You may paddle against the powerful currents in the Sea of Madness, but you will never again touch solid ground unless you get out of the boat. (an old proverb I just made up)
Showing posts with label bipolar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bipolar. Show all posts

Thursday, May 15, 2014

The Madness Equation

Congratulations, it’s a bouncing senior citizen. The judge did not even bang his gavel as he solemnly awarded guardianship of my mother to “Team Sybil”, her squad of four adult kids who had sought champions for two years in this battle against mental illness until we realized we had to don the capes and tights ourselves.

Today, the children of madness became the parents of madness. Now, we can legally work as the super-hero team we had to become to make sure our mother’s physical and psychological and psychiatric needs were met. We’re her guardians, her watchmen, her protectors. She will now see the doctors she needs to see, get the medication she needs to get, live in a safe place, and be supervised by people trained to care for her.

This is HUGE!

In our case, we not only had to find a way to get psychiatric help for our aging mother but we had her abusive spouse to contend with, a man who legally had the ability to make choices on our mother’s behalf but who we believe is dealing with his own mental illness and suffering dementia on top of his underlying personality disorder.

So... we had Mom,  mentally ill with we don’t know what - narcissism, borderline personality disorder, histrionic behavior and maybe some schizophrenia -  and then suffering from dementia on top of her underlying illness, who married a man who is so Jekyll and Hyde that he seems to have a dissociative identity disorder and sociopathic tendencies but is also now dealing with some age-related dementia of his own.

When madness marries madness, it is NOT madness times two. The ripple effects on friends, family, co-workers, neighbors, doctors, law enforcement, government agencies, the court system and every person this pair interacts with is madness squared. SQUARED!

In another post, I’ll talk about the abuse we endured at the hands of both of these people, the altered reality they lived in, the threats, the accusations, the intimidation and how Mom's husband has been so obsessed with her back taxes (which is a non-issue because we've had IRS auto-drafted from her checking account monthly for over years now) that every doctor, police officer, banker, and mailman that crosses this guy's path hears about his tax woes.

But all of that is for another day.

With this court ruling, we’ve changed the madness squared equation. Now, when our mother wanders out the door naked, it will be into a hallway, not onto a sidewalk. She is not in danger of being hit by a car or even hit in the face by the husband who cannot understand why she is an often childlike, confused and unreasonable little-old-woman version of the strong, argumentative woman he married six years ago.

Guardianship awarded. Physical abuse proven. Visitation by the husband denied.

As the attorneys all side-bar’d at the judge’s bench, our mother’s husband shot us a glance of combined bewilderment and rage. How had he, a scientist and the smartest man in every room, lost to three such ignorant women and their idiot brother? Even the court reporter shivered when the attorneys turned toward him and his “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too” face astonishingly morphed into a victimized old man, tragic and court-weary, longing only to visit his beloved wife whom he never once bothered to ask about in the six weeks since she’d been in supervised care. Never a “how’s she doing?” or “is her room nice?” or “are the new medications helping?” or “does she need anything?” Nope. Nothing but a bombardment of the same Jekyll and Hyde emails we had gotten for months, complaining about Mom's back taxes and threatening to sue us for assault one moment (apparently, if you come to the house to give your mother her medicine or drive her to the doctor, that is assault) and Mr. Nice Guy the next (begging us to stop these unnecessary assaults and still complaining about taxes).

But. we’re tuckered out little super-heros with tattered capes and runs in our tights and our heads ache from our crash course in justice from the real-life Justice League of attorneys, judges, and agencies in this state. We now know that  we can, indeed, leap tall buildings, but not in a single bound and never faster than a speeding bullet.

When it comes to mental illness, the solutions are complex and when we fail as a society, we fail big. People get hurt. People suffer. People die. Why, oh why, oh why? Because protecting a person from himself and protecting the public from a potentially dangerous person sounds elementary on paper and even less complicated in comic books and movies but the reality of our obligation to NOT rob a person of his rights, be unjustly invasive, or cross moral and legal and ethical lines with regard to a person’s liberties is an olympian sized conundrum when it comes to our ability to address mental illness at all.

It’s not as simple as identify it, cope with, treat it, and regulate it.

You see, madness is not against the law and people have a right to NOT get treatment.

That’s right. People have a right to be crazy. Period. If they aren’t a PROVEN danger to themselves or others, their odd behavior and subtle threats are “harmless”.  And that burden of proof is great.

For example, if your mother’s 73-year-old husband says he is going to “make you pay” and mentions he has 65 guns and could “resolve this another way”, it doesn’t matter if he is a red-faced volcano squalling in your face and clenching his fists, those words were not, by law, a direct bodily threat because he did not say “I will shoot you” or “I will kill you”.  You have to wait for that volcano to erupt.

- - - Like when he goes to your sister's house uninvited and punches her husband in the face. - - -

Yeah. THEN people believe you.

Talk about madness!

Today, I found great comfort in the Bible verse where Jesus says it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a person to force somebody with a mental defect to get psychiatric help.

Except for the part about THAT’s NOT WHAT IT SAYS! And, my own cheese must have slid off own my cracker if I’m re-writing the Bible (and plagiarizing Stephen King) to justify the maze of agencies, cries for help, phone calls, doctor visits, and complexities of the legal system that we have maneuvered, hurdled, and trudged through.

