Author: mmtbagladyintraining

My son first told me about the voices in 2013. We were sitting in a Starbucks in Santa Barbara. I was trying to understand why he dropped out of college and why he was living on the street. When he mentioned hearing voices, everything just fell away. We left the coffee shop and started walking down one of those streets that have all the fun t-shirt shops and high end mall stores and yummy bistros and interesting bars and on the corner was a man screaming and screaming and beating his head against the sidewalk. There were police and an ambulance and they were trying to get him to stop hurting himself. It took a bunch of big, burly guys to pull the man up and get him sitting in the back of the patrol car. His face was bleeding everywhere and everyone on the sidewalk was watching like it was an attraction at the zoo. I wondered where his family was. And I had this uneasy feeling that was how my son was going to end up. I vowed that would never happen if I could help it.

Flash forward eight years. I no longer doubt the voices. I don’t hear them, but I know them. I know ER’s and psych wards, and trauma centers. I know delusions and paranoia, and conspiracies and mind control. I know all the first generation psychotropic drugs. I know the second generation drugs too. I know about EST; serotonin, dopamine and what the brain looks like with schizophrenia. I know the names of the drugs and their side effects; I know all the drugs that my son has rejected and why. I know the signs of impending truama. I know when the paranoia takes over and all of a sudden crazy shit starts to happen. Stephen King wants to meet him in Taco Bell. Trump is coming to dinner. The neighbor’s dog is threatening to kill him. I am an imposter looking to steal his soul. On and on. Finally, he flees. Outside is safe. He can run. He can hide. He can be “safe.” Except every damn time he flees without money, without ID, without anything. Each time is a little more horrific than the last. Each time seems more extreme, more dangerous. Each time the build up is quicker and the explosion is bigger.

This time he called 911 and reported that he was being raped. I guess I was raping him. I was the only one at home. Then he took off in his car. He dumped his cell phone in a remote wilderness area and I started imagining the worst. I felt like I was caught between two guns. Maybe I would never know what happened to him. I tried to imagine what it would be like to go the rest of my life like that. It didn’t even make sense. Or I’d find him and bring him back and we’d go through all the steps to make him healthy again. For what? So we can do this dance again in three days, or three months, or three years? What kind of life is that? For him and for me.

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of nights with my cousin, Jackie. She had this poster in her room that read–“If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.” I kept thinking about that, even though I posted a flyer and called the sheriff when my brother thought he found a cell phone signal. I went out to the levee and painted and started emotionally preparing myself to say goodbye to my son.

Turns out that after Shayne dumped his phone, he drove south to Saguache and ran out of gas. I’m not sure how long he was there, but a lady that worked at the gas station saw him and called the number on the flyer. He stole a sandwich and a drink and she had him on the surveillance camera. I was so mad. I thought he was dead and he was stealing sandwiches. I didn’t really want to go get him, but a girlfriend who was checking on me said that I needed to. She drove.

He was in Saguache. Sitting in his car at the park, all skinny and dirty. I knocked on his window and he opened the door and said, “How mad are you?” Then he said, “How did you find me? I thought you forgot about me.” Then he said, “I kinda hoped you would forget about me and live a happy life.”

I feel like I have been in the X Games of Emotions. And honestly, I’m pretty traumatized and not sure I am ok. I don’t know what to think, feel, say, or do. I’d love to believe that things will be different. He is back on his medicine. He is back to counseling. He is back to talking a good game about fixing everything. I guess I’m not mad anymore, but I don’t have any hope either. There will be a next time. That’s how this dance goes. But next time, there will be no flyer, no search party, no more bringing him home. Even if it kills me, I will say–Vaya con Dios, baby boy. And mean it.

I spent the day on the levee. I am out of red paint. But at least that’s a problem I can fix.

I lost Shayne once at the grocery store. He was seven. I remember pushing the cart through produce, then reaching the meat section and he had vanished. I stopped and looked behind me, peered around the next aisle, then immediately went hot and cold and sick. Did someone grab him? Would I ever see him again? I left my cart and sprinted to the front of the store and he was bent over working on tying his shoe. He didn’t know he was “lost.” I remember picking him up and squeezing him, even though he was way to “cool” to be manhandled like that in public.

