Hyper-Mania Reigns

Monday, January 27

Since his return from Savannah last Wednesday, Parrish’s mania has escalated exponentially.  I keep thinking back to his admission lab work when he went to hospital because of his overdose.  His lithium level was negative.  Given that, it’s hard to believe him when he says he takes it every day as directed.  Not taking it guarantees instability, even with his other meds. 

Though he had been in hospital in Savannah for a week and was supposed to be properly medicated, Parrish was manic on the day he was dismissed, a fact that I pointed out to the social worker and the discharge nurse. 

When released, he barreled  through the door to the waiting room, actually an anteroom with a couple of chairs in it, and was trying to push open the outside door before I could get his attention.

“Whoa!  Slow down, P.  We have to meet with the nurse and the social worker before you can go.”

“Let’s just go.  I can’t take any more of this bullshit.  There’s a patient in there throwing chairs around.”

He was loud and could not focus or hear what I said unless I repeated myself.  When I looked at him I saw a sick little boy, out of control and not knowing why he felt so bad inside.  His eyes danced with anxiety and fear and false bravado, and I wanted to swaddle him and bundle him close to my chest and sing to him and make all the crazy go away. 

“Take a breath, Son.  Take a breath and sit down while we go over your discharge plan.”

“I don’t need a discharge plan!”  I’m going to see my own shrink in a week.”  

He was up and down, in and out of his seat, pacing around the space.

“Can we get something to eat?  I’m starving.  Pigs shouldn’t have to eat the food they serve here.  This place is a travesty!” 

My observation that he was unstable and manic was met with blank looks from the social worker and the nurse. 

“The doctor has decided he is stable and can go home.”

“Look at him, please!  He lives alone!  He cannot sit still, and when he does sit down, he works his heels against the floor so fast that they are a blur.  He can’t stay on topic.  He has scattered thoughts.  What is stable about this behavior?”

Our “counseling session” was taking place in the anteroom.

“He’ll be more relaxed when you get him home.”

The nurse proceeded to give Parrish a five-day supply of Abilify, Valium and lithium, carefully explaining to him that he should take them exactly as ordered.  She sat there and told a psychotic man that he should follow the rules!  But it gets better.  She then handed him printed prescriptions for another month’s supply of the drugs.  They included one for 60, count them, 60 Valium tablets, 10 mg each, more than enough to kill him.  

“You’re going to send this man, a patient who has been under suicide watch for 12 days, out of here with a prescription for enough Valium to kill himself?  Is this your idea of a discharge plan that will work?”

“The doctor thinks he can handle his medicine.”

Deciding to take control of the Valium myself, I got us out of there as fast as I could, knowing all the time that P was not stable and should be in a controlled environment but also knowing that Georgia Regional would not or could not meet his needs.  He received no therapy and never saw a doctor, only a nurse practitioner, if you can believe what he says.  I am going to request the records and find out for myself.  At that moment, I held fast to the knowledge that he had an appointment on the 29th with a private psychiatrist here on Saint Simons.  

Parrish’s mania escalated on the drive back to Brunswick.  He obsessed about coming to live with me.

“I can’t live alone, Mama.  You should have figured that out by now.”

“And you know as well as I do that living with me is not an option, Son.  Is there any real need for me to go over all the things that went wrong when you lived with me?”

“But now you have control of my money!  You’re responsible for me because you are my guardian.  If you can’t make yourself take care of me, your guardianship over me is going to be revoked as soon as possible!”

I chose to ignore that remark, not bothering to remind him that he has no voice in whether or not I am his legal guardian.

Conversation was spotty, and there was an undercurrent of anger in his words.  He demanded that I give him some money, said he couldn’t walk around without money in his pocket.  I reminded him that, when we were giving him money to eat and wash clothes, he spent it on alcohol and God knows what else.  Every item of clothing he owns was dirty when I cleaned out his efficiency, and there was evidence of alcohol use.  

“No, Parrish.  I will not give you any money.”

“But how will I eat and wash clothes?”

“I will wash your clothes and your daddy and I will make sure you are supplied with groceries.”

“This guardianship thing has got to go!  As soon as I get out from under it, I’m leaving this town.”  

