Fighting Through Crazy

When I was in my late teens I watched the movie Schindler's List. It's a little over 3 hours long, but it took me almost 9 hours to get through it. I could only digest a chunk of it at a time because the overwhelming emotion and grief prohibited my ability to watch it straight through.
I had no personal understanding of the pain and suffering the Nazi's inflicted on others, I had no place to pull from to begin to comprehend the gravity of evil that devoured all but a remnant of a people hated solely for existing; and yet my soul broke as I watched the story unfold, and my heart ached to know the telling was of people's lives and not the dramatization of ones imagination.

I started a book last night called Crazy, by Pete Earley. I read the first page of the introduction and had to put it down. I couldn't catch my breath and my entire body went cold. It was a surreal feeling to read something written by another parent that I felt I could have penned myself. I've looked in books for years to find myself there, the sometimes hard to explain experiences and emotions I live as the mother of a child with mental illness. Our stories aren't the same- his son didn't have bipolar disorder until late in his college career- as is common we've come to learn- but his emotional trauma at watching his son suffer, and the ridiculous fight for health care was identical to mine. Usually, I'm a very fast reader. I devour books quickly and my ability to absorb what is being shared is fairly strong- but this book is forcing me to consume it in small bites. I'm both relieved and angry. I'm grateful for his candor, and and yet it sickens me that there are so many of us fighting like hell to get what our family members need only to be sent away, under serviced, dismissed, or forced to wait for something bad to happen before intervention occurs.

He titled his book Crazy not as a descriptive of his son, but as a statement of the 'search through America's mental health madness'. In a country where so much of our health care is reactive instead of preventative, it's no surprise that the mental health system is the same, but it never fails to shock and sicken me to be told to my face that 'there is nothing we can do until something bad happens'. I've sat in countless doctor's offices, ER examining rooms, at desks of program directors, counselors, psychiatrists, teachers, begging for help, support, something that would keep him and the rest of us safe- and give him a chance at the life he deserves. They have all told me the same thing that Pete Earley was told- until he does something big to hurt himself or others, there just isn't much that we can do. 
This is insanity. This is the life that those of us caring for people with mental illness have to navigate daily. I wish i could say that in my reading I'm finding respite and encouragement, but all I'm feeling is understanding, grief, and anger. It continues to fuel my fight for my son's life- and reminds me that I'm not alone, but it also disgusts me that so many of us feel as though we're fighting in vain to protect our children and allow their brains to be treated with as much dignity and compassion as they'd receive if they had a cancer diagnosis.
The truth is, we're lucky. I have fought long and hard to get my son the treatment he's needed and deserved and it's been a long, painful, expensive battle- but after residential treatment, where he was treated holistically, treated with love and compassion, and chose to dig in and participate, he's doing really well- better than he's ever done in his almost 17 years of life- but the fear lingers. He's manic right now. His sleeping schedule is off, and he isn't sleeping much at all. He's up most of the night, eating, watching videos, roaming through the house, playing his guitar, laughing loudly at funny things he finds on the internet- and I lie awake in bed a floor above him- grateful he's safe, relieved he's happy and here at home with me, but acutely aware of the fact that bipolar is a disease of sharp ups and downs- swallowing the anxiety that rises in my throat at the knowledge that we're at the start of autumn, the time of year he typically crashes into depression- depression that rots his good thoughts, causes him to either withdraw or fling painfully poisonous words my direction.
He's brilliant- as many people with mental illnesses are- and just like every other parent- I simply want him to have the best life he can; one where he's safe, healthy, doing something he does well and enjoys.

Depression that often results in holes in the wall, broken things, fits of rage, and days of sleeping. I prefer the mania to the depression, but even that doesn't mean health or stability. His brain is tired from the continual onslaught of thoughts and information rushing through it. He exhausts me with the flight of thoughts, and level of energy, but also makes me laugh with his crazy sharp wit and goofy antics.

I'm grateful I found the book nestled deep inside of a shelf in a used book store- it's a bizarre feeling to find myself in the pages, and I'm not sure I would have been able to read it just a few years back. I'm thankful other people are willing to pull back the curtain of their lives and expose places that most of us want to keep hidden- if only so that people like myself can nod in agreement whispering 'us too'. That's what drives me to keep sharing parts of our journey- the continual hope that someone else will find us here and link hands with ours as we fight to stand upright in violent waters.

If you have someone in your life who struggles with bipolar, or who loves someone with the disease- I recommend the book wholeheartedly. Together we must keep using our voices against the insanity of the system, determined to make some shred of sense out of the crazy making battle.