Just Another Damn Thing to be Strong About

Tag: mental health

  • Moving Out, or Not?

    My son graduated from high school twelve years ago. I’m not sure when the voices moved into his brain, but when I first discovered them, I did my best to evict them. At some point I realized that they weren’t leaving, and I’ve grown used to them. I am not saying I like them, and my greatest wish is that someday, some cure will come and eradicate them forever, but I know the voices are a reality for my son. I know his brain is a noisy place that makes moment to moment thoughts, actions, feelings, basically everything, challenging. I know medicine doesn’t completely work for him and he is prone to looking for ways to quiet the voices using other means–pot, alcohol, meth, music, sleep, whatever it takes. Staying sober, staying functional, staying alert is more than a full time job for him. But I have to say, he has come to a place where he is managing. He has been doing some part time jobs for about six months now; he has money in his pocket, and he tries to help me. He buys groceries, and takes me to the movies on occasion. I guess our life has settled into a pattern of tentative peace. I say tentative, because for me, the shadow of the voices is always there. I know all the bad things they have brought and I am always on guard. I have no trust that this peace is permanent. So I just plan for today.

    Years ago, when I accepted that schizophrenia was going to impact the quality of my son’s life, I tried to help him navigate being as independent as possible. Even though, I can take care of him, it’s in his best interest to learn how to navigate the world on his own, including living alone. We signed up for Section 8 housing. I never thought the day would come, but after three years of waiting, Shayne was approved for a housing voucher in July. I realized right away that independent living was more my desire than his.

    I am really good at putting on his shoes. I get it. Things between us have really settled into a livable rhythm; why change it? His experiences of living on his own have been abysmal. When he moved out to California at nineteen, the voices took over. He ended up living on the streets of Hollywood, scared he was being followed, wearing tin foil hats, and losing all his possessions, except for two shirts, an Allen wrench, and a copy of the Grapes of Wrath. At twenty-one, when he tried again, he wrecked his car, tied the bumper back on with neon green shoelaces, and thought he was the Son of Man, ready to save the world. Then there were the times that he wandered off to live in the wilderness for forty days, or the weeks huddled in motel staircases or laundry rooms, pilfering free cookies and coffee. The last time he lived alone was the year in his car. That was MY breaking point because I never knew if he was cold, hungry, dirty, alive or dead. I slowly unraveled during that year, feeling like I was fighting my own war of survival every day.

    So getting the voucher seemed like a victory to me. We’ve been to some dark places, but my son is a survivor and he is learning to cope with his voices, and demons, and with help and love, he has a level of functionality that he hasn’t had in more than a decade. But I realized that he is terrified to take the next step. And I can see that the housing voucher may have come at a bad time, but what? I can’t say, “Uh, this is a bad time? Can you ask again in six months?” If he goes back on the waiting list, it could be years before another opportunity comes our way. In fact, the waiting list isn’t even open in our county. Who knows when it will be available again? So, we couldn’t turn the voucher down.

    I thought Shayne was warming up to the idea of moving into his own place. We looked at an apartment downtown, but the rent was too high for the voucher. While we could have gotten a waiver for the size, I was hesitant about the location (over a bar) and Shayne really didn’t seem ready. We looked at a tiny house; it seemed perfect. The size was good; it had a little yard; the price was great, but the owner kept saying the unit wasn’t ready. I realized that he seemed to have cold feet about doing a section 8 rental, but it’s illegal to discriminate on the basis of disability and we were being “ghosted.” I told Shayne to call the owner and find out what was going on. He was told something about deciding not to separate the tiny house from the main property. And maybe that was true, but it seemed off. I was kind of sad, because that tiny house seemed perfect. I wish I could build a tiny house myself, or have a property with a mother in law house. It would give Shayne independence, but, still offer him the security he needs. So we were back at square one, with the voucher ready to expire.

    I did a quick search for apartments in the price range and came up with a short list. We looked at a shared living situation. I knew that was a no. Shayne is clean, but sharing his space with other people would be difficult. He always has music or TV going because it helps with the voices, and he still talks to himself and laughs at only things he can hear. The pressure of trying to live with people who aren’t used to that would be too much. Then he found an apartment in our neighborhood that was the right price. He made an appointment and went to look at it on his own. He paid the deposit and dealt with the paperwork. I thought he was finally ready.

