Causes and Effect, 12/9/17: NAMI and Support for Tracy and Zack (GoFundMe campaign)

The the third post of my six-day-long stint as writer of the Causes and Effect: My Year of Giving Daily blog can be found over at Tumblr. Here's the link to today's post:

NAMI: Speaking up for Those with Mental Illness

Today, my family is making two donations of $10.00: One to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), and one to the Support for Tracy and Zack GoFundMe campaign.

If you would like to make a contribution to NAMI, you can do so here:

The National Alliance on Mental Illness's donation page

If you would like to make a contribution to the Support for Tracy and Zack GoFundMe campaign, you can do so here:

Support for Tracy and Zack GoFundMe campaign donation page

Three down, three to go.

Peace.

Getting Mental Health Care Shouldn't Be This Difficult

(Note: I wrote this piece on June 15th and submitted it to The New York Times, hoping they would publish it on their OpEd page. That didn't happen, so I'm posting it here in its original form. It also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site under the title "Getting Mental Health Care Shouldn't Be This Difficult.")

Broken Leg? No Problem. Broken Brain? That's Another Story

As the parents of an adult son who has struggled mightily with severe depression and addiction issues since he was a teenager, my wife and I have been through more health care and insurance ordeals in the last ten years than we can count. Over that decade, one might assume that some major improvements would've been made to "the system." Unfortunately, even though some things may be slightly better today, the system is still broken. And it's maddening.

Our older son is 26 years old and recently experienced a devastating break-up with his girlfriend, whom he'd been living with for a couple of years. He had already been fighting an almost debilitating bout of depression for several months, so the change in his relationship status really hit him hard and sent him spiraling downward to to a new low. My wife and I were so concerned with his well-being that we took him to the emergency room of a major hospital in Detroit to try and get him some help. But all we got was frustration.

If you want to find out how screwed up the mental health care system in this country is, try spending thirteen hours in the ER with someone who needs help but doesn't want to be there. Someone you love with all your heart, who is telling you he has lost his only reason to live. Someone you keep telling, "It’s going to be okay," but whose only answer is, "I can't do this." Trust me: It'll rip your heart out.

Five hours into our ER stay, we were still waiting to see the one and only social worker on duty and were told that there were three people ahead of us. Three hours later, we were told the exact same thing. It wasn't until four hours after that that we actually got to meet with the social worker. A twelve-hour wait for a person in a desperate emotional state to see a social worker at a major hospital in a big city. Does that make any sense at all? (Here's an idea: How about having two social workers on duty? Would that cut into the hospital's profits all that much?)

The social worker interviewed our son and wanted to have him admitted to the hospital. Our son was against that idea, though, because he has had several negative experiences in psychiatric hospitals over the years. (I don't think the twelve-hour wait helped much either.) The next option was to have our son admitted against his will, but the social worker said that doing that probably wouldn’t work out very well. My wife and I agreed with her.

That brought us to option number three, which was a partial hospitalization program at another local hospital. With that program, our son would go to treatment and therapy during the day, then come home at night. It was a great program, we were told, and it seemed like the perfect compromise. Best of all, our son agreed to do it. Finally, after thirteen hours, a glimmer of hope.

The next morning, my wife called the hospital to get our son registered for the program. When she hung up the phone and came downstairs, she had a sad look on her face. "What’s wrong?" I asked. Fighting back tears, she replied, "They don’t have any openings until five weeks from now."

Yes, the mental health aspect of our health care system is barely functional and in need of massive repair. No matter how hard you try, getting someone the help they need is like an Olympic event. If you have a broken leg, you go to the hospital, get seen relatively quickly, get the help you need, and are on your way. But if you have a broken brain, it seems like the system sets you up to fail. And for someone who is battling mental health issues, that's a recipe for disaster.

Three days after our nightmare in the ER, my wife and I are still trying to find our son help. Although we're frustrated, angry, and sad, we're trying our best to stay hopeful. I won't lie to you: It's not easy. But we love our son and a broken system isn't going to stop us from getting him the help he needs.

