[acb-hsp] I Am Adam Lanza's Mother

[peter altschul]

I am Adam Lanza's Mother -- Mental Health Matters
  Thinking the Unthinkable
  by Liza Long December 15, 2012 Anarchist Soccer Mom blog
  republished in The Blue Review and Huffington Post
  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.
  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...ddat what age did your ch...ddwere there 
any problems with...has your child ever experienced...does your 
child h...."
  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.
  [Liza Long is an author, musician, and erstwhile classicist.  
She is also a single mother of four bright, loved children, one 
of whom has special needs.]