And, I was only kidding. We had no capes.

But it’s true. You cannot force somebody to go get help. You cannot make them. You can’t. They have rights. So the conundrum is, if someone is really functioning in a diminished capacity and refusing to get treatment -
they are not capable of making decisions about their own safety and welfare but they have every right to make decisions about their own safety and welfare. 
Our guardianship hearing is only part ONE of the battle our team of super-heroes faces. Because, you see, our mother’s husband is still out there, bombarding us with emails where he has translated things we've said in the real world into the language of his fractured world and then spit those words back out at us in a venomous rant of victimization.

Heaven help us.

Guardianship means nothing to my mother's husband. Her business is his business and he cannot let go. He's making phone calls he is not allowed to make, writing letters he is not allowed to write, and is even showing up places he is not allowed to show up due to protective orders against him. And, even though he has proven himself mentally and emotionally unstable and even though he has proven himself violent to my mother and to her four kids, it's not legally a threat when he says to us if we get in his business, "I WILL STOP YOU".

The madness continues.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

The Wish Horse

Once in awhile, as a writer, I have the privilege of meeting a kindred spirit. Lisa Ford is one such spirit. Her latest film project, "The Wish Horse" hits me square in the forehead as the kids in the story live with a parent who has a mental illness. In this particular story, a 13-year-old boy has to look after his younger sister when their mother abandons them. And the horse? Well, believing it can grant wishes may be just what these kids need to help them cope.

My brother and sisters and I grew up with a parent with a mental illness. We knew something was different from other kids' lives but it took us awhile to figure out that it is just not normal for a mother to kick in a bedroom door in at 4:00 a.m. and accuse us of stealing her panties. We love our mom and we each tried in our own ways to earn her affection. I was the over-achiever. My sister would act out in attempts to get my mother's attention. My brother tried being her friend and confidante. But what we all had in common was how we retreated into our imaginations, our music, our books, and our dreams. This is why this film is so important to me.

Worried because it's a message film and it might be a downer? Lisa's last film, Prodigy, was a beautiful, poetic piece of work. Mental illness is rampant in parents of children I volunteer with and if we don't learn recognize it, nobody can help these kids.
According to Michele D. Sherman of Social Work Today, “More than five million children in the United States have a parent with a serious mental illness (SMI) such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or major depression.” Our hope is that the characters in our fictional story will resonate with audiences and start a conversation about this important issue. Lisa Ford
Consider helping Lisa Ford accomplish her goal and support "The Wish Horse" by clicking here.  Every donation amount will help bring this film to life and when you think about all the money we spend on Netflix and Red Box and the movie theater, $10 or $20 to bring a story like this to film sounds like a worthy use of our movie money.


Thursday, May 1, 2014

Divine Madness

In 1980,  Mount St. Helens killed 57 people, the Kwangju uprising for democracy in South Korea took over 2200 lives,  the Soviet rocket, Vostek, exploded on the launch pad killing 50 people, and hurricane Allen killed 272 people and left hundreds of thousands homeless in the Caribbean and on the Texas coast. And, I'm barely scratching the surface here of the human tragedies that happened that year.

1980 was a mad, mad year.

In other 1980 news, the U.S. boycotted the Moscow Olympics, Ronald Reagan defeated Jimmy Carter, Norman Mailer won a Pulitzer, the Letterman Show debuted, and Iraqi president Saddam Hussein declared war on Iran. That was also the year Radio Caroline's Mi Amigo ship sank and the New York City Transit Workers Union went on strike.

Oh, the records and broken records, the entertainment and sports news, the politics, space exploration, the scandals, the disasters. It was a year of the weird, the sad, the miraculous and I'm forgetting something. . .

No. I am not.

That year, 1980, that mad, awful year, is the year John Lennon was murdered by a deranged fan.

Life is life. Each matters. Each person's value is precious beyond a price tag. But when John Lennon died, something changed within me. Sure, the sorrow was unspeakable but his death woke me up to something I had been asleep against. I suddenly saw something with adult eyes that my child eyes had missed.

I mentioned that John Lennon was killed by a deranged fan. Deranged. A deranged person caused irreparable harm to the person he supposedly loved most. How is that possible? To cause harm or even destroy somebody that means that much to you? But the person of John Lennon was destroyed and that wound was felt around the world, evidenced by the pain of people who never met the music icon, but grieved his loss like the dagger in the heart of humanity that it was.

Anyone who takes a life must be a monster, right? Or, is it possible that sick people -- mad people, insane people, people not right in the head, lunatics, call them what you want -- are capable of destroying people they care about?

Wow. This was profound. This was frightening and comforting at the same time because if it is true that mentally sick people are capable of intentionally hurting the ones they love the most, then maybe the verbal abuse and neglect my siblings and I were experiencing was not at the hands of a parent who hated us but was at the hands of a parent who was not well. Maybe, the mother who was supposed to provide for and protect us but, instead, harmed us and left us to our own devices . . . was sick?

Somehow the death of John Lennon, devastating as it was to us kids who had grown up Beatles fans, helped me come to terms with an environment that I might otherwise have succumbed to. For the first time, at age seventeen, I began to think my mother was not just rude to my friends, lacking in empathy, mean to us, angry at the world, and antisocial.

Something was wrong with her.