    With all the enthusiasm I possess, I offered to take Shayne on a shopping trip to get things like a new shower curtain, sheets, towels, maybe a new trash can. He seemed less than enthused and said I could get whatever, but then reluctantly agreed to join me because he wanted to look for a movie. He did grab a shower curtain, but said he didn’t need anything else. I took the day off work to help him move, but he didn’t make any effort to pack up anything. We moved the big stuff like his bed, a table that I bought for him at a yard sale, and a couch, but he didn’t want to sleep at his new place. Instead he came home to watch Monday night football and fell asleep on the couch.

    It’s been a week now. More of his things have moved over to the apartment. He hung up his James Bond poster in the living room yesterday and took over some movies. He is still sleeping on the couch. I made an analogy to this being like getting your toddler out of your bed to sleep in his big boy bed. And like that, I just have to be patient and keep encouraging him and reassuring him. It will happen.

    Sometimes I think the lesson I keep getting in life is building my patience. The world isn’t on my timetable. I think he is ready for this. I think he will be fine. I just need to keep believing in him and wait until he believes in himself.

  • May Madness

    I know for most educators, the month of May is this kind of frantic push to make it to some sort of invisible goal line. There is a pretense that learning must continue to the very last day, even if the kids are done. Somehow there is time for one more story, one more math module. There is mother’s day gifts to be crafted and field day to prepare for, and awards to fill out and grades to get ready. The room needs to be cleaned and everything needs to be organized and ready for the fall. And. And. And.

    Growing up in Canon City, Colorado, May is always heralded in by Blossom. Blossom is the affectionate term we call the weekend long celebration of the long ago fruit orchards that once filled our valley. Even though our industry is prisons now, and not plums and peaches, traditions die hard. The carnival pulls into town, marching bands fill the streets, and artists pop open their awnings hoping that this is the year tourists spend big. It is the weekend that has always signaled the end of the school year and promise of the summer ahead.

    May for me has become this time of excitement and fear. I am ready to finish up the school year and ride my bike and nap in the sun and recharge, but summer always seems to bring my son’s schizophrenia into a full throttle frenzy. I exchange one crazy for another. I have some theories about why summers are so difficult, but nothing hard and fast to prevent the crazy train from rolling in.

    The signs have been there for the last week or so. I watched him having a full blown conversation with a shovel. Then he accused me of making up reasons to yell at him, even though I wasn’t even in the house at the time and then he got lost at the grocery store and called me in a panic.

    I honestly wondered for a half a second what it would be like to join the carnival. It is in town right now. I love the neon lights and the geometry of the Ferris wheel and the magic way the rides and games unfold and pop out. It would be interesting to travel for a season to small towns and big cities and set up and take down. I’d love to take photos of cotton candy faces and jot down my thoughts every night. It seems like it could be a great story.

    Shayne was screaming obscenities while he was mowing the lawn. I went outside and told him he needed to stop and get it together. I don’t really care what the neighbors think, but don’t need one of them calling the cops. When he came inside, I asked him why he isn’t taking his medicine. Not that there is a good answer to that. It’s more of a formality in this dance we do. I try to make sense out of something that makes no sense. He tries to convince me there is a legit reason when there isn’t. Then we both stare at the bottle of pills that should be empty and isn’t. He takes one out and puts it in his mouth, swallows, then opens his mouth to show me that he has taken it.

    Even though I can’t hear the voices that my son does, sometimes I feel controlled by them too. I don’t know why I’m thinking about running away with the carnival, I’m living on a roller coaster everyday. I’d like to get off; I just don’t know how. But I took a little break and walked to the park and listened to the music. Some of my friends were there and I danced a little, and laughed. And just breathed. That’s when I realized, that’s all I really need to do anyway. Just breathe.

