Wondering, Ranting and Giving My Two Cents About School Shootings

Sandy Hook Elementary School.  Like many others, I spent the the last several days reading and watching news reports about the tragedy in Connecticut.  Wiping the tears off my face, I finally had to shut off the t.v., push away the computer and spend time or rather distract myself with other things... like dragging out the Christmas decorations, trying to make joy happen in my home. I also silently watched for signs of distress...and signs of violence in my 26-year-old son. I said a quiet prayer of thanks that all seemed well in his world and yet, stupidly, I continued carrying on about the mother of the Connecticut murderer.  

Sometimes he seems so normal, so much like his old self that I'll forget schizophrenia is a minute-by-minute illness.  Yesterday morning, in the middle of another soap-box rant, I glanced over and saw the dismay on my son's face.  Stopping dead in my lecturing tracks, I asked him, "Too much?"  Forever the little boy that wants to please me, he just nodded his head.  "I am so sorry hon. I'll shut up about it around you."  The relief that flooded his face made my guilt meter shoot to new heights.  "Stupid, stupid, stupid," I told myself, "Go rant on your blog if you feel the need to be heard."  So here I am, spilling out my heart, wondering if anyone will ever read this but oh how I want to shout at the world sometimes.

Six years ago, I might have been Adam Lanza's mother.  Like her, I didn't want my child to be sick. Not the kind of sick that is forever.  I understand the refusal to believe and the wanting so much to blame adolescence as the cause of vaguely alarming behavior. As the teen years came to a close and vagueness became certainty, I continued to swim down the river of denial. I hoped, I prayed, I bargained with God but deep down I knew that something was very wrong with my baby.  Lack of insurance made our situation as scary as you can imagine.  Mental health clinics had waiting lists that were months away from an initial intake.  So I made choices while I silently watched and waited.  Adam's mother also made choices and once again our nation mourns the loss of our children. It didn't have to be that way.

My son is also a gun enthusiast who used to go to the shooting range with his friends at least a couple of times a month. Oh how he loved shooting those guns and he was so good at it.  Unfortunately, he found this hobby around the time that I was seeing symptoms that gave me pause.  Incidents of delusion and increasing isolation had begun appearing, increasing in frequency over a period of about three years.  All the while, he kept insisting that he needed his own gun and when the day came that he wanted to go buy a gun, I knew that it would be a mistake to give him unsupervised access to guns.  Manipulating the situation, I used my own bouts of depression, telling my son that those with any mental illness are not allowed to buy or possess firearms.  Not even knowing if it was true or not, I stood my ground and refused to allow a gun to brought into my home.  He looked so sad and it broke my heart to have to take that joy away from him.  My point is that even before my son's actual psychotic break and subsequent diagnosis of schizophrenia and even though much of my mind was in denial about the aberrant behavior I was witnessing, my instincts as a mother were dead on when it came to guns in the home.

As a nation, we are failing our children. We believe the inaccurate portrayals of mental illness by well meaning but uneducated Hollywood writers and producers.  We listen to rantings of right-wing conservatives who continue their relentless attacks on the most vulnerable in our society all the while refusing to see the long-term consequences of cutting funds to the poor, the disabled and the aged.  The vulnerable have become more vulnerable and those who desperately need access to help have become pawns in political games of politicians who know nothing about what it means to be vulnerable to the decisions of the Washington D.C. elite. It's sickening.  How many more tragedies before the politicians stop using us to rally people for their vote? Our children need help, not rhetoric. We need beds in psychiatric units, not speeches. We need immediate access to mental health services, not waiting lists because the government has pulled funding.  America's policies toward the mentally ill are a national disgrace. Those who keep hounding people for having to enroll in the "entitlement" programs are truly ignorant of the facts. It's really easy to attack people when they are already down and when did we become a nation that condones those kind of bullying tactics?

A year or so after my son's psychotic break and diagnosis of schizophrenia, we were still battling extreme auditory and visual hallucinations.  Contrary to what you hear on the news or watch on the latest movie-of-the-week about mental illness, patients with schizophrenia are almost always only a danger to themselves, not others.  Not only do the voices keep a constant barrage of demands to hurt himself but the severe depression that accompanies schizophrenia makes him vulnerable to suicidal thoughts.  I was never afraid for myself around him but was in constant fear that he would hurt himself permanently before we hit on the right meds to get some degree of control of his hallucinations.  During a particularly bad week, on a very hot summer night, my son's worst fear happened as the voices almost became more than he could handle. That night my son grabbed my bedroom door and shut it, crying for me to lock it and not unlock it no matter what.  For over an hour we sat on either side of a locked bedroom door while he wrestled demons in his mind who demanded violence against him...and against me.  As his symptoms subsided, he cried and I cried but I also felt extreme relief that there were no guns in my home.  Let me be clear - although it took many more months to hit on just the right combination of medications to get my son's symptoms under better control, I have never not felt safe in my home.  Still, every once in awhile, when I allow myself to think about it, I wonder if I'm in denial about that night and I let it pass as I hear my son's voice.  I'm his mother. . .I have to.
 

