My son, Tim, has been homeless, staying with friends or couch surfing, since he turned 18 (24 now). The minute he turned 18, he walked away from his supported-living group home. He can’t live with me. I can’t control him. He refuses all forms of therapy, including meds, and blocks me from all legal and medical information. He demands money, thinks I injected him with poison to make him sick, and believes I'm withholding a non-existent trust fund from him. I'm out of work and broke. Real broke. Barely making it broke. I've been giving my son at least $100-200 a month as he won’t apply for SSI because he thinks that’s how the demons will track him. He says, “I’m not sick.”
The doctors have diagnosed my son with schizoaffective disorder. He self-medicates with whatever substance he can get his hands on, has been arrested 40 times, and has a felony assault charge against a police officer. I've tried to get him committed (for at least long enough to get him some help) for six years with no luck. He tells authorities he’s not suicidal or dangerous and they let him go. I love him so much but he’s prone to disturbingly scary behaviors and I’ve had to get restraining orders on the advice of his doctor.
Last week, my fiancee and I were driving home from the grocery store and saw my son coming from my house. We stopped to talk with him. He was pissed. He said, “I put a hole in your garage door, and the landlord called the police.” I reminded him, “You can’t come over and get me into trouble.” He basically told me, “You don’t care about me,” and he fled on foot. I pulled up the street into my parking lot. My son had smashed my fiancee’s truck, over and over, into the garage door. He caused $5000 worth of damage. The truck wasn’t touched due to a customized front end. The police picked him up down the street.
I’m losing everything. My fiancee is wonderful and my landlords are trying to be helpful. I filed for a new restraining order and plan to move. I feel like my son’s left me no choice. He’s in jail and will be for a while. I don’t know if I’m relieved to not be terrorized every day or profoundly struck with heartbreak and guilt. I’m now $5000 in debt and have, for all intents and purposes, lost my son. I'm sick of this terrible disease. I’m sick of the terrible system that governs it. The cops all know he’s sick. The doctors all know he’s sick. The judges all know he’s sick. I can’t believe my sick son can be left to his own devices. I can’t believe that the only treatment he’ll get will be in jail or prison.
Why is this okay? Tim talks like he’s 10-years old. How is this okay?
My relationship with my son is now damaged beyond repair. I’m heartbroken and scared to death of him, and all because of the law. It says, basically, my son has to kill someone in order to be committed and properly treated and evaluated.
I don’t know if I'll ever be okay in my heart.
UPDATE:
Since Tim’s arrest in Oregon for unauthorized use of a motor vehicle, he’s spent two months waiting for a spot in Oregon State Hospital. I’ve been in contact with his probation officer as well as the district attorney because I was a witness to my fiancee’s truck being taken. We’ve been assured that, in Oregon, a crime with mental health issues is treated differently. A new order was designed to assist a mentally ill suspect in being evaluated, treated (mandatory treatment if necessary in an attempt to get him fit for trial), and transitioned out of jail or the hospital.
On a Saturday night, I got a message from the Automatic Defendant Tracking System (VINES) saying my son was released from jail. The jail’s phone line wasn’t open on the weekend, so I waited until Monday and called the district attorney who assured me that Tim was finally transported to the state hospital, and he would be there at least 30 days — possibly a year or more —determined by his evaluation and needed treatment.
So, ten days later, there was a knock at the door at 8 A.M. It woke my fiancee and me up. It was my son. We had a restraining order and my fiancee, shook up and barely awake, reminded Tim he couldn’t be on the property. Tim ran. I called the police, but they couldn’t find him. I called the probation officer. She called me back seven hours later. My son had been released from jail instead of being transported to the state hospital. He was told he was free and instructed to show up in court on January 15, 2020.
Apparently, the jail made the mistake and, now, no one knows where Tim is. There are warrants out for his arrest, but the police can’t find him. I live in Medford, Oregon, a tiny 80,000 person town. Not Portland. Not LA. My fiancee and I have been to every shelter and homeless outreach and driven to areas known to homeless people. My son is nowhere. Just nowhere.
I didn’t know he’d been released and was half asleep when he came by. If I’d known that his release was accidental (and didn’t just feel that, once again, they’d let him fall through the cracks), I’d have possibly done something different that morning. My fiancee and I are sick that that might have been our last chance to get him into the state hospital. It’s 30 degrees here at night right now. I feel angry and guilty for trusting the system. I feel helpless at the same time. As I write, my son is out there with no help. I’m going to check some places again. I feel like I have to find him myself because the police can’t. Or won’t.
If you google “Aid and Assist” In Oregon, you’ll see the services they claim to provide — serving time in the state hospital getting help, transitioning through aftercare, housing-assistance. Our family was so happy and hopeful for what that meant. We all thought Tim might get his meds back and have help filing for disability. Instead, every day or other day, I go to the drug dealing park, or to the soup kitchen or to the shelter. I try to spot Tim so the police can get called and we can continue back to what was supposed to happen in the first place. I’m sad. I’m scared for and of him. I’m so disgusted with the system and that I have to do everything myself and, if don’t find him, I’ll be the terrible parent. The terrible person.
I can’t ask anyone to help anymore. They just won’t. It’s on me.
Tim and his sisters. Sharon says, “My family the way I wish it could be.”
