I Raised a Boy to Be a Man. Then Schizophrenia Happened.

To those who are following our story: Last post shared how I chose to drive past my homeless son, and why. But it doesn’t mean I gave up. I called Mobile Crisis, I spoke with managers at the places he was frequenting, I spoke with social workers, attorneys, and the police. Finally - finally - Ben passed the “test” to be gravely disabled, and I practically begged the ER to admit him to psych, which they (yay!) did. Then advised the facility to apply ASAP for right to medicate over objection, and right to involuntary hospitalization. Families pull strings however we can. What will happen when he stabilizes and faces discharge? I don’t know. Meanwhile - for now he is safe and in good hands. One day at a time. Meanwhile, I ponder what parenting and loving a child with SMI means.

I gave birth to a boy in 1982. I fell in love immediately, and over and over again as he grew.

Such a bright, inquisitive kid. So sweet. 

Such a gentle and loving big brother (most of the time) to his little sister when she came along three years later. He taught her all the silly songs.

At four years old, he set up all the chairs on my parents’ back deck so all the BBQ guests could watch his “show” as he sang every single verse of “Day is Done” and “Marvelous Little Toy”. Those songs are loooong!

In elementary and middle school, he had tons of friends, played soccer, swam like a fish, performed in some theatre, and built countless lego models. Also got all A’s, and was a Johns Hopkins Scholar in 7th grade. He loved to give presents, especially to his sister.

My son, my daughter. Before the illness.

He rocked it at his Bar Mitzvah, however nervous the day before.

When his sister married, he was the Bride’s Best Man and made a heartfelt and funny speech at the reception.

He made the Dean’s list at Community College. 

He worked at our local zoo after college, and was rehired four years in a row. They called him a “ray of sunshine.”

He was such a good server at local restaurants (his next job) that regulars would ask for his table, leave 50% tips at times, and mention him by name on Yelp 5-star reviews.

He taught his nieces and nephew how to play Mario Kart on Nintendo Switch. He is a patient and smart tutor. 

I am so proud of him.

But. But.

In between all those wonderful memories, there is also this:

Dropping out of high school.

Wandering around the neighborhood talking to invisible people.

11 hospitalizations in psych units.

Ten months in jail awaiting a bed in jail diversion.

Addiction. Pot, then crack.  Periods of sobriety followed by “I’d rather be high. I can handle it.” And he never can.

Wandering homeless three times -  in Idaho, in a CT city, and then in our small CT town. Talking to his voices. Looking crazy.

Several arrests.

My family, afraid.

My daughter, heartbroken at having lost her brother to a horrible SMI (Serious Mental Illness).. My grandchildren, confused when their uncle disappears for months at a time (they are too young to understand his illness, so we keep him away from them when symptomatic).

Thousands of family dollars spent on treatment, programs, housing starts, storage units, lawyers. Thousands spent on hope.

My son has schizophrenia. And the worst thing about it is that the illness hides itself. It impairs the logic centers of the brain, so my son has yet to understand that he has an illness. (Symptom called: Anosognosia) So he refuses treatment, unless ordered by law or our “house rules.”

I love my son. But this is so hard on families like ours.

Yesterday he finally began to respond to medication during his 11th hospitalization…a little bit. After it was court-ordered. When he was admitted, he said his name was “Juict.” (pronounced JOOST)  Wouldn’t use his real first name. Why? Who knows? Who knows what the voices tell him?

I paid Ben (his name in my public posts) a visit today. He actually hugged me. A real hug. Unlike three weeks prior, when I saw him at a local Starbucks and his face lit up at first - then within 10 seconds, clouded with suspicion and paranoia.I had to walk away.

Today, though, he called me from the unit. “Hi, Mom. How are you?” Said he loved me.

My son is in there (behind his voices, as in the title of my book). I love him. But I hate hate hate schizophrenia.

I hang on to the good memories - like that hug, like the times when he is sober and in treatment -and collect the moments. Because there are also times when I must ignore him, or wait it out, or just go about my life with joy and love while his is spiraling downward.

Except for pulling strings in the background - which I do, because it’s all we, the family. have during those horrible periods. Except for each other.

Always choose hope. Always see reality and take action if possible. Always hang on to the good moments, past and present. And live the rest of your life, choosing joy whenever possible.

My son could die tomorrow. He could go to jail or prison. He could choose homelessness again. His addiction could take over again. But I will never say I only have one child. 

I have raised a boy to be a man. My daughter has a brother. No one, nothing, will ever take that from us. Not even schizophrenia. This illness has stolen a LOT. But my son is still in there - behind his voices.