  • 7 Years Ago

    Sometimes when I read my past Facebook memories, I laugh. Other times I wonder if I was smoking crack and have amnesia now. I can see how I used humor to fake my way through pain and trauma. Every once in awhile I read a memory that is so raw that it kind of takes my breath away.

    Seven years ago, I wrote that my son was hospitalized for a psychotic break. I didn’t write about the events that lead up to it. I never really do because those breaks are so terrifying that I chose not to relive them. That particular break happened on an airplane. We were coming back from Maryland where he’d been turned down from a study at the National Mental Health Institute. I had been hoping that the study would be the answer and bring my sweet, funny boy back. He had marijuana in his system, so he was rejected. I was so upset. I couldn’t believe he had sabotaged the opportunity. I didn’t think I could live with the voices anymore. I wanted help.

    We sat next to each other on the flight home and I could feel the tension in his body. He was whispering to the voices to go away, that he was sorry, that he would kill himself to make them happy. He would kill himself to make me happy. His eyes were glittery and dark. He gritted his teeth and bit his fist and punched his head. He didn’t scream until we were off the plane. He kept opening the car door on the highway and screaming that I should just kill him and put us both out of our misery. I took him straight to a hospital. I thought that was as bad as it would get. I didn’t know that was just part of the ride.

    The fear of the psychotic periods is always there. I’m always watching for the voices to take over. I can’t hear them, but I know them. And I’m afraid of them. I don’t know how to fight them, but I’ve never been willing to flee them. So instead I became their friend, doing anything I could to keep them at bay. That didn’t work either. Instead it gave them power that I can’t even write about it. I guess that this is an actual trauma response called fawning. Great. I’m freaking Bambi.

    Seven years ago, I thought I HAD to do it all–be positive, make everyone laugh, be a mom, be a partner, be a teacher, take care of everything, and everyone. I posted seven years ago that I didn’t have anymore to give. Yet, I can see that I’m still doing that–giving more than I have. I’ve been working on my health, but being a classroom teacher in a classroom full of other trauma survivors has been a set back. It’s brought out the damn fawn again.

    The snow days and long weekend have been a reset for me. I have to go back and finish my contract, but at least I have enough tools to change my response. And I am awakening to the idea that I am not trapped. I have choices. Maybe my students will learn that. Maybe they won’t. I just hope that when this post pops up in seven years, I will read it and think–“Yeah, that was then, but look where I am now.”

  • What’s next?

    1. People keep asking.

    2. I resigned from Canon City Schools.

    3. I took a job as a 5th grade teacher in Pueblo.

    4. I sold my house.

    5. I am moving.

    6. I don’t know if it’s my final destination.

    7. I kinda think Albuquerque might be.

    8. Or maybe Florida or New York.

    9. I know in my heart that I just want to paint.

    10. But my head isn’t quite there yet.

    Anyone who follows my blog knows the last several years haven’t been easy. But I thought I was doing okay, considering. So when the panic attacks started in February it took me awhile to figure out was happening. At first I honestly thought I was having a heart attack. But I was also afraid of leaving my bed and the thought of spending the day in a noisy classroom would bring on sobs of agony. I felt like I was losing my shit.

    One morning I made it to work and called my HR director and told her that I didn’t think I could finish out the day, the week, the year. Her response was to send over Jamie. Jamie has a title but we go way back, and she brought me a breakfast burrito and she listened to me for an hour. And she said, I think you have PTSD.

    At first that didn’t make sense to me. I am not a soldier. I have never been on a battlefield. But the truth is I have a lot to trauma in my life and the last years have been on going trauma. I guess my brain finally had enough and said, “Hey, I can’t do this anymore!!!!! Are you listening?????

    One of the things that I have trained my brain to do is look for the silver lining. My parents died in a horrible tragic accident, but at least it was quick. They didn’t have years of suffering or illness. I didn’t have to watch them lose their independence or memories. As the years have gone on, I am so glad that I haven’t had to watch the aging process with them.

    Same story with my son’s illness, I always find a way to have hope. At least he doesn’t have kids. At least he hasn’t been in jail. At least he isn’t violent.

    But the fact of the matter is that kind of positivity discounts the pain and confusion and pushes aside the trauma.