********************

Postscript: It's now eight days after our trip to the ER and we're still struggling. We've tried a couple of things that weren't a good fit. So we'll keep looking. Getting mental health care shouldn't be this difficult.

"There is no point treating a depressed person as though she were just feeling sad, saying, 'There now, hang on, you'll get over it.' Sadness is more or less like a head cold--with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer." --Barbara Kingsolver in The Bean Trees

Causes and Effect, 12/28/15: To Write Love on Her Arms.

The twenty-eighth post of my month-long stint as writer of the Causes and Effect: My Year of Giving Daily blog can be found over at Tumblr. Here's the link to today's post:

TWLOHA: The Amazing Charity That Started with a Story

Today, To Write Love on Her Arms (TWLOHA) is the recipient of a $10.00 donation from my family. If you would like to make a contribution to TWLOHA, you can do so here:

To Write Love on Her Arms' donation page

Twenty-eight down down, three to go.

Peace.

Depression Sucks

(Note: This blog post also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site under the same title: "Depression Sucks.")


Depression sucks.

If I had a dollar for every time I thought that or said it out loud, I'd be sitting on my own private beach somewhere sipping ice cold root beer from a glass with an umbrella in it.

As I've told you before, depression runs in my family. Relatives and siblings have struggled with it. I've struggled with it. My boys have struggled with it.

Right now, my oldest son, whose depression was in remission for a good three years or so, is suffering again. His depression has been almost debilitating for the last couple of months. It's making it difficult for him to get up in the morning, let alone go to work and live any kind of normal life. His confidence and self-esteem are super low. And I'm incredibly worried about him.

My son's been on the same antidepressant (Cymbalta) for a few years, but my wife and I fear that it's just not working anymore. Some people can develop a tolerance to such medications, and when they do, it's like someone flips a switch. Goodbye, happiness...welcome back, depression.

Yesterday, my wife called the University of Michigan Depression Center, an esteemed facility in Ann Arbor, Michigan, that offers some of the most respected assessment and treatment options in the country. Their website offered a ray of hope when we perused it prior to calling about having our son evaluated there.

Unfortunately, getting quality treatment for depression seems to be just as challenging as getting treatment for addiction. The person my wife talked to told her that they weren't seeing any new patients until next year, and that appointments couldn't be scheduled until November. Hardly the kind of thing you want to hear when you have a loved one battling a mental illness that makes you wonder about their well-being. Oh, one more thing: Unless the patient's primary care physician is in the University of Michigan--our son's isn't--you can only meet with the Depression Center people once. And nothing can be done about medications in that one meeting.

Really? So much for the Depression Center idea.

And here's a thought: Getting help for a mental illness shouldn't be akin to winning a damn lottery.

Thankfully, I reached out to some people I know and got a recommendation for a top-notch psychiatrist. (Based at--ironically--the University of Michigan.) So today we wanted to call and get things in motion so our son could see this new doctor. But one thing prevented us from doing so: Our son wouldn't get on the phone and talk to the doctor's office. You see, along with depression, he's also frequently paralyzed by anxiety, which makes talking on the phone agonizing for him.

My wife and I talked to our son for a long time today. He was at our house, and we did our best to comfort him and tell him that we understand he has an illness. We also told him that he had to be the one to seek out help. That no matter how much we wanted him to get help, he was the only one who could actually do it. (Damn, depression and addiction are so similar, aren't they?)

I hope my son's anxiety will ease up a bit so he'll be able to call the doctor's office later today. Or at least early next week. With the way he's feeling, I don't think we can afford a lengthy delay. If for some reason he can't call the doctor, I'm not sure what my wife and I will do, because our hands are kind of tied.

The fact that I'm having trouble getting help for my own son isn't lost on me. Believe me, I think about it often. I'm allegedly some sort of plainclothes "expert" at helping people who are struggling with addiction or mental illness, but when faced with my own family crisis, I have to sit back and twiddle my thumbs while I wait for my son to take action.

