POWER IN NUMBERS by Heidi Franke

Day 5 of 90, maybe 56, for good time. My son's jail time that's left after being kicked out of mental health court. No more probation after his days served. No felony conviction, thank God. Misdemeanors only. That frees him. He is 22, soon 23. He started mental health court at age 19. It kept him alive.

Heidi and Mitch

Heidi and Mitch

I'll never forget the night when Mitch called from his apartment in a panic. He was sure there were men in his house with guns. I told him to call the police immediately. He first took a baseball bat and broke open his bedroom window to escape and went to the neighbors' house in the middle of the night and called the police. He let them in his house. There was drug paraphernalia. We were trying to see if he could live on his own with his disability. He did well for almost a year, but the neighborhoods that those on disability can afford are drug infested. There were two heroin deaths in the apartment below my son's. But that was then.

Today, to get by in jail, Mitch imagines that jail is the only world that exists. If he thinks of his freedom, he says he will fall into depression. So, to him, there is no outside world. He says that helps him cope. I fear he will likely learn to be a better criminal. I want him to be a better person. They do give him his antipsychotic meds, but jail is no place for the mentally ill. They need to be in treatment. I worry jail will become familiar to him. Imagine a mentally ill person having to create an alternate universe for themselves because the one they are in feels so dangerous. How pathetic is that?

We send him money on his commissary account so he can buy food so he doesn't go to bed hungry. Ramen noodles are gold.

His last cell mate was a skin head. Swastikas were tattooed on his skin. Mitch said his cell mate's skin was peeling and landed like dust. The skin head's skin would fall into a pile on the floor. Mitch found the dead skin and this cell mate disgusting. He's so glad that one is gone.

His current cell mate talks to himself. The cell mate sits on the metal stool in the cell facing Mitch's bottom bunk just looking at him. That's now frightening Mitch and he wants to do something about it. I encouraged him to be curious and not confrontational. Mitch finds it creepy. Me too. 

I need to remember to send him isometric exercises for his shoulder which was recently surgically repaired.

Tonight, there's to be a movie for the pod. He says it's currently a good pod. But it's always changing.

That was Day 5.

Once done with his time in jail, Mitch's through with mental health court. He didn't graduate from it. They basically kicked him off because nothing seemed to help him. He was on and off his meds, on and off the streets, in and out of hospitals, and in and out of jail. People with serious mental illness live in their own world. The best we can do sometimes is to meet them where they are with delusions, paranoia, and attempts at self harm. They need love and support. Please help break the stigma of mental illness. Tell your stories. We do not gain in shame. 

One day at a time. Thank you to all the family, friends, and mothers I've met along the way in this journey. I'm forever in your debt for being a light in this complicated dark journey. I especially want to thank Sim Gill and the judges in the Salt Lake City Mental Health Court for their compassion. We must fund more programs for our seriously mentally ill and those with co-occurring substance use disorder. Keep peeling back the layers.

With all my gratitude, now on Day 6.

Thank you Adam OzunaTommy KrausRobert BoguesWendy Nielson ConwayAlec BangTommy J. Oberst, Laura Webb, Pamela MullinsSue Swaner, Carol and Richard EvansNicholas ShortCarol Anne Schuster EvansCaroline GilsonCarole StrongPaul GentnerCindy PhelpsDebbie Pierce St. ClairCarmen Kolyer WeaverMelody FlorezDebbie Moorehead ThorpeDede Moon Ranahan, Dr. Douglas Gray, soon to be again, Dr. Kevin McCauley, my mother, The Treatment Advocacy Center, and most recently, a few members of the LDS church and so many more for listening and not judging. For sharing your stories. Power in numbers. @abedinstead

 

HE HAS SCHIZOPHRENIA, YOUR HONOR by Sandy Turner

Once upon a time, when Casey was very sick and demonstrating symptoms of his illness in the courtroom, his overwhelmed public defender started defending Casey by speaking out on an entirely different case.  I raised my hand and said, "He has the wrong file, Your Honor."

A large bailiff came near to me so I apologized and slunk down. When his defender began speaking again, it was as if he was speaking from a routine script with no sense of what was happening to this beautiful young man's life. My son was disappearing right before our eyes.

I raised my hand again and said, "He has schizophrenia, Your Honor."