While we'll never know if the rampage in Connecticut was the psychotic break of a young man with undiagnosed schizophrenia, I will always wonder what was going on in the mind of Adam's mother as she witnessed behaviors that should have set off red flags.  I keep going back to those guns... in that house... with a young man showing signs of mental illness... and policies that allow killing-machines to get in the hands of sick young men. Go ahead and ask me what I think about gun control. What was Adam's mother thinking?  As a nation, what are we thinking?

 

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIRESTORM

This week, as the web came alive with a firestorm of accusations against the banks for causing the current mortgage crises, I had been mentally writing this posting for several days. When the banks began declaring moratoriums on foreclosures, I was no longer satisfied with just commenting on news forums and blogs. I wanted to crucify U.S. banks for the effect they were having on my life and I wanted vindication. Excited and ready to tell my story through this blog, I had been pulling thoughts together all morning. Determined to jump onto my keyboard after picking my son up from his appointment, I was still writing in my head while driving the few miles to his clinic. 

That is until I saw my 24-year-old son standing outside at the Intensive Care Clinic. There he stood, alone outside of an old red brick building, his head down but the look on his face causing the collapse of the soapbox I'd mentally been standing on. As tears began to well in my eyes, I fought against the overwhelming grief that threatened my ability to be his safe haven.  Struggling with unbearable sadness, I looked into the face of my son and gave him a smile -- hoping to erase the look that no parent should ever have to see.  The face of severe mental illness.  

Stopping the car, I rolled down the window and croaked out a hello while screaming inside at the loneliness that darkens his sad blue eyes. Remembering the moment as I type these words, the tears have begun to fall down my cheeks -- again.  My child is broken.  His world is a never-ending nightmare that starts within minutes of opening his eyes every morning. The fear that has taken over his life as the voices took over his inner mind is now showing across his once beautiful face. 

Turning out onto the roadway, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, I asked him how the visit went and apologized for being a couple minutes late.  Listening to his one-word answers, I silently prayed to hear something different than the usual drug-induced monotone. I raged inside at a God who could allow this suffering to happen to a future that had once been bright.  Glancing over to see his reaction to the offer of a milkshake, my heart grabbed at the tiny smile that appeared on his face.  Like someone lost in the desert for hours without water, I desperately searched for something else to slake my thirst for my lost little boy. 

My desperation turned into a shake and a hamburger and fries, along with a DVD that we'd seen a hundred times before.  Home and Dane Cook - his two ports in the storm.  Grateful to hear him laughing, I silently wondered what else would ease his mind as my eyes took inventory of a home that becomes a of house of horrors when the voices take over.  Quietly tip-toeing into another room, I reviewed the strategy list and suggestions from his counselors.  Reading through the many pamphlets and handouts, I listened to a growing silence from the living room.  Fighting a surge of anxiety, I stepped into my bedroom to calm a rising panic attack. Several minutes later, attacked abated, I gathered my courage to face whatever was waiting for me. Walking down the hallway, I made a silent promise that together we would face his demons and banish the voices that continued to promise him harm.

There he lay, fast asleep on the couch, the white color had faded from his face.  The medications and exhaustion, from a night of voices commanding him to slit his own throat, allowed him to slip into the only thing that gives him an hour of peace.  Although I worried about a nap interfering with a for-his-own-good schedule that he needs to adhere to, I had neither the heart nor the energy to take that away from him.  I turned to head to my room for some much needed rest when I heard him whisper, "Mom." Turning around, I looked at his sleepy face and for a moment I saw my little boy as I listened to him say, "Thanks for taking some of the alone away today."  Smiling and assuring him that my old bones needed a nap too, I headed back to my room to rest and to wait. The next storm is never far away.

And so my friends, my posting is not the one I was composing in my head for the last few days.  As the firestorm of the mortgage and foreclosure crises continues to grow unabated, leaving so many of us wondering if we'll have our homes in six months, I fight another war that has interrupted the life of my family. Tomorrow is another day to take on the narcissistic greed that has infected our country and continues to wreak havoc as I struggle to save my own home.  Today, for as long as I am able, I fight an unseen enemy for the life of my son.  I will put out the fires of mental illness for as long as I can and bring comfort and peace to a lonely young man...to take some of the alone away.   

We have much to be judged on when he comes, slums and battlefields and insane asylums, but these are the symptoms of our illness and the result of our failures in love.