Schizophrenia is a perceptual disorder; it’s like turning off the filter in your brain for sensory input. Like right now typing this, I’m aware of the feel of the keyboard under my fingers, the sound of the swamp cooler (which by the way, I think is not working correctly), and I can taste the mint of the toothpaste I used before going to bed last night. I’m aware of the letters and words before they appear on the page; I know a semicolon is an appropriate punctuation mark in this sentence, but I could have also made two sentences. I am sure there is other input my brain is registering, like the feel of the sheets and a cricket chirping, but some of those signals are filtered out as non important because they aren’t needed to complete the task at hand. Shayne’s brain can’t turn off the signals coming at him. All sensory details are equally important. And his inside running dialogue, isn’t his conscience, it’s like commands from someone or many people all at the same time. I explained it once to a little kid and she said, “It’s like his inside voice doesn’t have manners.” Yeah, that. In addition, my son’s memory is eroding. Not long ago I asked him make me a quesadilla. A little while later he emerged from the kitchen eating a quesadilla. I said, “Oh, you made one for yourself first.” He rolled his eyes at himself and said, “I couldn’t figure out why I was making this, I’m not hungry.”

So even though he is twenty-eight, this week has been like living that moment in the grocery store, only a million times magnified. I knew which direction he went in. I knew about how much gas he had. I knew about how much money he had. I knew the voices were probably getting louder and meaner. I knew that he was probably terrified of police or anyone in a uniform. I knew he would seek a place where there was no one. I knew he wasn’t going to ask for help. I knew that getting lost was a scenario that would kill him.

I was hesitant to put a flyer up; historically, they haven’t been all that helpful. Everyone in the world starts reporting sightings. And in this case, I was also afraid that the flyer would make my terror that something had happened to him more real. I could barely look at the pictures of him on my phone, let alone come up with the words to put on the page. I had my own little sensory overload. A friend helped me out though and after a conversation with the police, I realized that if I was going to find my son, I needed my village. It’s not that police are uncooperative; they took down the information that my son was missing. But they weren’t looking for him. He is twenty-eight and left home of his freewill and I’m being overreactive. They didn’t fully appreciate how acutely ill my son is.

The flyer quickly spread over social media. The flood of support is overwhelming. Even more kind and generous and full love of love than I have come to expect from my family and friends. But my brother is the one that probably picked up the most solid clue on a lead. He came over and sat down with Shayne’s computer and somehow was able to search for his phone through the apple id. He came up with a map of deep green and single pulsating red dot. He explained to me how the dot wasn’t Shayne, but a cell tower and Shayne could be anywhere within range of that tower. The tower is in the middle of the forest at edge of three counties, a place with rugged mountains, sparse roads and no amenities. A search was launched.

I have only received one update. His car hasn’t been found. But the beacon of the light on the map was like turning on the light switch to hope for me. There is water in the area. And maybe the trees have sheltered him from the heat. I know he could still be hurt, or maybe not even alive, but maybe he is okay. And as much as I want to get in my old, battered Toyota and tear up there, I am hoping that the people who search and save lives know their job and will find him.

I am so very grateful for the love and support of my family and friends. I am especially grateful to my brother. I am sorry that I made him eat dog food when he was a kid. I still don’t know how this will end, but I am hoping for peace.

I didn’t paint on Thursday. I got out to the levee and realized that I had left the locking carabiner in my garage. I had another carabiner, but it didn’t lock and there is no way I was stepping an inch on that incline without all the safety equipment. And in a way, I knew I really should be at home because my son was falling apart.

In the early years of Shayne’s illness, I thought if we just found the right medicine, he could be functional. At some point my thinking shifted to, if he would just take the medicine, he could be better. I have spent a lot of time trying to get to get Shayne to take his meds consistently. While I haven’t given up or lost hope, for the sake of my own mental health, at some point I quit fighting, cajoling, reminding, or debating over the meds. In other words, I stopped being a mom about the medicine and let him make the choice. His choice is to barely take it at all.

I have a high tolerance for crazy. I couldn’t have survived all these years as a teacher if I didn’t. Shayne’s behavior doesn’t bother me that much. He mostly keeps to himself, writes crazy stuff in his journal, watches Batman, eats Taco Bell and sleeps a lot. But his crazy is like watching a slo mo video of a glass of grape juice falling. Suddenly somehow it’s not a video and the juice is splashing you in the face. I feel like a weather magician sometimes. I can see the patterns in his crazy, but riffles and shifts in the wind can change the direction. Sometimes I can even stop the storm, by getting him back on his meds, but this time Shayne crossed the line from crazy to out of control. And I didn’t get in front of it in time and I couldn’t pull it back.

Every single time Shayne has a psychotic break, I think, it can’t get worse than this. But then it is. This time his words and actions are things I wouldn’t dream of putting on paper, but it culminated with him making a 911 call and reporting that he was being raped at our address. Then he got in his car and drove away. I dealt with the police. We made our report. Then I fell asleep. I know that’s a weird reaction, but sometimes the only way to cope with the madness is for my brain to take a little break. When I woke up, it was dark and I had no word from Shayne, the police, the hospital. Somehow not knowing is the worse than anything else.

