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I am Adam Lanza’s Mother
It's time to talk about mental illness
By
Liza Long
Friday’s horrific national tragedy—the murder of 20
children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in New Town, Connecticut—has
ignited a new discussion on violence in America. In kitchens and coffee shops
across the country, we tearfully debate the many faces of violence in America: gun
culture, media violence, lack of mental health services, overt and covert wars
abroad, religion, politics and the way we raise our children. Liza Long, a
writer based in Boise, says it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk
about mental illness.
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.
“Michael” Long
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.
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