What is wrong with that picture?

Of course, I do realize that even as a parent there's only so much I can do. (My mom actually reiterated that to me this morning, bless her heart.) Parenting isn't easy, and when you're dealing with a child who's combatting mental illness, it's exponentially tougher. The one thing we absolutely must remember is that depression is an illness.

When my son left our house a little while ago, he hugged me and, in tears, said, "I'm sorry." I told him he didn't have to apologize. "You're not a bad person," I told him. "You have an illness. If you had cancer or diabetes, you wouldn't be apologizing for it. So don't apologize because you have depression. But if you had cancer or diabetes, you would do everything you could to get it treated. So you have to do the same for your depression."

I'm hoping what I said got through to him.

I'm hoping he makes that phone call soon.

I'm hoping he can return to being happy.

Today, it's all about hope.

"Gravity and sadness yank us down, and hope gives us a nudge to help one another get back up or to sit with the fallen on the ground, in the abyss, in solidarity." --Anne Lamott

I'm Not as Strong as I Sometimes Appear

I haven't put much thought into this post. So if what I'm writing ends up sounding like some kind of stream of consciousness rambling, I apologize.

One thing I've heard a lot from people over the last couple/few years is how strong I am. How I've gone through difficult things in my life but have handled it so well.

Here's a secret: I'm not as strong as I sometimes appear. In fact, I'm really not that strong at all.

I've been going through some tough times of late. I haven't written about them because I just don't want to. But over the last several weeks I've come to view myself as something of a hypocrite, because I can't seem to practice what I preach.

I write blogs that tell people how they should act. Live in the moment. Don't let the small stuff bother you. Practice self-care. But recently I've done anything but those things. Instead, I've let the shit going on in my world get the best of me.

Yesterday, while my wife was out of town, I honestly thought I was going to have a breakdown. I confess: I served my younger son his dinner with tears rolling down my cheeks.

Today? More of the same: stress, anxiety, fear, and lots of self-loathing.

I'm kind of a mess.

Maybe it's some kind of reaction to my being completely off of Klonopin now. (It's been a little less than a week.) I've also reduced the dosage of my anti-depressant--with my doctor's permission--so maybe my body and brain are adjusting to that, too. I'll give it another week or so and see how things are going then.

But the main point of this post is to come clean and let you know that I'm not this pillar of strength with a big shield that allows me to repel all the troubles and negative feelings that come my way. Not even close. I'm just as vulnerable as anybody else; at times, maybe even more so. I still carry around a lot of baggage, and sometimes the weight of that baggage puts a tremendous strain on me.

I know that it's okay to hurt. I know that it's okay to cry. I know that this, too, shall pass. But that doesn't make it any easier.

Namaste.

"If you have a body, you are entitled to the full range of feelings. It comes with the package." --Anne Lamott

Guest Blog: Guns and Mental Illness

It's been less than a week since a gunman took the lives of reporter Alison Parker and cameraman Adam Ward as they reported a story for WDBJ in Roanoke, Virginia.

Parker and Ward were just the latest victims of a troubled individual with a gun, something residents of the United States have grown far too accustomed to over the years.

Columbine. Virginia Tech. Fort Hood. Aurora. Sandy Hook. Charleston.

Just when we think things can't get any worse, two young people with the best years of their lives ahead of them get shot and killed on live television. God help us.

In the aftermath of this senseless shooting, Alison Parker's father, Andy Parker, has become what CNN calls "perhaps the world's most visible advocate for gun control." In an opinion piece published in The Washington Post, Mr. Parker has vowed to do "whatever it takes" to end gun violence.

Andy Parker is on a mission. And Anne Slease is ready to help.

But wait. Who is Anne Slease?

Anne Slease has been a middle school English teacher for over 20 years. Though she's written many short stories and essays for her students, it wasn't until her own personal life took an unexpected turn that she considered writing for a broader audience. Just weeks after the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012, Anne began writing about her troubled relationship with her older son, then 20, on a blog called Still Hopeful Mom. Two years earlier, the same son had walked out Anne's door, refusing to accept his mental illness.