    Last August when Shayne disappeared and I was working on the levee was the first time I actually lost hope. I realized that he could be dead, or he could die and one of these times things aren’t going to end well. I didn’t even know what to do with those thoughts I remember just sitting on the wall by the river just staring at the water, or watching the sun come up, or go down, not even knowing who I was or what I was doing.

    I think about the night my parents died all the time. The phone call. The doctor telling me despite his best efforts he couldn’t keep my father alive. It was like you see on TV, except TV doesn’t even begin to capture the screaming that happens in your soul. And then seeing him. They had him all wrapped up in white sheets in a hospital bed like he was sleeping. But he slept with his arm stretched out. I know because when I was small, I’d climb into bed next to him put my head on his bicep. He’d curl his arm around me without even waking up. He’d always be warm. I touched his skin that night. Sometimes the memory of that chill comes to me when I am doing simple things like rinsing off a fork or unwrapping a stick of gum.

    Flashes of things that happened that night bombard me at unexpected moments. My mother’s dusty pink fingernail as she spelled, die, into my palm. Shayne’s glittery eyes. His shrieking, “Kill me instead.”

    Maybe if it was just that night, but the trauma never seems to be over. Each time Shayne has a psychotic break, I don’t think it will get worse. But then it does. So last fall when I thought he was dead. i didn’t know how to cope anymore.

    Work had been my haven. I’d show up and kids would make me laugh and I saw my friends and for the time I was there, my trauma was at bay. Without going into specifics, work was pretty tough this year. Lots of change and toxicity and all of a sudden, work didn’t feel safe anymore. Hence, the panic attacks. My brain couldn’t cope with living in two uncertain worlds.

    I really, really considered leaving education. And to be honest, I am not sure that I shouldn’t. I still love kids, but some of them are so damaged and I am sensitive to their pain. Dealing with my own trauma is a full time job, let alone being surrounded day after day with little kids who have seen more trauma than grown adults.

    I know leaving Canon after spending most of my life here isn’t going to fix my trauma. And to be honest I have questioned my decision to leave every step of the way. But last week I found this little house over by Mineral Palace Park. It’s got a white picket fence and lined with roses. It reminds me of my dad and mom in the best way. The backyard is an oasis and from the front step there is a little sliver of the interstate. I like that though, it feeds my imagination. I will sit out there at night and watch the lights and wonder about all the destinations possible. Who knows? Maybe I will grow old there; maybe it is just a stopping place on my next journey. I am open to all the possibilities

  • Broken System?

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    My son is still psychotic.  He locked himself in the bathroom yesterday, so that he would feel safe.  He ranted on about not really being schizophrenic. The drugs were poisoning him.  EVERYBODY from his ninth grade math teacher to Donald Trump was trying to frame him for murder, even our dog.  Somewhere in all his garble he decided that if he worked for DEA, all the problems of the world would be resolved.  I know better than to engage in his ramblings, but sometimes I can’t help myself.  So when he said the thing about the DEA, I said something like, “Shayne, you can’t work for the DEA, you can’t even put on pants.”  He unlocked the bathroom door and went to his room and put on a pair of sweat pants.  The pants belonged to my father.  My mom bought them in the 70’s when velour was a thing and my dad weighed like 200 lbs.  When Shayne wears them he looks like he is playing dress up.  So he stood in my doorway, in the ridiculous pants, his eyes wild and glitttery to prove he could put on pants.  Then he decided I was going to kill him, so he left.  That’s when I called the doctor at Denver Medical.  I told her he wasn’t ready to be released and she should have listened to me and it was on her if something bad happened to him or someone else.