When we arrived in Brunswick, he insisted that we stop at CVS to fill his prescriptions.  Since he had a small supply medication, I didn’t think it was necessary, but in view of his mania decided to humor him.

On the way to the drug store, I told P he would have to let me keep the Valium and that I would give him enough for two days at a time.

He bristled.

“I am fully capable of handling my medication!”

“No! You are not.  I gave you a bottle of Elavil and less than two weeks ago you took every one of them in an effort to kill yourself.  You will have to give me control of the Valium.”

“But I’m fine.  And I need some money.”

“You were fine 8 hours before your suicide attempt.  I will not let you have enough Valium to try it again.”

Sulking, 

“Okay, Mama, have it your way.  You always do.  I have never won an argument with you, so do what you want to do.  I need some money, though.  I can’t walk around without any money.”

P was only in the store a few minutes before he returned to the car and got it.

“The drugs won’t be ready until day after tomorrow.  They have to order some of it.”

“They don’t have Ability and lithium and Valium?  I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, that’s what the man said.”

Something seemed wrong, unsettling, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, and as long as he didn’t have the medicine, I decided not to worry.

“We’ll come back on Friday.”

I checked P into a decent hotel, helped him unpack and put his things away.  His mania subsided and we made plans to go to the grocery store on Friday.  Before I left, I promised to order a pizza for his supper.

I called his father and left a message that P was back in town and installed in a hotel, but I didn’t speak to him personally.

I talked to P several times on Thursday, and I was concerned that his tongue was thick and his speech was a little slurred, both signs of alcohol use but also signs of mania.  I knew he didn’t have any money, so I encouraged him to get out and walk, work off some of the extra energy he was producing.  That night, I called his father to tell him I was concerned that Parrish’s mania seemed to be escalating.  I left a message.    

On Friday morning, I got a call from Lawrence thanking me for the message and promising to call me later when he had time to talk.  I took Parrish to the grocery store and we went shopping for a new winter jacket for him.  His jacket was one of the several things, including his Kindle, that were not in his efficiency when I cleaned it out.  He was manic but not extremely so.  I could tell his anxiety level was high, despite the Valium he took in the morning.  I was uneasy about leaving him alone and even considered going back and spending the night with him.

Shortly after I arrived at my flat, Lawrence called.  

“I’m concerned, too,’ he said.  “A little while ago, I got a call from him demanding that I bring him some quarters for the washing machine.  He was very insistent and his speech wasn’t right.  I hesitated because I was there earlier to take him the medicines he asked me to pick up at CVS, but I went anyway and his room was empty.”

“My God!  He has 60 Valium pills!  That’s enough to kill him if he takes them all!”

“I’m going back over there right now,” Lawrence wheezed.  I can get there faster than you can, and I’ll call you from there.”

I held the phone and stared at it for a few minutes before the tears welled up and the sobs began.  Had he done it again?  I felt as though I might implode, fall in on myself and get lost in the darkness.  Paralyzed with dread, I sat and stared and smoked until the phone rang about 20 minutes later.

“He’s not here.”

“Look around and see if you can find the Valium, the other drugs, too.”

“There’s nothing here except a full bottle of lithium.  What are we going to do?”

“You go home and rest up for work in the morning.  I’ll go over there and wait for him in his room.  If he doesn’t return within a couple of hours, I’ll call the police.”

I arrived at the hotel at about 7:30 and searched the room thoroughly.  The only suspicious thing I found was an empty 24-ounce can of an alcoholic beverage that was 12% alcohol, roughly twice the potency of beer.  Everything else was in order.  I worried and tried to write.

Lawrence arrived a little after 8:00 to wait with me, and we decided that we would give P until 10:00 to show up before contacting the police.  At 9:30 he staggered in.

“What are you doing here?”

“Your daddy and I have been waiting to see whether you would show up or be found dead somewhere.  No one has been able to get in touch with you since you called him this afternoon.”

“I’ve been out.”

“How much have you had to drink?’

“I haven’t been drinking.”

“Of course you have.  You reek of beer and can hardly stand.  Do yourself a favor and don’t embarrass yourself by trying to convince us that you have been out for a stroll in the cold for several hours.”