Anne's experiences with her older son, mental illness, and guns have frustrated her. "I am not really a political being," she told me when she shared her blog post with me. "But these two issues, unfortunately, have set me off over the last few years. If our story can help someone else, it's worth it."

Which brings me to Anne's incredibly powerful guest blog. When I read it, my stomach dropped. I urge you to read it and--more importantly--share it with everybody you know. I believe it's something every American should read.

Thanks so much to Anne for reaching out to me and letting me share this with you.

An Open Letter to Mr. Andy Parker, Father of Slain Journalist Alison Parker

August 31, 2015

Dear Mr. Parker,

First, let me extend my deepest sympathies for your loss of your beloved daughter Alison. No parent should ever outlive their child, but to lose a child in this horrific way must be the worst hell on earth. Please know you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.

I am writing in support of your mission to do "whatever it takes" to stop guns from getting into the wrong hands in our country. Mr. Parker, five years ago, a loaded handgun got into my 18 year old son's hands.

My son was an outpatient at a mental health facility being treated for what at first was diagnosed as depression. Though he'd been physically threatening to me and his younger brother, he was able to charm the intake nurses into admitting him to the day program rather than the inpatient program of this reputable facility. He was to attend sessions between 9:00am and 3:00pm Monday through Friday for three weeks. And because he had just turned 18, he was grouped with adults of various ages and diagnoses.

During this program, my son befriended a fellow patient who met him in the mental health facility's parking lot during a break one day and sold him a loaded handgun.

My son came home intending to kill himself, however, that's not what happened.

My younger son, then 13, found the gun in his older brother's room, and, thinking it was an Airsoft gun, held it up as if to shoot it. By the grace of God, my older son came into the room just at that moment and stopped him, admitting that the gun was real and that it was loaded.

Mr. Parker, my two teenage sons kept the secret of this loaded handgun in my house for several weeks. I had no idea it even existed.

Thankfully, my younger son eventually did tell me about the gun before anyone used it. Unfortunately, though, when my older son was faced with the choice of being admitted to a different, hopefully better, mental health facility as an inpatient or leaving my home for good, he chose the latter. He walked out my door on December 31, 2010.

Today, my son is in prison.

Mr. Parker, I am writing to you because I want to be sure you know our story, just one of so many stories that have not ended well in our country. It is the story of gun control as well as mental illness.

The issues are intertwined, yes. However, it is not as easy as requiring universal background checks to curb the gun violence in our country.

My son would have passed a background check. He'd never had more than a speeding ticket in his life. But Mr. Parker, remember, my son bought this gun illegally, so a background check, even if it would have flagged him, would not have been done anyway.

The heart of this matter lies so far beyond gun control itself. While I am a firm believer that we do not need the same Second Amendment that once allowed our country's citizens to protect themselves against the British so long ago, there are so many more things to consider.

First and foremost, our country's mental health care system must change. We need to identify mental illnesses sooner and much more comprehensively. American teenagers need to be educated about the signs of mental illness and what to do if they recognize them in themselves or others.

Secondly, the stigma associated with mental illness in our country must end. People need not fear what others will think of them. Mental illness occurs in one out of four adults in our country, yet people are ashamed and afraid of judgment. Years ago, people whispered the "C" word. Now they boldly announce: I have cancer. Why can't people see that mental illness is a physical illness just like diabetes or cancer? And it is treatable, very treatable, but they have to seek the treatment, thus, they have to challenge the stigma. And the three in four American adults who are not diagnosed have to end the stigma and embrace our loved ones with support rather than shame.

Finally, our insurance companies must be forced to provide proper and thorough treatment for our mentally ill population. Even if someone is brave enough to seek treatment and is diagnosed, there is no guarantee that they will receive the essential care they need.