The large bailiff came and stood in front of me again, this time with his arms crossed in front of him. I apologized a second time and watched as this amazing judge got it. The prosecutor finally got it, too, and came to speak with me. I asked, "Why do they prosecute patients for displaying symptoms of their illness?" He put his head down and shook it.

One day in our trip down behavioral lane. I remember every one of them.

Casey Alan Campbell Age 5

Casey Alan Campbell Age 5

  Casey Alan Campbell age 23

  Casey Alan Campbell age 23

October 29, 1985 - October 1, 2009

Those beautiful days!
Our fairytales did not end well.
But, oh Dede, the beautiful days we had with these amazing loves are forever.
So loving and aware of others.
I sometimes looked at Casey and thought to myself,
Where did you come from, you beautiful-hearted little soul? 💖

SORROW AND JOY - Anonymous

Your son-in-law's grilling steak for the family because we're celebrating the birth of our daughter's second child this past weekend. He looks for the missing steak knives in your cupboard because he knows there should be more. You quietly tell him those knives are impounded at the police station. 

Even though the moment passes and he graciously nods his head, the reminder that this is one more celebration your son cannot join in kind of puts that familiar weight on the joy. Sorrow and joy are constant company.

Photo credit: "I Miss You" by bubblegumgirlzflickr.com

Photo credit: "I Miss You" by bubblegumgirlz
flickr.com

EGG IN MY BEER? by James Callner

So here's the deal.

It's baffled me, for over 35 years of OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder), why family members and even family doctors don't get this disorder. It seriously stumps me. How tough is this?

I understand research continues on the exact cause and cure of OCD, but can't people make the stretch of compassion about the anxiety and — yes, as we know and are truly self aware of — the odd rituals and obsessions? We are the first to say it.

I used to ask audiences and classes of mine, "Have any of you had a panic attack?"  Eighty to ninety percent or more would answer "Yes." 

"Okay, take that feeling and multiple it times three. Sometimes all day long".

They'd get that part but why all the shame, blame, and criticizing from family? Is it just too hard for them to see you in pain? Is it scary to them?

Bottom line: all we want is a daily reprieve and a little encouragement to get there. Even the smallest daily win, over any OCD behavior you challenge in yourself, should get a "good job!" Even if someone doesn't understand it. That's called basic compassion and kindness in the midst of struggle.

Or, am I'm asking for egg in my beer? (which I have no idea what that means)

Wikipedia: Egg in beer refers to the practice, literally or figuratively, of cracking a raw egg into a glass of beer. One Pennsylvania source refers to this as a "miner's breakfast". The term is also used metaphorically, commonly as "what do you want, egg in your beer?", implying that the listener already has something good but is asking for undeservedly more.

 

Photo credit: Keggs & Eggs- Williwaw

Photo credit: Keggs & Eggs- Williwaw

From the oldest

I TOLD THEM ALL OF IT - Anonymous (A Mother Bear)

And then I stood up to speak. I was afraid I wouldn't find my voice due to the tears that I couldn't hold in all day whenever I approached anyone personally. But I held strong and the tears held back.

I spoke, folks. I shared our story and told them that our story isn't unique. It's the story of countless families who care and try to get help for their SMI (seriously mentally ill) loved ones but are told the only recourse is to call 911. Then, when they call 911, the police arrive and say, 'We can't do anything unless we actually witness threats of danger to self or others."

The family's left with two options — see their kid escorted off the property to become homeless and vulnerable; or wait it out until the next violent assault and hope they live through it so they can advocate for treatment. And then, when that assault happens, (for many it inevitably does), the police arrive and the parents beg them to take their kid to the ER. Now they can see the threat of danger to self or others, right? Instead, the police say, "No, we're sorry, but now your kid has committed a felony and we have to take him into custody."

So begin the weeks and months of jail time, and waiting for yet another psychiatric evaluation despite the years of documented medical reports and hospitalizations. Finally, the treatment starts along with the parole and the recovery while the court ordered medication lasts. Then the court order is over, the son or daughter goes off medication and it all begins again. Over and over, from ground zero, the same scenario.

I told them all of it, folks, and said, "Families need to be listened to when they know their kids need treatment."

Photo credit: Brigitte Eflickr.com

Photo credit: Brigitte E
flickr.com

From the oldest