As some of you may already know, I am a Mental Health Counselor.
I work in a psychiatric hospital working with those who have mental illness from ages 3 to about 93.
I see all different kinds of people who come through our doors, but most challenging are those affected with the illness that this mother speaks about.
Everyday I continue to try and help people help themselves and will until I no longer am capable of doing so.
But please read this and educate yourself on mental illness.
I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother
Liza Long
"Three days before 20 year-old Adam Lanza killed
his mother, then opened fire on a classroom full of Connecticut
kindergartners, my 13-year old son Michael (name changed) missed his bus
because he was wearing the wrong color pants.
"I can wear these
pants," he said, his tone increasingly belligerent, the black-hole
pupils of his eyes swallowing the blue irises.
"They are navy blue," I told him. "Your school's dress code says black or khaki pants only."
"They
told me I could wear these," he insisted. "You're a stupid bitch. I can
wear whatever pants I want to. This is America. I have rights!"
"You
can't wear whatever pants you want to," I said, my tone affable,
reasonable. "And you definitely cannot call me a stupid bitch. You're
grounded from electronics for the rest of the day. Now get in the car,
and I will take you to school."
I live with a son who is mentally ill. I love my son. But he terrifies me.
A
few weeks ago, Michael pulled a knife and threatened to kill me and
then himself after I asked him to return his overdue library books. His 7
and 9 year old siblings knew the safety plan-they ran to the car and
locked the doors before I even asked them to. I managed to get the knife
from Michael, then methodically collected all the sharp objects in the
house into a single Tupperware container that now travels with me.
Through it all, he continued to scream insults at me and threaten to
kill or hurt me.
That conflict ended with three burly police
officers and a paramedic wrestling my son onto a gurney for an expensive
ambulance ride to the local emergency room. The mental hospital didn't
have any beds that day, and Michael calmed down nicely in the ER, so
they sent us home with a prescription for Zyprexa and a follow-up visit
with a local pediatric psychiatrist.
We still don't know what's
wrong with Michael. Autism spectrum, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant or
Intermittent Explosive Disorder have all been tossed around at various
meetings with probation officers and social workers and counselors and
teachers and school administrators. He's been on a slew of antipsychotic
and mood altering pharmaceuticals, a Russian novel of behavioral plans.
Nothing seems to work.
At the start of seventh grade, Michael
was accepted to an accelerated program for highly gifted math and
science students. His IQ is off the charts. When he's in a good mood, he
will gladly bend your ear on subjects ranging from Greek mythology to
the differences between Einsteinian and Newtonian physics to Doctor Who.
He's in a good mood most of the time. But when he's not, watch out. And
it's impossible to predict what will set him off.
Several weeks
into his new junior high school, Michael began exhibiting increasingly
odd and threatening behaviors at school. We decided to transfer him to
the district's most restrictive behavioral program, a contained school
environment where children who can't function in normal classrooms can
access their right to free public babysitting from 7:30-1:50 Monday
through Friday until they turn 18.
The morning of the pants
incident, Michael continued to argue with me on the drive. He would
occasionally apologize and seem remorseful. Right before we turned into
his school parking lot, he said, "Look, Mom, I'm really sorry. Can I
have video games back today?"
"No way," I told him. "You cannot
act the way you acted this morning and think you can get your electronic
privileges back that quickly."
His face turned cold, and his
eyes were full of calculated rage. "Then I'm going to kill myself," he
said. "I'm going to jump out of this car right now and kill myself."
That
was it. After the knife incident, I told him that if he ever said those
words again, I would take him straight to the mental hospital, no ifs,
ands, or buts. I did not respond, except to pull the car into the
opposite lane, turning left instead of right.
"Where are you taking me?" he said, suddenly worried. "Where are we going?"
"You know where we are going," I replied.
"No! You can't do that to me! You're sending me to hell! You're sending me straight to hell!"
I
pulled up in front of the hospital, frantically waiving for one of the
clinicians who happened to be standing outside. "Call the police," I
said. "Hurry."
Michael was in a full-blown fit by then, screaming
and hitting. I hugged him close so he couldn't escape from the car. He
bit me several times and repeatedly jabbed his elbows into my rib cage.
I'm still stronger than he is, but I won't be for much longer.
The
police came quickly and carried my son screaming and kicking into the
bowels of the hospital. I started to shake, and tears filled my eyes as I
filled out the paperwork-"Were there any difficulties with… at what age
did your child… were there any problems with.. has your child ever
experienced.. does your child have…"
At least we have health
insurance now. I recently accepted a position with a local college,
giving up my freelance career because when you have a kid like this, you
need benefits. You'll do anything for benefits. No individual insurance
plan will cover this kind of thing.
For days, my son insisted
that I was lying-that I made the whole thing up so that I could get rid
of him. The first day, when I called to check up on him, he said, "I
hate you. And I'm going to get my revenge as soon as I get out of here."
By
day three, he was my calm, sweet boy again, all apologies and promises
to get better. I've heard those promises for years. I don't believe them
anymore.
On the intake form, under the question, "What are your expectations for treatment?" I wrote, "I need help."
And
I do. This problem is too big for me to handle on my own. Sometimes
there are no good options. So you just pray for grace and trust that in
hindsight, it will all make sense.
I am sharing this story
because I am Adam Lanza's mother. I am Dylan Klebold's and Eric Harris's
mother. I am Jason Holmes's mother. I am Jared Loughner's mother. I am
Seung-Hui Cho's mother. And these boys-and their mothers-need help. In
the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it's easy to talk about
guns. But it's time to talk about mental illness.
According to
Mother Jones, since 1982, 61 mass murders involving firearms have
occurred throughout the country. Of these, 43 of the killers were white
males, and only one was a woman. Mother Jones focused on whether the
killers obtained their guns legally (most did). But this highly visible
sign of mental illness should lead us to consider how many people in the
U.S. live in fear, like I do.
When I asked my son's social
worker about my options, he said that the only thing I could do was to
get Michael charged with a crime. "If he's back in the system, they'll
create a paper trail," he said. "That's the only way you're ever going
to get anything done. No one will pay attention to you unless you've got
charges."
I don't believe my son belongs in jail. The chaotic
environment exacerbates Michael's sensitivity to sensory stimuli and
doesn't deal with the underlying pathology. But it seems like the United
States is using prison as the solution of choice for mentally ill
people. According to Human Rights Watch, the number of mentally ill
inmates in U.S. prisons quadrupled from 2000 to 2006, and it continues
to rise-in fact, the rate of inmate mental illness is five times greater
(56 percent) than in the non-incarcerated population.
With
state-run treatment centers and hospitals shuttered, prison is now the
last resort for the mentally ill-Rikers Island, the LA County Jail and
Cook County Jail in Illinois housed the nation's largest treatment
centers in 2011.
No one wants to send a 13-year old genius who
loves Harry Potter and his snuggle animal collection to jail. But our
society, with its stigma on mental illness and its broken healthcare
system, does not provide us with other options. Then another tortured
soul shoots up a fast food restaurant. A mall. A kindergarten classroom.
And we wring our hands and say, "Something must be done."
I
agree that something must be done. It's time for a meaningful,
nation-wide conversation about mental health. That's the only way our
nation can ever truly heal.
God help me. God help Michael. God help us all."
