There are so many kinds of waiting that come with mental illness. Waiting for understanding. Waiting for help. Waiting for forgiveness, for signs of improvement. For doctors and caseworkers who slam the phone down. Waiting for a child who won’t let you see him. For the person you loved to emerge, unscathed, from the one who now hates you.
But there are worse kinds of anticipation. Especially from 3,000 miles away. Waiting for phone calls from policemen who have found Sean, or not. Waiting for hospital clerks to give you scraps of information before nurses HIPPA-up and hang up. Leaning into the bureaucratic silence as shelter workers and jailers and coroners search their list of names for the one that will make your heart stop.
Hardest of all, in many ways, is waiting for peace. It’s not so much that peace is fleeting; it’s just impossible. But that doesn’t stop me from deluding myself that I’ll nestle into it someday. I think it is what drives me to push ahead through cosmically absurd impediments to try to get my son help. It’s the closest thing I have to hope: the idea that through long-term psychiatric care Sean will have some kind of healing and that the collective family nervous system can begin to unwind.
This week the thing I’ve been waiting for is finally come. Through a Perfect Storm of intervention by shrinks and crisis units and conservators and hospitals (not to mention my ex-husband–yes! the bad one, who performed the greatest act of bravery I’ve ever witnessed in rescuing Sean from the street. Read future post!), Sean is going to mental health court for a conservatorship hearing.
Quite unlike the small victories of those 72-hour, or 14- or 30-day holds, this will determine whether he is judged sick enough to become a ward of the state for up to a year, and possibly more. Finally, finally a chance for Sean to get real psychiatric treatment instead of the Fun House of jails and shelters and sidewalks he’s been treated to thus far.
There’s one catch though, and it’s almost unfathomable. California’s General Conservatorship law states that if a judge determines his condition doesn’t warrant Sean being a ward of the state, he will simply be released. RIGHT THEN. Commit or dismiss. No gray area, no resumption of month-to-month treatment. Just a “Vamoose baby, don’t let the door hit your wheelchair.”
At the precipice of all that I’ve worked for I no longer know what I’m waiting for. Justice? Mercy? Destruction? Shock? Oh, these days are long.