A road to somewhere…
Hope you have a good weekend everybody!
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A road to somewhere…
Hope you have a good weekend everybody!
I watched my son suffer a suicide attempt in January 2016. I sat by his side every day. At least he was treated well in Ohio. How I wish we could have stayed there.
In Florida, they Baker Acted (an emergency, involuntary psychiatric examination) him three times. Twice to Gracepoint where he was severely over-medicated. I visited him daily and watched him turn into a zombie. I was on the phone, constantly, advocating and seeking help. Using all my energy for him. His problems consumed my life. I reached out to everyone. In spite of losing myself entirely to try to help him, he’s only received harm and abuse in Florida.
My son was arrested in July 2016. It was a needless arrest that never would have happened had Gracepoint not destroyed his brain and injected him with 400 mg Abilify upon discharge. For two weeks after the injection, he suffered insomnia, severe akathisia, anxiety, paranoia, and hallucinations. He hardly ate or talked and paced the floors day and night.
After his arrest, I went to bed. No longer able to live my life. No longer part of my family’s life. No longer in my granddaughters’ lives. No longer able to function. Because my son suffered, I suffered. I lost everything. I spent the only energy I had advocating and visiting him in jail, or talking with him daily on the phone.
He’s in worse shape, today, due to all the trauma he’s suffered by the hands of those who call themselves healers. Why are they even in the business? It’s pure corruption here in Florida.
Now, it’s Boley housing and St. Anthony’s Hospital. No parent should have to watch his/her son suffer at the hands or such tormentors. How can they call themselves healthcare professionals or even doctors? All they did was harm him. From 7/26/18 to 8/8/18 he was living in pure hell — a torture chamber. It was completely unnecessary. Didn’t need to happen. Again, I had to exhume some sort of strength to try to advocate and be there every day. It was futile. I couldn’t stop the abuse.
The week of 7/20/18, my son was cut off 500 mg Clozapine. Cold turkey. Boley did nothing to help him. Boley Baker Acted him on 7/26/18 and the hospital cut off the 225 mg Effexor. Cold turkey. The same day, he was given a forced injection of Geodon/Ativan. On 7/27 he was given a forced injection of Haldol/Ativan. On 7/28 he was given a forced injection of Zyprexa/Ativan and left alone in isolation to suffer seizures all day long. The nurse said he was just attempting to choke himself. She said he was spitting on the med techs. No, he was trying to talk. White foam flew out of his mouth as he tried to speak but only could groan. This is inhumane.
At 5:30 P.M., my husband, Vince, and I arrived for visitation at the psych unit. An RN sat with us to explain that our son was “in crisis” and she couldn’t bring him out to the cafeteria in his condition for a visitation. She mentioned she’d considered a private room for our visitation but didn’t think I’d be able to handle it. I said, “I can handle it.”
She asked, “Do you hear that person screaming?”
I responded, “I don’t hear screaming, I hear someone groaning.”
She stated that our son was groaning, that he’d been in isolation, and needed to remain there. I insisted we see him. When we walked into the TV room, our son was seated in a chair surrounded by med techs. His body was rigid, his jaw clenched, his back arched, his head thrown back with eyes rolling back in his head, and white foam was pouring out of his mouth. Every time he struggled to breathe, I heard gurgling sounds. I touched his hand and he grabbed mine. He tried to turn towards me and speak. His lips moved with his jaw clenched tightly shut. Only groaning noises were coming out along with a lot of white foam.
One med tech had to stand in front of him with a towel, constantly wiping up the white foam. The white of his right eye started bleeding in 2 areas, filling his eye with blood. I asked what was happening. Everyone stood there wide-eyed. Then the RN told me I had to leave. I said, “No! My son needs immediate medical attention!” I feared for his life. She told me she would get an ICU nurse to assess him. She returned with the ICU nurse and we had to leave. Our son was immediately transported to the CV-ICU unit. I was thinking that the saliva he’d been producing since early morning was actually seizure activity and was concerned about brain damage.
Around 6:00 P.M., in the CV-ICU, a Bi-pap machine was applied to help our son breathe. He was sedated with an IV drip of Precedex and PRN Ativan. The next day he was transferred back to 6th floor medical unit. Vince and I stayed with him all day. He couldn’t open his eyes, talk, or feed himself. Nurses began administering oral insulin. They asked us, “Has your son always had diabetes?” We answered, “No, never.”
None of us would escape all that unscathed, but my son had to endure 11 more days of suffering — time in restraints and more drugging — even Thorazine. All he needed was his Clozapine. This is all harm to the patient. Oh, but wait, he’s not a patient. He’s a consumer. Oh, so that’s how they get away from the Hippocratic oath. He’s just a consumer — not a patient — not even a person with the right to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
People continue to turn their heads in apathy and indifference while there is an American holocaust going on. No one will speak up. I’m not a doctor. I’m not an attorney. I’m a nobody. Despite all my efforts, my son keeps receiving abuse from the mental harm system. It’s not healthcare.