I got up Friday morning and drove out to the levee before it was light. Watching the sun come up on the prairie is miraculous. It’s not orange, or pink, or red, but all those colors at once. I mixed up my color for fisherman and climbed down the wall. I just painted my fisherman and his long reedy pole. It looks so tiny, but in perspective, he is just in the background. Then I went out to a paint recycle center and met a guy even more covered with paint than I was. He showed me around and we couldn’t find any gold or neon green, I guess people aren’t using those colors in abundance, so I was forced to buy a gallon of new paint from a paint store. I did get a discount though and the salesgirl was super nice. Then I went home. Shayne hadn’t been there.

I sat on the porch until late in the evening wondering where he was sleeping. Wondering if he’d eaten anything. His birthday is today. I half expected he’d be in his bed when I got up this morning. I’ve been holding out hope that he will come home for cake and we can work on getting him some help. But he isn’t, so I guess I’ll go out to the levee and start painting the biggest trout on record. Right now, I am so grateful for my mural. It’s really the only thing getting me through.

The levee is beautiful at dawn; the sky is pink and river is picking up shadows of light and the water birds are making their calls. There is a big nest of osprey crowded with chicks learning to fish. They hang so still in the air before plummeting to the water and scooping out a trout. Now that I am not terrified of falling to my death, I am soaking in the surroundings.

I finished the primer today. Because the numbers fascinate me, I will share them. I painted thirty-six feet across and twenty-four feet down on six twelve by twelve slabs of concrete using three gallons of baby bow blue tinted primer. It was supposed to be sky blue, but the sky is darker. But it matches the shade of blue right next to the mountains. Or maybe the blue on a cloudy day. Over all it looks good, ready for art to happen.

I have been really thinking the next steps through. I don’t want to waste money by making mistakes and starting over. I don’t want to drop brushes in the river. I typically work with a lot of colors at once and how the hell do I do that now? Should I get a tool belt to put the paint in the pockets? Do I sketch in the design first? Do I make stencils? How much paint will I need? I would have some of the questions anyway, but painting on ropes changes how I paint. Everything has to be more deliberate and thought out. I am definitely not super awesome at being a planning kind of person, but I am getting there. On Monday, I was pretty sure that I was going to fall down the wall and die. Tomorrow I am ready to paint my mural. Thanks for the boatloads of support and courage. Let’s get the party started!!!!!

I learned how to knit with yarn and to repel with a rope in the last two weeks. Knitting was something I have always planned on trying. Repelling, not so much. In some ways they are kind of the same. Both require knots made from fiber. The success of both requires extreme attention to detail. Both involve specialized equipment and have an intricate vocabulary. I don’t know anyone who thinks knitting is an extreme sport, but avid knitters are as passionate as avid climbers. Comparing and contrasting unlikely things is my jam.

Here is what I learned about myself. I need a purpose and a reason. Knitting was difficult for me. It’s so tedious that I fall asleep or my mind wanders and I add rows or drop stitches. I restarted seventeen times and my single attempt at making a dishcloth was a success—it def looks like a rag. I might never make socks or a hat, but I don’t really care either. That’s what Christmas presents are for! I don’t necessarily care about climbing either, but I want to paint the mural more than anything. When I went to my climbing lesson, I was hyper focused. And while I am no climbing Ninja, nor will I ever be, I definitely feel confident that I am not going to die. And I was ready to roll.

I took Shayne out to the levee with me when I went to just practice, so I’d have a witness if something went wrong. He is pretty catatonic these days, so my judgement is questionable, but I AM PAINTING ON THE LEVEE, so questionable judgement is a known factor here. Getting Shayne to get out of bed is a huge feat. When he saw the concrete wall, he said, “You’re going to paint on that?” Then he said said, “ why do I feel like you are going to fall in the river. “ Then he paced up and down saying —“This is a bad idea,” over and over and over. I stepped out onto the wall just to get away from his pacing. After I walked up and down a few times with the ropes, he said, “maybe you won’t die.. Can we get Taco Bell? ”

My big plan was to hit the road at 4:30 and get to the levee at dawn. But then I thought about who is out and about at night and realized that 6:00 ish was plenty early. I got my gear out, got all set up, poured primer in the pan and started rolling it out, sitting at the top of the levee. Approximately three minutes later, I was ready to go down the wall. It took me about ten seconds to realize that I couldn’t negotiate the pan, the brush and the rope. And then the paint sloshed all over my thigh. Then I went to put the pan down and realized it would just slide right into the river. So I sat down, facing the river and painted scootching down ever few minutes, holding the damn pan. After about an hour of this, I realized that if I was going to be terrified the entire time, I was never going to get it done. I took my empty pan and roller to the top of the wall, hooked on the paint can to my caribiner and finished painting the first 12 by 24 section. When I got done, my feet were on fire, I had rope burns on my thighs and two blisters on my fingers and I was starving.

