stupid bitch. I can wear whatever pants I want to. This is America. I have
rights!”
“You can’t wear whatever pants you want to,” I said, my tone
affable, reasonable. “And you definitely cannot call me a stupid bitch. You’re
grounded from electronics for the rest of the day. Now get in the car, and I
will take you to school.”
I live with a son who is mentally ill. I love my son. But he
terrifies me.
A few weeks ago, Michael pulled a knife and threatened to
kill me and then himself after I asked him to return his overdue library books.
His 7 and 9 year old siblings knew the safety plan—they ran to the car and
locked the doors before I even asked them to. I managed to get the knife from Michael,
then methodically collected all the sharp objects in the house into a single
Tupperware container that now travels with me. Through it all, he continued to
scream insults at me and threaten to kill or hurt me.
That conflict ended with three burly police officers and a
paramedic wrestling my son onto a gurney for an expensive ambulance ride to the
local emergency room. The mental hospital didn’t have any beds that day, and Michael
calmed down nicely in the ER, so they sent us home with a prescription for
Zyprexa and a follow-up visit with a local pediatric psychiatrist.
We still don’t know what’s wrong with Michael. Autism
spectrum, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant or Intermittent Explosive Disorder have
all been tossed around at various meetings with probation officers and social
workers and counselors and teachers and school administrators. He’s been on a
slew of antipsychotic and mood altering pharmaceuticals, a Russian novel of
behavioral plans. Nothing seems to work.
At the start of seventh grade, Michael was accepted to an
accelerated program for highly gifted math and science students. His IQ is off
the charts. When he’s in a good mood, he will gladly bend your ear on subjects
ranging from Greek mythology to the differences between Einsteinian and
Newtonian physics to Doctor Who. He’s in a good mood most of the time. But when
he’s not, watch out. And it’s impossible to predict what will set him off.
Several weeks into his new junior high school, Michael began
exhibiting increasingly odd and threatening behaviors at school. We decided to
transfer him to the district’s most restrictive behavioral program, a contained
school environment where children who can’t function in normal classrooms can
access their right to free public babysitting from 7:30-1:50 Monday through
Friday until they turn 18.
The morning of the pants incident, Michael continued to
argue with me on the drive. He would occasionally apologize and seem
remorseful. Right before we turned into his school parking lot, he said, “Look,
Mom, I’m really sorry. Can I have video games back today?”
“No way,” I told him. “You cannot act the way you acted this
morning and think you can get your electronic privileges back that quickly.”
His face turned cold, and his eyes were full of calculated
rage. “Then I’m going to kill myself,” he said. “I’m going to jump out of this
car right now and kill myself.”
That was it. After the knife incident, I told him that if he
ever said those words again, I would take him straight to the mental hospital,
no ifs, ands, or buts. I did not respond, except to pull the car into the
opposite lane, turning left instead of right.
“Where are you taking me?” he said, suddenly worried. “Where
are we going?”
“You know where we are going,” I replied.
“No! You can’t do that to me! You’re sending me to hell! You’re
sending me straight to hell!”
I pulled up in front of the hospital, frantically waiving
for one of the clinicians who happened to be standing outside. “Call the
police,” I said. “Hurry.”
Michael was in a full-blown fit by then, screaming and
hitting. I hugged him close so he couldn’t escape from the car. He bit me several
times and repeatedly jabbed his elbows into my rib cage. I’m still stronger than
he is, but I won’t be for much longer.
The police came quickly and carried my son screaming and
kicking into the bowels of the hospital. I started to shake, and tears filled
my eyes as I filled out the paperwork—“Were there any difficulties with....at
what age did your child....were there any problems with...has your child ever
experienced...does your child have....”
At least we have health insurance now. I recently accepted a
position with a local college, giving up my freelance career because when you
have a kid like this, you need benefits. You’ll do anything for benefits. No
individual insurance plan will cover this kind of thing.
For days, my son insisted that I was lying—that I made the
whole thing up so that I could get rid of him. The first day, when I called to
check up on him, he said, “I hate you. And I’m going to get my revenge as soon
as I get out of here.”
By day three, he was my calm, sweet boy again, all apologies
and promises to get better. I’ve heard those promises for years. I don’t
believe them anymore.
On the intake form, under the question, “What are your
expectations for treatment?” I wrote, “I need help.”
And I do. This problem is too big for me to handle on my
own. Sometimes there are no good options. So you just pray for
grace and trust that in hindsight, it will all make sense.
I am sharing this story because I am Adam Lanza’s mother. I
am Dylan Klebold’s and Eric Harris’s mother. I am James Holmes’s mother. I am
Jared Loughner’s mother. I am Seung-Hui Cho’s mother. And these boys—and their
mothers—need help. In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it’s easy
to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.
According to Mother Jones, since 1982, 61 mass murders
involving firearms have occurred throughout the country. (http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/07/mass-shootings-map).
Of these, 43 of the killers were white males, and only one was a woman. Mother
Jones focused on whether the killers obtained their guns legally (most did).
But this highly visible sign of mental illness should lead us to consider how many
people in the U.S. live in fear, like I do.
When I asked my son’s social worker about my options, he
said that the only thing I could do was to get Michael charged with a crime. “If
he’s back in the system, they’ll create a paper trail,” he said. “That’s the
only way you’re ever going to get anything done. No one will pay attention to
you unless you’ve got charges.”
I don’t believe my son belongs in jail. The chaotic
environment exacerbates Michael’s sensitivity to sensory stimuli and doesn’t
deal with the underlying pathology. But it seems like the United States is
using prison as the solution of choice for mentally ill people. According to
Human Rights Watch, the number of mentally ill inmates in U.S. prisons
quadrupled from 2000 to 2006, and it continues to rise—in fact, the rate of inmate
mental illness is five times greater (56 percent) than in the non-incarcerated
population. (http://www.hrw.org/news/2006/09/05/us-number-mentally-ill-prisons-quadrupled)
With state-run treatment centers and hospitals shuttered,
prison is now the last resort for the mentally ill—Rikers Island, the LA County
Jail, and Cook County Jail in Illinois housed the nation’s largest treatment
centers in 2011 (http://www.npr.org/2011/09/04/140167676/nations-jails-struggle-with-mentally-ill-prisoners)
No one wants to send
a 13-year old genius who loves Harry Potter and his snuggle animal collection
to jail. But our society, with its stigma on mental illness and its broken
healthcare system, does not provide us with other options. Then another
tortured soul shoots up a fast food restaurant. A mall. A kindergarten
classroom. And we wring our hands and say, “Something must be done.”
I agree that something must be done. It’s time for a
meaningful, nation-wide conversation about mental health. That’s the only way
our nation can ever truly heal.