Mr. Parker, I stand beside you in your commitment to stop gun violence. I urge you not only to advocate for legislative measures with gun laws, but also advocate for our mental health community. We need better preventative measures to identify and treat mental illness. We need more comprehensive insurance coverage for it. And we need to encourage our citizens to recognize and end its stigma.

If there is anything I can do to help you continue your mission, please let me know. You have my deepest sympathies as well as my utmost respect.

Sincerely,

Anne Slease
Wilmington, Delaware

Anne Slease is a mental health advocate, active with her local NAMI chapter where she has spoken at events ranging from police officer trainings to candlelight vigils. She writes for the International Bipolar Foundation website as well as Amy White's website, Far From Paradise, while she still maintains her own blog, StillHopefulMom.com. She and her younger son were recently part of a documentary called Semper Est Sperare (Always Hope), a film about mental illness and its stigma by director Tim Hill. And Anne has written a young adult novel called A Brother's Oath. Loosely based on actual events, the novel tells the story of Dylan Truman, a high school freshman, who witnesses his basketball star older brother, Cole, spiral into the depths of mental illness following a serious knee injury. Dylan must decide if a brother's oath is worth keeping.

(Note: "An Open Letter to Andy Parker, Father of Slain Journalist Alison Parker" Copyright © 2015 by Anne Slease. All rights reserved. Republished with permission.)

The Semicolon Project

I posted the above photo on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter this morning. Afterwards, I had a number of people ask me what the photo was all about. Why on earth did I have a semicolon drawn on my wrist???

The answer is simple. The semicolon on my wrist is in response to a request from The Semicolon Project. On their Facebook page, The Semicolon Project posted this photo:

A semicolon represents a sentence the author could've ended, but chose not to. The author is you and the sentence is your life.

Wow. That's powerful stuff.

--------------------------

In January of 2006, my son attempted suicide. It was during a manic episode he had while being weaned off of one anti-depressant and onto another. He intentionally overdosed on anti-depressants and aspirin. For what it's worth, despite its mild-mannered reputation, aspirin can be fatal when taken in large quantities. Fortunately, one of the things our son had going for him was that the aspirin he took was of the enteric-coated variety, which slows down the dissolving and absorption of the aspirin. This may have actually saved his life.

My wife was the one who found our son in the attic at about 1:30 a.m. He was crying and explained what he had done. When my wife woke me up and told me what had happened, it was like I was having the worst nightmare ever. A hurried trip to the emergency room ensued, and doctors pumped our son's stomach. After being given a clean bill of physical health, our son took an ambulance ride to a psychiatric hospital, where he would stay for a few days (mandatory for a teenager after a suicide attempt).

Physically, our son was okay. Mentally, he was not.

My son's severe depression and anxiety preceded his addiction, which is very common among people with substance abuse disorders. He began self-medicating in order to feel "normal." He simply wanted to make the negative feelings he was experiencing go away.

That night in January of 2006 was the beginning of a long and tumultuous period, not just for my son but for our entire family. It would be July of 2012 before things finally settled down and a sense of normalcy returned to our world. As I type this, my son is 2 years, 9 months, and 2 weeks clean and sober. And you know what else? His depression is under control and he's happy.

Mental illness can come out of nowhere and kick you in the ass. But no matter how bad you feel, suicide is not the answer; instead, it's a permanent solution to a short-term problem.

If you are experiencing depression or some other form of mental illness, please seek help. Please, please, please find a professional to talk to. Or, if you're too scared to do that, at the very least find a friend to talk to. The important thing is to talk. Let somebody know how you are feeling. They can assist you in getting the help you need. Believe it or not, you can feel better again.

Remember: The author is you and the sentence is your life. Make use of that semicolon and keep that sentence going. You are so worth it.

Peace.

P.S. I invite all of you to draw a semicolon on your wrist, to remind you of the struggles many people are dealing with. Even if it's not April 16th anymore when you read this, put a semicolon on your wrist for one day. And feel free to share a photo of that semicolon with me on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.

"The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen." --Elisabeth Kübler-Ross