I am broken. Beyond repair.
The following is transcribed from a video recording:
I was badly beaten by my mentally ill son who suffers from bipolar disorder, PDST, and severe ADHD. Prior to July 24, 2018, I called 911 to have officers 5150 my son because he wasn’t taking his medication and was becoming irritable. I know when my son’s not taking his medication because I’ve been dealing with his illness since 2013. I called his psychiatrist and he told me to call 911 and have him 5150d.
The police refused. They said, “Your son is calm, agrees to take his medication, and we see no reason to 5150 him at this time. If anything happens, please let us know.”
Well, this is the result (see photo below) and now my son’s in prison, again, because of a beating that wasn’t his fault. My son’s never laid a hand on me but, then again, he’s never had PTSD before. He got PTSD when he was incarcerated. The prison refused to believe that my son was mentally ill. So everyday that he was acting badly or had a panic attack, he was either maced or put into a chair with a bag over his head and with his wrists strapped.
Most of the time, my son was in a padded cell. A normal person couldn’t handle a padded cell and for two-and-a-half months that’s what his life was like until he was released. When he got out, he was awarded to me for five years. I told him he had PTSD but nobody would give us any help. I’ve cried. My son has cried. And now we both suffer and nobody’s helping us.
The mental health system sucks. Mother’s know best. This never would have happened if someone had listened to me. I suffered a brain hemorrhage for four days. Where I got stitches got infected and I was put on antibiotics.
So I’m not able to help my son, to see him or to find out what’s going on with him. All I’m doing is crying out for help. Somebody please help us. Please help us. God bless you.
Note: Debra lives in Sacramento County, California.
Stillness.
Hope you have a good weekend everybody!
Visiting my son, Elliott, in that orange jumpsuit was probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. Listening to him talk about his delusions about the apocalypse and hearing the absolute certainty in his voice that he’s always on the verge of a fiery death, or that the guards are going to come in and shoot him at any minute, is as crushing.
The peace that schizophrenia stole from my child, I don’t know if it’s ever coming back. The medication has curbed the voices, the suicide attempts, and the hallucinations but this constant underlying fear of the apocalypse is robbing him of sleep. He isn't eating right because he sleeps through meals because he’s up all night pacing his cell. I just want a pause button for his brain so he can have some rest. We’re nearing a year of this paranoia.
I’ve resolved myself to the understanding that, when medicated, I’ll see that child in the photos occasionally and, when I do, I’ll cherish it. I’ve also resolved myself that I’m now getting to know another person who seems to inhabit my son’s body. A child that lives in a world where everything he’s learned or believed his whole life is all swirling together in a reality I don't and can't seem to be a part of. I just love him through it.
He’s still convinced that a cartoon called Rick and Morty has something to do with his incarceration. That when we he was involuntarily committed they recognized him to be an awakened one and that is why they perpetrated this plan so that his last days (the world is about to blow up) will be spent away from his family because he sinned against the government by leaving the marine corps.
I don't know if he’ll ever come back completely because his first psychosis wasn’t treated properly and lasted for 6 months of absolute hell. I don’t know what further damage has been done to his brain by all of the self-inflicted injuries he’s sustained while incarcerated. It’s just one day at a time.
Read more from Tamara Lee on her blog. Click here.
healthymindministry.com
We just had a glaring incident of how untreated serious mental illness impacts the community.
A young homeless man that I know well and love, had an extreme outburst in front of our apartment. I don’t know what set it off. He was eating a box of cereal and drinking some milk. Then I heard him yelling at the top of his lungs. He started chasing another person down the street.
My neighbors across the street called the cops. They were terrified because they have two young boys and they didn’t want them to witness what was going on and they feared the young man could hurt someone.
The officers who came are well trained in crisis intervention. I asked them to try to take him to a hospital. They said they’d try but wanted to let him cool down first.
If he didn’t have the ‘right’ to be so ill, he’d have received the treatment he needs long ago. But the way the system is designed, he’ll have to demonstrate dangerousness, likely in the presence of law enforcement, before he gets any real treatment.
Turns out he was taken to the ER a week ago on a psych hold. The ER discharged him within 24 hours.
If he’s released early again, this family will be afraid of his next incident. It’s not fair that they should have to deal with the failures of the system of mental healthcare.
Intricacy.
Hope you have a good weekend everybody!
Behind the scenes at soonerthantomorrow.com it’s me, my computer, and conversations with another mother or father or sibling. Most of the stories I post are because I read them somewhere and ask the writer if they’re willing to let me share them on my blog. Often the writer says, “Yes.” Sometimes, “No.” Once in a while, “Maybe later. I’m not ready right now.” Or, “Please post my story anonymously.”
Whatever the answer, I respect it. If the answer is positive, I ask if it’s okay if I make a few edits (most of these stories weren’t written with publishing in mind). I promise to send the writer any changes I make for her to review before I post the story. Sometimes, when the writer reads my edits (mostly punctuation) he makes further changes. Frequently, the response is “Thank you for making this better.”