“I haven’t been drinking.”

“Look at me, Parrish.  Look into my eyes.  This is me, not some doctor who knows nothing about you, not your daddy whom you used to get all the Valium that is now missing from this room.  Where is the Valium?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is the fucking Valium?”

I didn’t look at Lawrence, but I could feel him cringe at my language.  At that moment, I didn’t give a shit what he thought about it.

P pulled the bottle out of his pocket, and I jerked it out of his hand and opened it.  There were seven tablets left out of the 60 that were dispensed just the day before. 

“Did you sell these or trade them for alcohol?”

“No.”

“You are lying.  Tell me what happened to all of these pills.  If you took them, we need to take you to the hospital.  Did you sell them or trade them or take them?  Do not play with me, P.  This is not some game.”

In a whisper, “I traded them.”

“To whom and for what?”

No answer.  He tried to change the subject.

“What are you doing here, Daddy?” 

“Son, I’m here because I love you and I’m worried about you.  If you keep this up, you won’t have to kill yourself.  Somebody’s going to do it for you!”

“Why in he name of God did you think you could drink, Parrish?  You know you can’t drink.  What is wrong with you?” I asked.

Lawrence kept trying to defuse Parrish’s crazy rantings, so he talked him into trying on a snow suit he brought him earlier.  Yes, a snow suit.  He thinks P should wear it when he is out walking in the cold.  Parrish was so impaired, his daddy had to put the suit on him. 

After laughing like a hyena, P started weeping openly and lamenting his situation, trying to convince us that his life is essentially a piece of shit, that he has nothing.

“You have two parents who love you.  You say that’s all you ever wanted.  Here we are, both involved in your life and trying our best to make it better.  Where would you be if your daddy and I weren’t paying for this hotel so you have a place to live?

Finger to his temple, “I’d be dead!”  If you two think you can keep me from killing myself, you don’t know shit.”

“Don’t play the suicide card with me, Parrish.”

“I’m no playing anything.  I’m telling you the facts.  You’re going to kick me out on the street again.  You’ve done it before and you’ll do it again.  I’ve never been right since you divorced Daddy and took me away from him.” 

“That’s enough, Son!  Your mama has never been anything but a good mother to you.  There is nothing more precious than a mother’s love, and you have repaid her by giving her more hell than any woman deserves.  Now you just stop that kind of talk.”

And so it went until Lawrence took his leave.  I assured him that I would stay with P until he went to sleep.

“I’m not tired.  I don’t want to go to sleep and I don’t want you here.”

“I’m staying.  Get used to it.”

I lay down on the day bed under the window and started watching Modern Family.  P came over and sat on the side of the bed and pushed his face next to mine.

“I need to tell you something, need to be honest with you about what happened tonight.”

“I’m listening.  You know you can tell me anything.”

“I walked to his hotel to see The Famous Writer.”

I waited.

“I told him I had some Valium and I would give him some if he would buy me some beer.”

“You went to The Famous Writer?”  

I was incredulous, unable to understand why P would seek out The Famous Writer for any reason after their confrontation last month.  I suppose there are no extremes to which a mentally ill person will not go to quell his urges.

“What in the name of God made you go to there?  Did you go there with the idea of trading Valium or did you go there to pick a fight with him?  This is hard for me to process but I can believe it.  Why?  You could have sold that Valium to anyone.” 

Out of left field, “Did you know he has a car now?”

“I heard it through a mutual friend.  Did you get in the car with that drunken madman?”

“He was going to the island to get a hair cut, and he took me with him.”

I didn’t believe him.

“Where does he get his hair cut?”

“A place in Redfern Village.”

“And he took you with him?”

I know where The Famous Writer gets his hair cut.  I took him there myself once, and it’s in Redfern.

“What did you do while he was getting his hair cut?”

“I sat there and waited.”

“And where did he buy you the beer?”

“He went to the liquor store across from the airport and bought himself a case of wine and me a six-pack of beer?”

“One six-pack?”

“Maybe he bought more than that.”

“I see.  You didn’t get in this shape by drinking one six-pack of beer.  I’m surprised that you think I might even consider believing that.”

