My Failure as a Father

The loss of my 14 year old son Jon has pretty much preoccupied my life. He ended his life on January 10th of this year. Many things, if not all things, have become less important to me. I have been going to therapy to help work through my grief over my son's death. Early in the process, my psychologist was quick to point out that I do not take much time for myself. I focus most of my efforts on supporting my family.

Up until the last few months it seemed as if our family's life was fairly uneventful. I went about my life doing the usual things; work, school and being involved with youth groups. We lived an average life. My life was not always like this.

I learned to be street smart early in life. As a boy, I had to take care of myself and my younger sister. We lived in rough places. I was in a lot of fights. Bullies and intimidation were all part of my life.

When I was eight years old a group of older boys beat me up. I was determined to never let them hurt me again. I went home and stole one of my father's pocket knives. The next time they tried to jump me I was ready for them. Even though I began fighting back, something inside of me died. I was not born an angry violent kid, but that is what I became. Who said that bullies never hurt anyone?

In my preteen years my grades dropped. I was always in detention. As hard as I had become, I could not deal with what was going on in my life. I turned to drugs and alcohol to ease my pain. I lived with friends and on the street.

At age 16, I entered a rehabilitation center for drugs and alcohol abuse. I was expelled. At that point of my life I was on a fast track to jail, prison or an early death. Even though those years were rough, I lived.

In 1990 I made a decision that changed my life. I left everything behind and moved halfway across the state for a new start. As cliche as it sounds, "I found God" and with help of new friends I was able to become civilized again. I put my knife away and learned to use my hands for other things than making fists.

After I graduated from high school I served as a missionary for two years. I came home, went to college and married my wife. I was as far from my previous life as possible, or so I thought. I raised my kids in a nice school district with nice people in nice neighborhoods surrounded by everything nice. I never thought that my children would have to experience the kind of hell that I did growing up. 

The comfy image of my life was shattered on a morning in January when I had to pull my knife from my pocket to cut down my son's lifeless body. I thought my children had a good life. I thought they were safe. I did not think that I needed to protect them from the world. I was wrong. 

Who says bullies never hurt anyone?

Disclosure. When is the Right Time and Place?

Last month my mind raced with endless possibilities. I announced lofty goals that others may have seen as impressive. I believed that I could accomplish anything. I fought aggressively toward my goal to make a difference. Lately those aspirations have waned.

My passion has not changed. I am frustrated because there are many roadblocks that I did not take into consideration. I feel as if I am fighting a large problem with little support. I am grasping for anything that will help. Many times I feel helpless, but yet at the same time I still have hope. 

I aspire to make a difference in the world of mental health and suicide prevention. Many times I have thought that I do not have the right credentials to speak about these subjects. I am not properly educated; I am not trained.

I have a mental illness. That does not qualify me to speak about mental health issues. Talking about my experiences comes easily but I cannot speak for others. Everyone has their own unique story.

What information can I offer on the subject of suicide prevention? I did not recognize any signs when my son decided to end his life. Would that make me a hypocrite? 

I look for opportunities in my community to hear what others have to say about mental health and suicide. When I go to the lectures, should I keep my illness and my son's suicide to myself or do I disclose everything? I believe that what I can share could be valuable because I have personal insight that cannot be learned from books or lectures. 

Is there a right or wrong answer? Will my decision be well thought out or impulsive? I don't know. I just I hope that I make the correct decision when the time presents itself. I will just have to wait and see..

You Think I'm Crazy? Tell Me Something I Don't Know.

It has finally happened. Someone called my family crazy. Although my son was the main target, our family was included in the statement.

My son and I both have bipolar disorder; it is a heritable mental illness. It is one condition where crazy is a suitable description. Maniac. Psychotic. Bat shit crazy. These are other excellent examples.

Many people have a mental illness. Does that make people with a condition crazy, too? Possibly.

Every member of our family call each other crazy all the time. My husband calls me crazy as a term of endearment. Is our whole family crazy? I would not be surprised. We embrace it. 

Let's be real. Everyone in the world has a touch of crazy inside of them. Some are crazier than others.

We admit that we are crazy. Does that mean that we are weak? I don't think so. Abnormal? That may surely be the case. I believe that the exposing that we are an anomaly makes us brave. 

So, you think I'm crazy? I willingly admit that you are correct. Tell me something I don't know. I'm not insulted, I am flattered. Thank you for the compliment. 