Once in a while, a story is sent to me, unsolicited, through my website or through email. Usually, these stories are thoughtful, require minimum editing on my part, and present material not seen before. I love receiving unsolicited stories. I hope more of you will consider sending them to me. dede@soonerthantomorrow.com
Sharing our stories takes courage and it’s complicated. We worry about betraying the confidence of our ill loved one. We might fear retribution — from a doctor, from a social worker, or from a prison guard. And we know, from first-hand experience, that public reception can be judgmental. Not kind.
Nevertheless, sharing our stories is imperative. As I say on my home page, “We have to do this. Nothing else is working. Not healthcare. Not government. Not prisons. Not advocacy organizations. Everything's fraught with hidden agendas, bureaucratic incompetence, and self-interest. Or lack of interest.”
If we want to see change, we can’t hide. We have to stand up, speak up, and let the world know what’s really going on. The failures of our mental illness system (indolence, greed, lack of will) count on our being cowed. On our being silent. The system doesn’t want the public to know just how criminal it is. It’s been this way since the 1800s when Dorothea Dix was fighting for the mentally ill in prisons and institutions. It will be this way for another two-hundred years if it’s not called out.
Where am I going with this? One writer recently said to me, when I asked her about adding photos to go with her story, “Pick the photo you like the best. I trust you.”
“I trust you.” Three little words that make all the difference. Your trust is the currency I must use as I solicit stories and cultivate readers. Especially for this blog and for these stories. Most of us are new to this concept — publicly sharing our stories of serious mental illness. Usually, our stories are hidden away in private support groups, on secret Facebook pages, and behind closed doors and shuttered windows.
Bottom line: Sharing our stories is hard enough and without trust nearly impossible. On my blog, your trust is my gold standard. I try, with every story, to earn it and honor it.
My daughter, Megan, made a contribution to 826 National in honor of Patrick's 50th birthday on 8/26/2018 and I’m happy to learn about this organization. Its programs might be helpful to some of our SED population who find solace and meaning in creative expression. Read my recent correspondence with their Development Director:
August 30, 2018
Dear Dede,
I'm writing to let you know that Megan Mace made a donation to 826 National in honor of Patrick Ranahan. Megan writes: Patrick Ranahan was a creative writer who would have loved the mission of 826. In honor of his August 26 birthday, we are happy to make a donation in his name to support the nonprofit writing and tutoring center in any city it is offered. Thank you for encouraging young writers to express themselves and for creating magical spaces to reach diverse populations.
We are honored to carry on Patrick's legacy through the pages of our student publications. Thank you for the generous support.
Warmly, Maggie & all of us at 826
Maggie Andrews - she/her
Director of Development, 826 National
44 Gough Street, Suite 205
San Francisco, CA 94103
"My hand is ready with a pencil to start a new future." - Rebecca L., age 10,
826 Boston
August 30, 2018
Dear Maggie,
Thanks for your email. I didn't know Megan made this donation. I'm so glad she did. My son died in 2014 on a hospital psych ward where I though he'd be safe. I've written a memoir that unknowingly captured the last year of his life. His voice comes through loud and clear and, in my pages, Pat will always be alive.
I hope your students realize how powerful their writing can be. You never know how far your words will travel. And the difference they can make — even if to only one other person.
My story has been read by over 500 beta readers on my blog. And due to their positive responses, I'm researching how to get my memoir published. My blog also shares the stories of individuals and families suffering from serious mental illness. Because of discrimination, it takes courage for them to let their stories go public. But we have to get the word out to the public if we ever want to gather enough support and political will to fix the mental health system that is failing so many.
So, best to you, your students, and all your efforts.
Thank you,
Dede Ranahan
soonerthantomorrow.com
A Safe Place to Talk About Mental Illness in Our Families
P.S. I'm 74. I began writing when I was 9 :)
September 4, 2018,
Dede, this email is so heartbreaking and beautiful that it took me some time to put my thoughts into words. I'm only 37 years into my own writing career, so still learning. ;)
Thank you for sharing your and Pat's story with us and so many others. We wish you the best of luck with your publishing efforts, and couldn't agree more in the power of shared story and perspectives to change policy, systems, and ideologies. Thank you for providing a platform for others to write, and leading so bravely by example.
If you'd ever like to visit one of our local chapters, please let me know. I'd be happy to arrange a tour so you can learn more about our work and meet some of our young writers in person.
Take good care, and thanks again for writing.
My best,
Maggie
Mission Statement: 826 National is a nonprofit organization that provides strategic leadership, administration, and other resources to ensure the success of its network of eight writing and tutoring centers. 826 National’s chapters are dedicated to providing under-resourced students, ages 6 to 18, with opportunities to explore their creativity and improve their writing skills. We also aim to help teachers inspire their students to write. Our mission is based on the understanding that great leaps in learning can happen with individualized attention, and that strong writing skills are fundamental to future success.
Read more about 826 National. Click here.
Sand and sea.
Hope you have a good weekend everybody!