The concluding paragraphs particularly stood out to me,
"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."
As a strong Democrat who supports gun-control laws, I urge lawmakers to make more sensible and effective restrictions on purchases of weapons. As a Christian, I am praying for the families of those killed in Connecticut. As a Family Doctor in an area which desperately needs psychiatrists and better access to mental health care (for adults, adolescents, and children alike), I feel the desperation of a mother like this author. As a future parent (with hope, sometime a few years from now), I worry a lot as I think that, no matter how good, loving, or devoted a parent you might be and what values you might try to instill in your children, you might still have a child that could struggle with mental illness and choices which are out of your control. How would you react to a child described in this article?
In its entirety, here is the article:
<< Friday’s horrific national tragedy -- the murder of 20 children
and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut
-- has ignited a new discussion on violence in America. In kitchens and
coffee shops across the country, we tearfully debate the many faces of
violence in America: gun culture, media violence, lack of mental health
services, overt and covert wars abroad, religion, politics and the way
we raise our children. Liza Long, a writer based in Boise, says it’s
easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.
While every family's story of mental illness is different,
and we may never know the whole of the Lanzas' story, tales like this
one need to be heard -- and families who live them deserve our help.
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. 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.
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.
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.
God help me. God help Michael. God help us all. >>
Amen. God help us all.