                                                                                                                                        Madeleine L'Engle

Frightened By Recent Decisions and Circumstances, parts 3 & 4; Update 2012

Part 3 - Life Changes Forever

On October 31, when my son had his first psychotic break, it was the beginning of the end of my son's days of employment.  Ever optimistic and in a state of denial about the severity of his illness, we did not file for disability for him. The doctors had high hopes for a better recovery for quite awhile and I followed along with their predictions and prognosis.  In fact, many schizophrenics are able to manage some sort of employment with the proper medications and support.  This hasn't been the case for my little boy.  My son is still very sick, unable to care for himself, unable to be left alone and arrangements are in the works for a day treatment program due to the severity of his illness.  Everyday my heart just breaks all over again for the child I have lost to mental illness.

In June, his doctors told me that it was time to apply for disability. That process continues and we are months away from approval and financial assistance. In the meantime, he has to have weekly therapy, several medications and recurrent hospitalizations when he becomes a danger to himself.  His credit -- before he ever actually had credit - is destroyed and the bill collectors are baying at the door.

Part 4 - The Last Straw Finale

In February, I got my tax bill and discovered that my condo is now worth less than half of what I owe on it. Uh oh. 

In March, thinking that maybe I should just sell the darn thing, I called my original realtor. Her response to my inquiry was that as much as she wanted to help, she can't sell a condo in my suburb to save her life.  Overbuilt with thousands of condos and townhouses, we have been hit hard by the real estate meltdown. Everyday we see another moving van and a new for sale/foreclosure sign goes up.  \an exodus of people leaving for areas where the rent hasn't skyrocketed and the cost of basic living isn't as high as it is here.  

In April, after reviewing my finances and realizing that I would not be able to afford the current mortgage payments by the end of summer, I started the process for help by applying to the Making Homes Affordable Program.  Without going into details that are a whole other column, let's just say that the process did not work as it should have and the due diligence that should have been in process by the bank (mortgage holder) was not in place. After jumping through one too many hoops, I had to enlist the help of a government sponsored financial counseling corporation to run interference -- more than once. 

In July, the bank finally informed us they had all the documents they needed and I would hear something by August 20.

As I noticed the first signs of Fall last week, that old familiar feeling of panic set in. For two weeks, I had been hounding the bank without response.  Knowing that my bank account was dwindling, I again had the counseling corporation run interference.  Time was up and I needed information. 

Finally,  someone at the bank made a decision.  I was denied the program.  I do not have a high enough income to qualify.   Let me repeat that:  They cannot lower my mortgage payments to something I can afford because I do not make enough money to qualify for the program.  Wait, isn't that what the program is for?

It was worst possible of news. My fear of homelessness is becoming closer to reality. Upon hearing the news, I broke down.  It is now the end of summer and I can no longer afford the full mortgage payment. At the beginning of next month, I will be over $1200.00 behind and the number will grow every month until foreclosure proceedings start. By my figures, the possibility of homelessness by Christmas is very real. The bank said they are looking into other programs. They were vague and secretive in their explanations of these "other programs."  I suspect  they were just trying to get me off the phone.

If I could run away, I would already be packing. If I could live in my car, I would be heading for a warmer climate. My son is in treatment, I am in treatment -- we cannot run away. Tears have become my night time companion.

Remember when I typed earlier that it was my superstition that kept me from saying much about it? It was just a silly little thought I had that if I talked about it, I would jinx the process.  How precious are those childhood tactics that we go back to when faced with a consequence we can't deal with?  Today, I am motionless with shock and paralyzed with indecision.

I can't think anymore about homelessness with my schizophrenic son. For just right now, it is just too much. Tomorrow is another day to burn up the phone lines.




Update 2012
We won our modification.  It took almost 3 years from beginning to end.  Thinking about the process: over 100 hours on the phone, two consumer groups, one state and one county agency, 3 federal agencies, 11 Bank of America customer assistants, about a thousand tears, many tantrums, countless failed promises and bottles of anti-anxiety meds boggles the mind. In December 2012, tentative approval was given and after a few smaller hoops, final modifications were granted.  Hip Hip Hooray. 

Frightened By Recent Decisions and Circumstances, Parts 1 & 2

Part 1 - The Days Before

Since the start of this blog, I haven't divulged much about the what, why and how of the situation regarding the possible loss of my home.  It was just plain ole superstition and anxiety that has kept me quiet. Circumstances changed on Thursday and the the clock has started ticking again. I truly believed our chances were good.....but now..... fear kept me awake most of the night.

When I bought my condominium a few years ago, I was healthy -- financially and physically.  I did my homework, hired a reputable mortgage broker and real estate agent, spent several weeks reviewing properties and got pre-approved for a mortgage loan at a set 6½%. I utilized a city program to help with first-time buyers closing costs, reviewed my financial situation with an adviser, put away four months of funds for emergencies and bought a condominium well within my budget.  In other words, I had all my ducks in a row. 