“I took some Valium, too.”

“How much?”

“Two 10 mg tablets.”

“Really?  Two?”

“Maybe more.”

"Then what happened?"

“He drove us back to the his hotel and started telling me all this stuff about music.  His wife kept calling him and he shouted into the phone and called her a cunt and hung up on her.  Then he went psychotic and started ranting and raving about how much he hates everybody and how he has no use for you.  He told me you owe him fifty dollars.  I said if he called you another bad name, I would hurt him.  Then he told me to give him the Valium and get out.  I asked him to bring me back here, but he said ‘no’.”

“And you actually gave him the Valium?  How much?”

“All but what’s left in the bottle.”

“We’ve talked about this long enough.  You need to get some rest.  Let’s get ready for bed.

A look of utter amazement crossed his face.

“You’re going to stay with me?  You've never done anything like that for me.”

“Of course I have, P.  I let you live with me last year until it became clear that the arrangement was bad for both of us.  I will be happy to stay over.  Honey’s in her kennel and should be fine.”  

P was calmer, and we went out by the pool in the freezing cold and smoked a cigarette and shared a Dr. Pepper.  Over and over, he thanked me for staying with him.

“I’m in crisis, Mama.  I need you.”

“I am here and will spend the night, so stop worrying.  And stop thanking me.”

Once back inside, I convinced him to eat some of the vegetable soup I brought him earlier in the day.  Then he heated up some chili and ate that.

I tucked him in, wondering how we got to the place.  He was one of the happiest little boys who ever lived, the kind of kid who loved everybody everybody loved him back.  He made friends with the garbage men, for goodness’ sake.  In a moment he was snoring.  

I settled down with a cup of tea and some Ibuprofen and a crossword puzzle, then went to sleep myself.  I woke at 4:30.  My bones were aching so I took some more Ibuprofen and tried to sleep.  At 5:50, I woke P and told him I was going home.  He roused momentarily and thanked me and dropped back off to sleep.

When I arrived at my flat on Saturday morning, Honey was barking.  She never barks when she's crated up, but she chose last night to start.  I could tell she was in great distress.  She had pushed the tray completely out of the crate and was wet around her mouth and chin from anxiety.  After a quick bowl of food, she was asleep at my side.  We went for a walk in the park, and as exhausted and sore as I was, I didn’t want to go to sleep.

The weekend was nothing if not hellish and I am tired in my body and in my soul.  I haven’t felt rested or completely relaxed since Cuz died on the fifth of this month. Parrish’s suicide attempt followed seven days later.  Writing is hard for me when I don’t get proper sleep so it may take all week to write down the events since Parrish’s release from Georgia Regional last Wednesday.  The only helpful thing the staff there did was make Parrish an appointment at Gateway, the local public mental health center, so this morning I was up 

early to get him there for his 8:30 time slot.  I knew the day would be hard but never expected it to be so torturingly draining.

To be continued…..

© 2014 cj Schlottman

Handcuffed and Shackled

This afternoon, when I returned to Parrish’s hospital room after fetching some clothes and shoes for him, the nurse told me that he was to be transferred to a psychiatric facility shortly, but she said she didn’t know exactly where he was going.

“Don’t be ridiculous!  Of course you do.  You can’t transfer him out of here without knowing where he is going.  You know that and I know that.”

In a whisper, “He’s going to Georgia Regional in Savannah, but we don’t want him to know.  He says he doesn’t want to go there.”

Her eyes were wide and she was visibly perspiring.

“So you lied to him?  He may be mentally ill, Ma’am, but I won’t lie to him, and you are wrong to withhold the truth from him.  I will tell him the what is going on; he deserves that much respect.  Why are you so afraid of him?  He has been nothing but a perfect gentleman since he was admitted.”

I pushed past her and hauled his bag into the room and quietly explained to P that he was going to Georgia Regional, that there were no other beds available, that it would be okay, that he should not worry.

His mania had escalated in the hour that I was gone.  He was unable to sit still, clearly fearful.  Who in the hell tells a psychiatric patient who attempted suicide that  he is going to be transferred to an unknown facility?

"I don't want to go, but if it's the only choice, I will cooperate," Parrish said.