    I realize that makes me about as irrational as Shayne.  But I am so TIRED of being told the system is broken.  I know it’s broken.  I have dealt with every broken part of it in the past five years.  I know emergency rooms are holding tanks when there are no beds.  Patients can be held in stripped down rooms with security gurads watching, with no treatment for days.  We’ve done that.  I know community mental health centers have high turn over and are staffed with young people who have limited experience and usually have no idea how to handle someone as critical as Shayne.  Doctors in those centers are overworked, and underpaid, and leave often.  We’ve done all that too.  Doctors in private practice are hard to get in to and then are med pushers.  Shayne was on four different drugs at one time.  Even if I am not a doctor, I know that drugs interact with each other, and if something isn’t working, adding another drug to the mix isn’t going to fix the problem.  You can’t just fire a doctor and go to another, because you can’t run the risk of running out of drugs, because even if the drugs aren’t working right, having no drugs is very, very bad.  I have been told to call the police.  The police know Shayne.  They’ve brought him home in the middle of the night.  They’ve returned his stuff when he has abandoned it on the side of the road.    They’ve bought him sandwiches out of their own pockets.   But unless a patient is suicidal or homicidal, or doing something illegal, the police won’t intervene.  It is not illegal to be psychotic.  And sometimes being psychotic isn’t even enough for hospital staff.  Shayne’s been turned away from clinics time after time because he isn’t a danger to himself or others.  I have been in every scenario possible and know how its going to go down every time.  I know if I want Shayne to get the help he needs, I have to demand it.  And this time, I’m not letting the doctor off the hook for releasing him when he wasn’t ready.  How many school shootings and homicides and suicides have to happen before the system changes?  That’s not happening to my son, if I have anything to say about it.

    The doctor was a big girl.  First of all, she talked to me herself.  She didn’t communicate through the layers of medical assistants and nurses and office staff.  I’ve come to hate the layers of medical communication.  She didn’t tell me anything, I didn’t already know, but  she said I could call her to let her know what was going on and she would keep my number and call me herself.  Maybe if Shayne ends up back there, she will work harder to do what needs to be done.   In the meantime, I’ve taken over being in charge of Shayne again.  He threw his meds away on trash day, but I have an extra bottle from the doctor that prescribed drug after drug after drug.  I have them locked up and I’m treating my twenty-four year old like a toddler again.  I have learned enough about how the drugs work to know what I’m doing.  I think I can get him back on track myself.

    My big question is this–Is this always going to be my life?  I don’t know if I can sustain this level of care by myself for thirty or forty more years.   The last five have taken its toil.  I can’t ensure that my other child is safe.  And she wants to get as far away from her brother as possible.  Sometimes I wonder if fighting for him is the right thing.  I just don’t know how to stop.  He is my son.  My responsibility.  I can’t just turn that off.  I can’t fix the broken system by myself, but I am done accepting “the system is broken” as an answer for inadequate care.

  • On the Street

    1233148_10200461525805441_1757740866_oI told the doctor in Denver that Shayne wasn’t ready to be released, but he was sent home anyway.  On Friday, Shayne walked out of the house wearing a baseball shirt inside out, shorts, and a red terry cloth bathrobe.  Darian and I told him not to go, but he said he couldn’t stay.

    He has disappeared before.  Once he jumped out of the car at a stoplight because he thought I was kidnapping him.  Another time he ran away from me in Pueblo because he didn’t want to go to the hospital.  A lot of time he leaves because he doesn’t want to do something I want him to do–like he doesn’t want to see a counselor, or take his medicine, or else I catch him smoking pot.  Pot might be legal, but it reacts badly with his medicine and makes his symptoms worse.  Usually when he leaves, there is a period when I am happy to see him go.  His behavior can be exhausting and frustrating.  My anger doesn’t last long.  And I start to wonder where he is and if he is okay.  A week of that and I might as well be crazy too.

    In the beginning days of this illness, I would look for him.  I would put up flyers.  I’d post it on Facebook.  I’d spend all day combing places he might be.  I wouldn’t sleep.  After a year of several disappearances, I decided that when Shayne left, I wasn’t going to look for him. He can survive on the streets, but he doesn’t do it well.  Usually, he is in some phase of psychosis that makes him suspicious of others.  He won’t seek out help, instead he will hide out alone.  He might decide to walk to another city because he’s meeting someone there, like Steven King maybe.  He eats by walking into lobbies of motels and eating the fruit and cookies put out for guests, or the free continental breakfasts.  Sometimes he steals a sandwich from Walmart.  To date, he always comes home, eventually.  When he does turn up, he is dirty, hungry, dehydrated, and sunburned.  And usually ready for help.

