Lion-Proof

When my son was twelve, he decided he was going to start training for the cross country team. Every morning, he’d get up early, leash up our young blue heeler/lab dog, and head out to the hills behind our house. I’d always say, “Watch out for mountain lions,” and he’d say something like, “I am a Leo, so lion-proof.”

Running was his obsession. He read books, kept a training journal, ran everywhere. He did join the cross country team and made varsity his freshman year.

I don’t know when the voices came. I sometimes wonder if running kept them at bay. Because when Shayne stopped running, some of his behavior changed. I didn’t know schizophrenia was even a possibility, so I wasn’t looking for it.

The voices have taken so much from my son, from me, from our whole family. One piece of advice I was given early on was to read as much as I could and learn about his illness. I did, though I have to say the reading was discouraging. Even though only about one percent of the population has schizophrenia, about ten percent die by suicide. The drugs only work for about eighty percent of people and often come with intense side effects. Success stories are few, and long roads of addiction, jail, and violence are not uncommon.

At first, when I started reading, I was hopeful that maybe we could have a different story. But as our journey continued, and we lived through one dark stretch after another, I wasn’t sure there was hope.

Maybe running was an early clue—fixation becoming obsession. At least it seemed healthy then. Better than being consumed by some unknown creature stealing his soul, or becoming convinced Elon Musk was coming for dinner.

The meds don’t take the voices away; sleeping does. He self-medicates to sleep. I have watched every drug take its toll on his body. The pharmaceuticals have aged his kidneys. The THC has given him the cough of an old man. The beer has left him with a round belly. Watching someone live addicted is its own kind of hell. Many times, I have felt powerless. Watching my son slowly kill himself in front of me is torturous.

Recently, he said he wanted to quit drinking. I didn’t react much. Words are cheap.

But then I saw him carrying one of his old running books up from the basement. He leashed up Stormi. Apparently pit bulls are not natural runners, because he came back carrying her, saying she refused to jog after three minutes. So I sat on the porch with her and watched him jog away.

He doesn’t move with his old easy gait, but he is out there, doing it.

Maybe he will stop after a few weeks. But maybe not. Running was his high for a long time, and I’m hoping it will be again. Maybe it’s the one thing that can save him from himself.