Thinking the unthinkable
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December 17, 2012 |
Publisher's note: Liza
Long is a writer and mother of four based in
Boise. This article first appeared December 15
in the
Blue Review, a journal of popular
scholarship published by the Boise State
University College of Social Sciences and Public
Affairs. Since its publication, this article has
gone viral, opening eyes worldwide. It was also
published in the blog,
Anarchist Soccer Mom, where "A
Joint Statement From Sarah and Liza" reads;
“We would
like to release a public statement on the need
for a respectful national conversation on mental
health. Whatever our prior disagreements, we
both believe that the stigma attached to mental
illness needs to end. We need to provide
affordable, quality mental health care for
families. We need to provide support for
families who have a relative who is struggling.
“We both
agree that privacy for family members,
especially children, is important. Neither of us
anticipated the viral response to our posts. We
love our children and hope you will respect
their privacy.
“Our nation
has suffered enough in the aftermath of Newtown.
We are not interested in being part of a ‘mommy
war’. We are interested in opening a serious
conversation on what can be done for families in
need. Let’s work together and make our country
better.”
Liza is a good friend of a life-long colleague
of prominent Bonners Ferry businessman Darrell
Kerby, who suggested re-publishing Liza's
article here, as he feels it is a must-read that
affects everyone touched by this and similar
tragedies. I agree. I did make a feeble attempt
to reach Liza, but didn't press hard; the joint
statement seems to indicate that she is seeking
the widest audience possible. It's my hope this
is so, and that my reprinting of her words is
solely with the intent of helping to reach that
part of the audience who read these pages. |
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Mike Weland |
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| "Michael" |
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By Liza Long
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Liza Long |
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.
God help me. God help Michael. God help us all.
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