    Today, Darian and I went to the grocery store for some milk.  On the way home, I asked Darian to turn into a neighborhood that is off our usual route.  It’s a neighborhood that I used to ride my bike through when I was a kid and I’ve always liked it.  She drove through it and missed the exit I wanted her to take and took the next.  Shayne was walking down the sidewalk.  Darian pulled over and I told Shayne to get in the car.  He did.  He looked okay.  Not too sunburned.  He wasn’t wearing his robe anymore.  He said he lost it.  He probably abandoned it somewhere.  He told me that he’d been taking his meds.  I’d been thinking he could take all the meds at once, and end it all.  Or maybe throw the pills in the river.  Both are real possibilities.

    When we got home, I asked him if he wanted me to cook him something and he said that he was okay and he took a shower and went to bed.  He is still sleeping.  I am not sure what comes next.  Maybe I should take a nap too, because honestly, I am emotionally drained.  I feel like I should be coming up with a game plan, but I’m out of ideas.  I’d like some help, but I don’t even know what to ask for anymore.

     

  • OMG

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    Photo by Public Domain Pictures on Pexels.com

    I hope this is my last post for quite some time about dealing with inadequate mental health care.  Shayne was released earlier this week, even though he really wasn’t completely ready.  He is still having problems filtering out his hallucinations, is a tad bit paranoid, and still really freaked out about freaking out so badly–sort of like PTSD actually.  But whatever, treat ’em and street ’em is the motto.

    So most times a release from the hospital comes with scheduled appointments to outpatient providers within a few days.  Shayne had appointments at the place in town where he goes for therapy.  He hasn’t been going there very long, but his counselor is solid.  She’s been around the block a little and at least is a little knowledgeable about his diagnosis.  She also made it possible for an actual psychiatrist to work with Shayne, so he can get his medicine at the same facility–that’s good care–professionals working together to provide wrap around service.  So I thought.

    When I took Shayne into his appointment yesterday, the staff didn’t realize that Shayne had an appointment.  I pulled up my phone and showed them my confirmation text.  They looked at each other, puzzled, then got on the computer.  Then the receptionist got on the phone, right in front of us and called someone and asked about a name I’ve never heard of before.  So I said, “That’s not who Shayne usually sees.”  The receptionist told me that he would meet with a case manager since it’s an after care appointment.  A few minutes later, two women who are barely old enough to be adults ambled in with their Sonic cups and stood in the receptionist area, shooting the breeze with each other.  The receptionist nudged one of them and told her that her appointment was there.  The girl literally said, “I have an appointment?”  She proceeded to sit down at the computer screen to read about the appointment.  She looked up and said in my direction, “What kind of after care?”  It was all I could do to not say, “Are you freaking kidding me?”  Instead I employed my deep breathing and spelling Pittsburgh three times method of calming myself.  I don’t want to get into the whole back story in the lobby with an audience, so I just said, “Shayne can tell you what he needs.”  I wasn’t really sure that he could, but he isn’t six either, and I could sense his agitation and frustration.   So she asked him to come back to her office and I asked how long the appointment would last and was told an hour.  An hour reassured me because he was hyper anxious and needed to talk to someone who could help him.  Not that I had a ton of faith in the case manager or whatever she was.  So when Shayne went back, I said to the secretary.  “That can’t happen again.  The person that helps him needs to know what she is doing, or at least pretend to, or he is just going to walk out of here.  He is not going to trust anyone who acts incompetent. He is schizophrenic, not stupid.”  I guess I shouldn’t have expected a response.  But they just stared at me.  No one said a word.

    So I left to take Darian to turn in a job application across town.  The phone rang before we even got a mile away.  Shayne was finished.  I glanced at the clock.  He hadn’t even been there ten minutes.  They have rescheduled him with his normal therapist for next week.  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why that wasn’t done to begin with, but what is the point?  He sees the doctor today.  This is his first appointment with her.  Please, God, let her know what she is doing.

