The Hardest Thing: Why I Had to Drive Past My Homeless Son

There he is. This disheveled, skinny, bearded man sitting cross-legged on a bench outside the hair salon in the strip mall, smoking a cigarette and talking - to no one. 

I’m in the car with my husband. We’ve just had dinner at one of our favorite neighborhood restaurants in the same shopping area, and are on our way home.

Oh my God, I say. That’s Ben. 

That’s my son. 

The homeless crazy guy.

My son. This brings it all back. I had heard he’d been spotted in town, staggering down the street, but I hadn’t seen him until now.

And we don’t stop.

I want to, but I know it’s useless. Counterproductive, even, Possibly dangerous.

So we keep driving. Away. Away from the new reality that Ben has somehow gotten back here - and I had better keep my doors securely locked.

I don’t think he would do anything to hurt us. Not really. Not my sweet boy whose first words after discharge from a fairly recent stay at a psychiatric hospital, stable again for a time, was Can we stop for birthday presents for Ali’s kids? I missed their birthdays while I was in there.

Not my son, who, while sober and stable, was the favorite waiter at another local diner.

Not the kid who always protected the girls from the bullies in school.

Not him.

But. Rob and Michelle Reiner. Didn’t they think the same thing?

I know from Al-Anon that there are some things we cannot change. I know from my podcast that the most frequent victims of violence from those with SMI (Serious Mental Illness) are the mothers.

Up until this week, Ben had chosen homelessness and drugs over stable sober housing - but at least he was in a town a half an hour away by car. Sure, I did what I could - in touch with local police, his therapist, the former manager of the sober housing, his (yes) probation officer, his financial conservator. I kept track, I tried to keep him safe, know where he is, get a new phone to him at the crisis center where he sometimes wound up for the night.

But I could compartmentalize the situation most of the time because he was miles away.

This week, though, Ben was spotted here. In my town. Talking to the air. Smoking on a bench. Texting me asking for money (no). I have no idea how he managed to get here. He has no car. No cash. Just a daily allowance on a debit card from his disability benefits.

And I Can’t. Do. Anything. 

I called the police and told them my son desperately needs help. Get him to the hospital, please. You’ve done it before, years ago. You know him. You know me. Just a 72-hour hold, that’s all I ask. I’ll show you my co-conservator papers again. I’ll take care of the rest.

They said they would try.

But there was Ben, last night, in plain view. Plainly symptomatic. Very scary - to me.

There is a book I’ve just heard of - and ordered - called Every Homeless Person Has A Mother, by Jacqueline Janssen.

Every Homeless Person Has a Mother

I am one of them. One of those mothers. Doing everything in my power to change things - for my son, for others like me, for others like him - with advocacy, education, and my book and podcast . (Schizophrenia: 3 Moms in the Trenches).

All while protecting the rest of my family from potential harm. And - yes - protecting my own joy. My right to life a life of purpose and love, despite Ben’s choices. This is not easy. But I will not give up.

Because, even if my husband and I had stopped the car to talk to Ben, I don’t know what his voices would have told him about us. And I cannot risk rocking that boat. He has, in a past psychotic episode, told me that I am not his mother. Two weeks ago, when I suggested a place where he could get a hot meal and a bed for the night, he texted back: You can't tell me what to do.

He is unreachable now.

So we drove past my son. He did not see us. Thank God.

And I dreamed of him all night, waking every half hour with - literally - a heavy heart. My heart feels, still this morning,  like it weighs a ton inside my chest. My head has made choices, but my body - my mother’s heart- knows the score.

Today is another day. Today I will make calls again, alert the police, try to get my son the help he says he doesn’t need, reassure my family, and put the reality of my son with schizophrenia on a shelf so I can go to work, drive my grandkids around, write my solo show, and live the rest of my life.

It was easier to do when Ben wasn’t back in our town, when I wasn’t looking over my shoulder every second, afraid for - and afraid of - my sweet son.

I know I’ve done, and continue to do, all I can.

But he’s still the crazy homeless guy on the bench. And my heart aches - for him, and for all the others like him.

I miss my son. Maybe today I can find a way…