I hugged him tight.

Lawrence arrived in 15 minutes.  A few minutes after his departure for work, I heard the clanging.  Peering through the window of the room, I saw The Deputy walking onto the unit, jingling the shackles like Christmas bells.  He stopped at the desk, then came to the door.

“Mr. Gray?”

“Yes, sir.”

Parrish stood and offered his hand, but the The Deputy did not shake it.

“You are not under arrest, Mr. Gray, but I have to do this.  Please face the wall and put your hands on it.”

“Don’t panic, P.  This Draconian procedure is standard, so try not to panic,” I said.  

He turned and placed his palms on the wall of the hospital room, and I watched as the The Deputy frisked him thoroughly.  He wrapped a thick leather belt around P’s waist and buckled it and slid the buckle around to the front.  He locked it in place and then stooped down and shackled both of my son’s ankles. 

“Try to stay relaxed, Buddy.  He’s not going to hurt you.”

“Turn around, sir.  Take off your hat and hand it to me.”

The Deputy took the hat and crumpled it into a wad, handed it back and ordered P to replace it on his head.

Parrish did as instructed.

“Raise your arms out in front of you, palms down.  Now turn your palms inward.”

Again, P complied.

“Now bring your hands to your waist.”

He applied the cuffs quickly and locked them to the belt.

The contents of my stomach leapt into my throat and I swallowed hard.

“Don’t worry, son.  Try not to worry.”

“Is this his bag?”

“Yes.”

The Deputy started walking P toward the door.

“Wait just one minute!  He will not walk out of here like that.  Put him in a wheelchair and cover him with a blanket.  You will not walk him through the hospital looking like a prisoner.” 

The wheelchair and blanket arrived and The Deputy picked up P’s bag and dropped it into his lap.

I took his face in my hands and kissed his cheek.

“Lipstick tattoo!”

He smiled wanly as I looked into his eyes, dancing with mania and fear.  I wanted to stuff him back into my womb, give him a do-over.  I wanted to wash away his psychosis with amniotic fluid, protect him from the world that does not understand that his brain is broken, that crazy is not a choice.

As they left, I fell into Melvina’s arms and sobbed.  Sweet Melvina was with him both days he was in the step-down unit, and I can now count her among the angels who walk in this world and look after me.  She is the reason I could come home and sleep in my bed at night, the reason I didn’t have to worry about him.  She gave me her phone number in case we need her when P gets home, saying she will sit with him if we need her. 

The days between the time P came off the ventilator and his transfer to Georgia Regional were uneventful except for his confusion and disorientation.  During that time, I wondered if he had damaged brain irreparably, but today he could tell me the day of the week and the date, so I am encouraged.  He was not medicated for his psychosis, and as time passed, he became more manic and afraid.  I wish he were not in Savannah, wish he were closer to me, but I am glad he is finally in a place where his demons can be faced down and he can get the medicine he so desperately needs.

Thank God it's music night!  I have a new Cabasa!

        

Another Nightmare - P Attempts Suicide - Again

This afternoon, before sitting down to finish a post about Cuz and his passing, I picked up the phone to call a friend.  There was a message waiting.  The call came at 3:46 this morning, when I was hard asleep.  I didn’t hear the phone.  When I listened to the message, I heard Parrish’s voice over a line with almost deafening static. 

All I could make out was, “I’ve taken every pill I can get my hands on.”

I called his room.  No answer.  I called his father.  No answer.  I called the hospital.  Not there.  I called the police.  There was a raging thunderstorm parked over us, and I knew they could reach him before I could, assuming that he was at home.  I answered all their questions and was assured that police were dispatched to perform a “wellbeing” check.

I called Melissa, and she was able to reach Lawrence on his work phone and send him to P’s efficiency.  He arrived, a man ill-prepared for theses kinds of things, as paramedics were working in the room.  They would not let him in and would not tell him anything about Parrish.  So there he stood, trying to stay out of the rain and out of the way, helpless. 

At 4:50, the police dispatcher called me and said P was en route to the emergency room, that his breathing was depressed and paramedics were opening his airway.  She said his father was following the ambulance to the ER.