My friend, Susan snd her dog, Chardy came out and we ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and other ymmy stuff under the fourth street bridge and then I went back to it. I thought I could get at least half of the primer done, but my legs were shaky and it was getting hot and I knew I needed to pack it in for the day. I did ride my bike over to the other side of the trail to get some pictures. It looks pathetically weak, especially for it being the hardest physical thing I have ever done.

But there is no way I’d quit now. It’s bound to get easier, right?

I didn’t paint today. When I went out for my meeting and to pick my stretch of the concrete yesterday, I got sick. I thought it was sun poisoning. But maybe it was something I ate. And I had a huge reality check on just how steep that incline is. It looks steep from across the river, but to actually stand right on it and look into the water made it all get very real.

I just saw a social media thing about what did you used to do that most people consider dangerous now? Uh…everything. When I was a kid, I rode in the back of trucks, never wore a seatbelt, or a helmet. I played on the roof of the house and the roof of the school on the corner. I climbed and jumped on everything. I rode my bike all over town without GPS or a cell phone. Once my brother and I combined our paper route money and bought a raft and floated down the hydraulic ditch. Someone asked us if our parents knew were we where. Why would they? We were home in time for lunch. My point is that back in the day this incline wouldn’t have bothered me. At all. But I am old now and honestly a little freaked out.

I have a climbing lesson tomorrow. So today, I just walked around on the surface to see what it felt like, to see what kind of shoes I want out there. I scooted without a rope all the way to the water and came back up. It wasn’t so bad, but I’d feel better with a rope for sure. I met one of the muralists. She is around 20 and climbing around, barefoot, rocking her mural. Then I went to pick up the primer and some rollers. I met a professional painter who was kind of flirty and he offered me a job. I told him I had a job, but now I am wondering if I should have at least explored that idea. House painter? Hmmmm.

A couple of people have asked me if this is worth it. For me, it is. It’s a challenge for sure. But I have never wanted to do anything more. Looking forward to “learning the ropes,” so I can paint. Thanks to everyone who donated so far. Also sharing my blog would also be helpful.

My friends know that my mid life crisis has been happening for a while. I feel like if Oprah was still on TV, she would have covered this and I would know what to do. So maybe this is Oprah’s fault? I do know a convertible or a trophy wife ain’t gonna cut it, so I am on my own to figure it out.

I know that some women go through this when their kids leave home, but that’s not super true for me because I still have my son at home and that might not ever change. Living with a sporadically medicated schizophrenic man/child presents its own challenges and I do want to run away sometimes. Like I could go to the store and get milk and never come home. Except I don’t drink milk and it’s my damn house, so that’s not really a great solution. And I love him. He’s my son. But often I lie in my bed staring at the ceiling listening to him scream in the shower or argue with himself and wonder if that’s what I am going to be still doing twenty years from now. There has to be something better for him, and me, but how do I get him to see that or believe it? How do I get myself to believe that?

Then there is the whole career thing. I never LOVED teaching. I love things about it, but I am definitely not a teacher who is also an artist. I am artist who is also a teacher. Teaching drains me. I am not a natural extrovert, but I have trained myself to be outgoing and friendly. Kids are broken in ways that are so wrong. They need far more than I can give them in forty five minutes. I can pretend that teaching them about color, or shape, or Van Gogh will make a damn bit of difference in their lives. And maybe it does or will, but most days it doesn’t feel adequate or even remotely right. I have considered changing my position. I could go back into the classroom and teach reading and writing again. But the way we do it now days seems even more stifling and wrong. I could cash in my twenty some years and walk away, but then what? I still need to work. It all adds to my angst.

A couple of weeks ago, I told some people that when I retire that I want to move to Coney Island and work in a t-shirt shop. They laughed. The thing is though, I wasn’t really kidding. The weather in Coney Island isn’t great though; I follow it daily. It’s a lot colder than I expected, but if my hot flashes continue, cold weather will be fine with me. That brings up my health which is also not what I expected. Cancer has changed me. Yeah, I am a survivor, but it has given me a constant whisper of fear—-is it coming back? When? How? And I never have gotten over the fatigue. Or is that depression? Or my mid-life crisis?

I am not saying my life is bad. I know I have a thousand and one things to be grateful for and I am. But I have reached this point where everyday I am saying—is this it? What else? What next? What is happening? Maybe if I had list—10 things to try during a mid life crisis? Or a Mid-life crises self help group—Hi. I am Michelle. I can’t stop thinking that I have wasted the last twenty-five years of my life. Maybe it’s a nutrition thing—is there a keto plan for mid life crisis? Do I join a gym? Learn to knit? Try yoga? Try yoga with goats? I really don’t know. So I guess I am doing what I have done every day of my life. I wake up and do things. I am sure the answers will come. In the meantime, if anyone has a convertible for sale…..

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