Dear Dede,
It's morning, nearly 9:30. I finally got a little sleep which gets harder each day for me and for my son, my only surviving son (three others have passed away—different story). He is again incarcerated in the county jail. Seven maybe eight times this year for a few hours, a couple days, two weeks, 45 days. This time his sentence is one year. Yes, an entire year. He has suffered several years being diagnosed bi-polar, schizophrenic, dual diagnosis. Words — I had no idea what they meant. I didn't believe it could be even true. After all, those people he called "his doctors,” they didn't know my son. Not like I did. All of his 23 years. They just gave him pills that made him so out of it. He learned how to manipulate other of his doctors to get more and more meds. To stay as far out there as he needed to quiet the voices he said were screaming at him.
Only he could see and hear them. I was a liar. Dude continuously accused me because I couldn't hear them. I couldn't. I honestly tried to listen with him late in the night and in the wee ours of morning as he paced the floor and covered all the windows with layer upon layer to "secure" our home. He spent endless hours, days, and nights screwing the closet doors and windows closed so whoever was in there — or out there — couldn't get to him or me. He wanted to protect me. I wanted to protect him from himself. I didn't then and still don't know how. "That's who needs to be in jail," he justified. "They want to harass me. They hate me. I'm not good enough.”
You know what I'm talking about. We lived together April 2014 through December 2018. We shared the big country home that once belonged to my grandparents, then to my parents, and finally was going to be the forever home for Dude and me. The first year was pretty amazing. We were excited to be living in the home we had both grown up in, although in different eras. We shared ideas and worked together on restoration projects, singing and laughing as we worked side by side. His great pride was that we were a "team.” He tried hard to cut back on meds and overmedicating which I blamed for his rough days or nights. I blamed his doctors, his adolescent drug experimenting, his motorcycle accident (another failed suicide attempt), anything. I needed someone to blame for the craziness I couldn't believe was happening. It was definitely happening.
Last night, I scheduled and paid for a video visitation at the jail to spend 15 minutes with my son face-to-face. He had an audience of four or five fellow, rather disrespectful, inmates looking over his shoulder just behind him in the crowded space they share. We had no privacy. As Dude looked me in the eyes he said, “How are you, Mom? You are beautiful, Mom." I said, "Thank you, Dude. I'm doing okay. I love you." He stared at me for a long, silent moment. I saw no joy in his eyes, only fear and sadness. He was lost and broken. Breaking the intense silence, he turned as if to hide from his audience and said very clearly, "I told you I can't do this, Mom. I won't get out of here the same. I won't be the same. Prepare yourself. I have to go now, Mom. I love you, too." Then the screen went blank.
I am sobbing as I type recalling our four-minute video visit.
The home we shared is in a small, rural area with local cops with small town mentality. Not much to do but cruise the few streets looking for lights on after 10 pm. Something must be going on. A knock at the door. Dude politely opens it and an officer pushes his way in. This sends Dude into panic mode. Delusional, he begins to get defensive. Dude knows, because of his accident and a couple other suicide attempts, he is on probation. The police assume his behavior is drug or alcohol related. He does neither. Refusing to pee in front of anyone and exposing himself to embarrassing humiliation by a stranger in uniform gets him a free ride to the jail fifty miles away. The ride allows entertainment and occupies the bored, big, bad, badge-wearing officer for the evening. I've witnessed the police getting him out of bed — "Pee for us, Dude". If that's not harassment, what Is? The charge is: probation violation. Refusing to test. Well, it appears to me the judge is not aware of what mental illness is or does to a family.
I have learned so much in the past eight months since I moved to Fairfield, California. I work for Solano County IHHS (In-Home Health Services). My first client is Catherine Rippee-Hanson. She and I spend hours talking about her brother, my son, your son, and the many others who suffer with SMI. I’ve read Sooner Than Tomorrow twice. Thank you. I’m enlightened and now know that I don't need to accept blame at all anymore. Mental illness just is. It's not Dude's fault or mine or his doctors’ or anything. It just is.
I’m learning to understand and educate myself and our family about what has alienated my son from all of his siblings and his father. It is me and Dude. I'm so glad he is my son. I pray that God hears me when I sometimes cry out helplessly overwhelmed. Thats when I remember you and your son, and your words of wisdom through experiences so similar to mine. I'm thankful for the many ways your book has changed me and the way I think and manage my life. Dede, I can't begin to thank you enough.
I am so blessed that my son (against the odds) is still with me. Prepare myself? How do I do that?
Sincerely (every word),
Francie VanZandt