    In the meantime, I am duck sitting again.  James collects bugs for her.  I gave her some wasps yesterday that I found floating in the rain barrel.  She’s kind of a brat though, so I didn’t go out of my way.  Maybe I will have Shayne gather grasshoppers for her.  It would be ironic if the duck turned out to be a better treatment plan than what modern medicine is offering.

     

  • Mama Bear

    399719_3576161167451_1476342705_nShayne had a psychotic break again.  I could feel it building and tried to get in front of it, but as usual it was difficult to get immediate services. The way the system works is that treatment happens when patients are a danger to themselves or others, and preventive measures are not a thing.  Shayne didn’t help the situation because he wasn’t being consistent with his meds. He was well enough that he decided that he wasn’t really schizophrenic after all.  And he is a runner, both the kind that can move down a trail at a good clip for hours and the kind that makes a break for situations that are uncomfortable.  So when he perceives a threat, he runs away.

    The key is to getting the help before the fight or flight kicks in.  I got him to the hospital at the beginning stages, so he was ready to run, but he also still trusted me.  It was like leading a wary, gun shy thousand pound horse with just a halter and a lead, if a horse like that spooks and bolts,  there probably isn’t going to be a damn thing you can do and you might just get injured in the process.  When Shayne got to the hospital room in the ER, I was asked to put my stuff in a locker and I stepped away from Shayne’s side.  I put down the reins.  He was quiet for one minute then started screaming that he was in an oven and bolted.  Big, burly security guards poured from all sides and engulfed my son.  He screamed that they were killing him and he pleaded with God to save him.  It took seven men to hold my 135 pound son in that hallway.  They got him down on the ground and held his cheek against the linoleum.  I leaned against the doorway watching, no tears, no emotions.  Numbness is where I go.  It’s my survival strategy.

    This is the part of the story where I skip what happens next–no one needs to have those images in their heads and I don’t need to relive them in writing.  When I was able to be by my son’s side again, he was strapped to a bed and sweaty and trembling and he didn’t recognize me.  I touched his forehead and he closed his eyes, and said, “Are you my mom?  Am I Shayne?”  I sat close to him until I thought he was into his drug induced coma, but when I moved from the bed, his eyes sprang open.  So I sat down with him again and stayed next to him for hours.  He didn’t sleep, but he calmed down and the restraints were removed.  Three years ago, I would have stayed all night, not let him out of my sight.  But I know now, that I have to get sleep if I can, I have to trust that medical people can do their jobs and keep him safe.  I went home after midnight.  I should have known that I was keeping Shayne on that bed, because after I left he tried to run again and again, and I returned a few hours later, he was strapped to the bed again.  The facility in Pueblo decided Shayne was too acute for their services, so he was transported to Denver.  If I had known where he was headed, I would have fought like hell to keep him in Pueblo, but instead I held his hand like he was six and walked him down to the transport car outside. He pinkie swore that he wouldn’t run away.  We’re big on pinkie swears.  I thought he’d be okay.

    The mental health ward at Denver Health was a scene from fifty years ago.  It was dirty; the tables were sticky.  There was a green substance smeared on the glass in front of the nurses station.  The furniture was hard and molded out of plastic and smeared in paint and dried food.  There was one tiny plastic drawer thing of broken crayons and ripped coloring pages from a kid’s coloring book.  There was no exercise equipment or anything to do but watch a giant screen TV.  There were several staff members, but they were all kind of congregated together, except for one nurse who was obviously attached to a man. She followed a foot behind him all around the word.  She was a tiny slip of a girl, and he was well muscled and powerful, it was easy to see who had the control in that situation.  There was no privacy and no area where I could visit with Shayne without other patients invading our space.  One woman followed us around from table to table to couch, asking an endless amount of questions and drooling on us.  No one redirected her or made her stop touching Shayne.  I have been in psych words before, and this is not how they have to be.  Shayne was still groggy from all the drugs he had been given to bring him out of psychosis, but there is no way he is going to heal in that environment.  I am so tired of incompetency in mental health care.  It brings mama bear out of hibernation.