By the way, it takes crazy to know crazy...

Maybe I Am Crazier Than I Thought

When I started this blog I thought I was writing from a good place. I was seeing a psychiatrist. In my mind, I was stable because I was on medication.

I have been reading some of my past posts. I now realize that I was crazy...very crazy. I was delusional. I heard voices. I hallucinated. I believed that an unknown force told me to do irrational things. I did not know that I was experiencing psychosis. 

When I think about my current life I realize that I am still crazy. I don't think the crazy will ever go away.

Stop Hiding. Admit That You Have Bipolar Disorder!

Over the past two years since I found out that I have bipolar disorder I have had many reactions. Most of the time I am greeted with compassion from people who have a family member or close friend who also possess a mental illness. They understand the struggle. 

Yesterday I saw an acquaintance in a parking lot. He looked different. The upbeat guy that I once knew looked like he was a zombie. He told me that he had just lost his job because he had a episode. He said that he had a brain disorder and his doctor put him on medication. He did not like the side effects. He told me that he needed the meds to control his mania. I asked him if he was bipolar. He was embarrassed and said, "Yes". Without hesitation I smiled and told him that I had bipolar disorder, too. He quickly relaxed and held his hand out for a fist bump. I reassured him that it takes a while to find the right medications to manage the disorder. Before we parted ways, I gave him a hug. I wish that he did not feel the need to speak in code to hide his illness.

I wish that people did not find shame about having a mental illness. I wish that there was not a stigma regarding mental disorders. With understanding, people will realize that there is no reason to be afraid.

Bipolar disorder, formally known as manic depression, is a mood disorder. A person with the disorder experience extreme mood swings between depression and mania. Most people are familiar with the term depression. I like to refer to it as depressions because there is more than one type.

There is unipolar depression (what most people are familiar with) and bipolar disorder. Unipolar depression has one pole (a unicycle has one wheel) and bipolar disorder has two poles (a bicycle has two wheels). Imagine that those poles are at an extreme distance from each other. 

A person with unipolar depression would stay at “one pole” and experience moods that are low such as severe and chronic sadness, feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, worthlessness, lethargy and a lack of energy or motivation. 

The other pole is OPPOSITE of the first. It displays inflated self esteem, decreased need for sleep, racing thoughts, increased goal-directed activity and excessive involvement in pleasurable activities that have a high potential for painful consequences. This is considered to be mania. 

A person with bipolar disorder experience phases of mood swings between the poles, the lows of depression and the highs of mania. Individuals without the illness do not exhibit the extreme shifts in mood.

I have bipolar disorder. I am on medication to help stabilize my moods. My mental condition does not dictate who I am. I wish people did not feel ashamed. In order for that to happen, people need to educate themselves; not only the ones who do not have a mental illness, but the people who have one as well.

Ending the Relationship with my Psychologist

I am not looking forward to saying goodbye to my psychologist. Next month we will decrease our weekly sessions to twice a month. Soon it will taper off to tune-ups now and then.

I will no longer plop upon his couch when he invites me into his office. I have always fantasized about lying down on his sofa during our sessions. I will soon miss the opportunity to walk into his office wearing my pajamas with my pillow and blanket in tow. 

I will miss scarfing down my caramel frappe while he sips his tea.
I will miss discussing my life. I will miss our conversations about the options I need to consider while making decisions.

"How do you feel about this?"

"What do you think you should do?"

"Why do you think that?"

Oh, those open ended questions...I will miss them the most. I let him delve into the depths of my soul. He knows my struggles, my weaknesses. He understands me better than I understand myself, but yet I know almost nothing about him.

I will miss the front office staff. The way they welcome me. How they call me by name as I hand over my debit card to cover my copay. I do not know how I will survive without our interactions. 

I am grateful that my doctor did not force me to do relaxation techniques. Early on I told him that I would walk out the door if he ever tried any of that crap on me. I do not believe that sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce, chanting ohmmm with hands on our knees and palms towards the sky, on plush green grass while a gentle breeze surrounds us would make me a better person.

Thank you, doctor, for the great times. You have affected me more than you will ever know. I hope that you will acknowledge me if ever we cross paths when I see my psychiatrist next door for med checks every few months. I wish that I could say that you will miss me just as much as I will miss you, but I understand that you are my therapist and not my friend.