I had an idea when I started this blog nearly two years ago that I would be brave enough to take some readers on a journey with me to find my homeless son. And I did write it, I suppose courageously, up to a point. I found Sean, but encountered an utterly changed child–delusional, paranoid and ravaged by mental illness and a life on the streets.
In my last contiguous chronicle, I had succeeded in getting intervention by a mobile crisis unit and watched as Sean was shackled in People’s Park and loaded into an ambulance bound for a psychiatric hospital. There my posts ended. At the very beginning.
In the ensuing months, Sean has cycled through operatically horrific episodes of hospitalizations, incarcerations and homelessness. He walked into traffic and was hit by a car and spent 5 months in hospitals only to release himself Against Medial Advice. He is now in a wheelchair, nearly catatonic, refusing help of any kind. He is also in one of the best psychiatric hospitals in the Bay Area, where he is being “stabilized” after his recent admittance. He was picked up in an alley, sitting in his own waste, convulsing.
I couldn’t write about any of this. I just held my breath and blundered through. But I want to now. Maybe not so much the outward journey of negotiating the nefarious mental health system, but what it feels like as a mother to grieve a living child. I have discovered there are so many of us, often sitting alone in our own pain. Mothers whose children are lost to drugs. Or to husbands, or courts, or through anger. Children get lost through our own failings and for no reason at all.
Our love doesn’t stop. It grows around the pain, misshapen, and even strengthened.
Schizophrenia has stolen my son. But I will not let him go.