Except for one thing - Total and permanent disability.  I was still in my forties, in good health and of the belief that I would work at least until age 65.  Like most other Americans working for small businesses, my employers didn't offer short term or long term disability insurance.  Buying that type of insurance was so cost prohibitive that I had talked myself into believing it was an unnecessary expense for someone so young.

I was wrong.

Part 2 - The Hits Begin

I became permanently disabled three and half years ago. It took 18 months to get through the Social Security Disability program - forms filled out, records retrieved, files reviewed, independent medical exams, etc. -- all take time.  Even after approval, there is another 5 months before the first check arrives.  Additionally, it's another 24 months before you are eligible for Medicare.  As a result, my savings and retirement monies are gone. With absolutely no money coming in for over two years, my retirement and savings accounts were wiped out faster than I could have imagined.  

During a time when the U.S. economy tanked, living expenses spiraled out of reach.  We cut back on food, took light bulbs out of lamps and shut down the heater as often as we could. Physician copayments and medications in the range of $200 - $400 a month caused my checking account to tap into in overdraft account that was only meant for emergencies.  Unprepared, I became a virtual medical bankruptcy much faster than I believed it could happen. 

With some creative juggling, things settled down for awhile. With my SSDI income and my son's paycheck, we weren't living as before but we were making it. 

                                        [ To be continued...]

GOODWILL HUNTING

I have deleted everything on my blog and started over.  My old blog served me well for the two years I wrote on it. Then I noticed over time that it had become a chore and I no longer looked forward to writing on it. Oh it helped me to keep my sanity through some very dark days after being struck down by a severe pain disorder but constantly writing about the struggle was no longer helping. I know there are others who were fighting right along with me as I heard from so many of them.  I like to think we helped each other, I wish them well and I continue to pray for their daily struggles.  But now, as I begin my fight to save my home, I think I'd like to write of different things.

Also in the middle of being a voice for the victims of pain, my son became seriously mentally ill.  On Halloween night, my son began a 24-hour nightmare that started with scratching.  Take your hand and scratch across the nearest surface made of cloth.  Hear that sound?  My son hears that in his head almost non-stop.  He also hears a woman in there.  She asks him who he is a lot.  She tells him to cut himself and to end it all. The bitch!  In his better moments, he says he "kinda" knows she isn't real but one look at his face and you'll know he isn't convinced of what he's saying.  (Update:August 1 - a male voice has now joined the female voice but the male voice is not mean, so far.)  And remember those scary sillohouttes from the movie Ghost? Imagine if you were seeing something similar many times during the day.  While you are watching your favorite t.v. show or chatting online with a friend, bizarre shadows dance in and out of your line of vision.  This is part of his daily life.

I have lost my son and found myself with a grown man who, in many ways, reminds me of the small child he used to be.  Schizophrenia. I hate the sound of the word. His struggle and the lessons I am learning continue everyday.  I may write of his life now  and how we adjust to changes. I may even throw in a comment or two about the pain battle...it's hard to stay away from something that effects you all day long. I will explain more about the financial battle as we wade the river of of information and bureaucracy.   

I am learning to decorate.  Let me rephrase that.  I have absolutely no money and must have been out of my mind when I decided to change my home, but I am redecorating my condo.  It happened after I ran into a blog one day and became enchanted with the style of the couple renovating their home.  I was a goner after reading the first entry I ran into on the The Lettered Cottage blog.  I looked around my condo and saw my mother.  And my grandmother.  And other relatives and friends who have given me home decor gifts over the years.  Bless their hearts and their wallets but geez, when did I lose touch with my own style?

My heart is at the beach.  Oh, I may live in a landlocked state but my soul screams for the sound of the ocean waves hitting the shoreline and the feel of hot sand under my toes.  During times of extreme stress, I have run home to California and its beaches. Every vacation that I could afford to, I ran home to the beach.  During moments of crises, I close my eyes and transport myself back to a time and place that brings me joy and comfort.  The beach is like Valium to me, only better.

So how does one decorate their landlocked condo into a cozy home reminiscent of those days?  How do you completely redecorate with very little money?  Goodwill, garage sales, church rummage sales, the dollar store and the free column on craigslist.com.  Yes, I know you see shabby and worn down stuff in your mind.  I used to too.  I was wrong and I decided to decorate and then blab about it on a blog.  Oh joy of joys!  It is possible to find beauty and simplicity, lace and crystal, silk flowers and china, all in a place mixed in with the tired and the should-have-been-thrown-in-the-trash-five-years-ago on every shelf.  Bless the hearts of everyone who donates their treasures.

So stay tuned as I get pictures up and gather my thoughts together...