I cried.  No, I cried like a crazy person.  Then I brushed my teeth and pulled up my hair and jumped into some clothes and dried my eyes.  Honey and I were out the door in 10 minutes.  The rain had slowed down, but the causeway was dangerously foggy.  It felt as though it went on forever.  About three blocks from the hospital, it occurred to me that P might be dead.  Why I did’t think of that before is a mystery for all time.  No, it’s not.  It has a name and her name is denial.  I arrived at the ER at 5:30.

My first glimpse of Parrish was from the door of the ER room where he lay, respirator set at 18 breaths per minute and surrounded by, count them, six medical personnel.  His ashen face was flaccid.  His eyes were almost closed, so I asked someone to close them.  They looked at me like I had just grown another head, and I don’t blame them.  Mothers can’t be nurses of their children.  He had a gastric pump in place and, of course, the endotracheal tube. 

I started babbling that he didn’t want to be kept alive on a ventilator.  I played the “I’m his guardian” card.

Then I saw Lawrence at the end of the hall and went to him.

“He’s not going to make it this time,” I sobbed into his shoulder.

“Now, don’t talk like that.”

“13 hours elapsed from the time he called me until I tried to call him back!  It was another 30 minutes before he was intubated.  He’s finally succeeded.”

There were more assurances from Lawrence, which is odd because he’s always the “glass half empty” person.  I, the “glass half full” person, was falling apart all over the poor man. 

For the first time since P’s diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder about 18 years ago, I had the luxury of falling apart.  Until now, every time I was with him in hospital for a suicide attempt or alcohol toxicity or uncontrolled mania, I was completely alone.  Now I have his father for support.

A police officer called me aside and began questioning me about the event.  All I could tell him was that yesterday, P and I ate at Longhorn and went to Winn-Dixie.  He was fine.  We laughed and talked, genuinely enjoyed being together.  The officer asked about his medicines, so I told him what I could.

Back in the room with P, we found only one nurse.  She was hanging IV fluids and checking lines.  

“Are you keeping him alive with that ventilator?”

“We have started him on Versed to make sure he’s in a medically induced coma so he can rest.  His brain function is uncertain, but we will know more if he starts to try to breathe on his own.”

It was about two hours later that P took a breath on his own.  I told Lawrence it was a good sign, and we sat their like two fools staring at the vent settings to see if he would do it again.  He thrashed in bed.  We were encouraged.

Melissa arrived shortly thereafter, and I was glad for Lawrence.  I was also glad for the Starbucks she brought me.

Two hours later, when he was transferred to ICU, he had not moved a muscle.  I’m choosing to believe that’s because of the Versed.  He’s having some cardiac arrythmias, probably caused by the almost-full bottle of Elavil, an antidepressant, that he swallowed.  His urine test for drugs also showed benzodiazepines (for which he had no prescription), so I can only assume he bought them on the street.  The level in his blood was high.  He also had a small amount of alcohol on board as well as cocaine.  He knows what will kill him, and once more, he tried to die.

After P was safely installed in ICU and we had an opportunity to talk to the nurse, and with her assurances that she would call with any change, we all went home.  I will return in the early AM.

There is nothing to do but pray.  However and to whomever you pray, just pray.

© 2014 cj Schlottman

Parrish Faces a Challenge

12/30/13

I’m cold.  The thermometer reads 58º but I feel colder than that.  A few minutes ago, I preheated my mattress pad and climbed into bed to get warm and begin to write.  Honey promptly jumped up here with me and is snuggled at my feet.  The TV is dark and quiet, the only sound in the house coming from the copper fountain in the foyer.  It’s babble is soothing to me.  

My legs have been hurting for days.  The wind and rain that I love so much make me stiff and sore, and now it’s winter outside.  There’s a nasty cold bug going around the island, but I don’t feel as though I’m getting sick.  I’m just cold and still a little depressed.

There are those who believe that things happen for a reason, that we are thrust into situations and events by some grand design.  I don’t believe that.  I think life gives us what it does and we make of if what we can.  I can’t see a giant hand moving us around like pieces on a chess board, repositioning us so as to bring some sort of synchronicity to our lives.

I’m thinking about the idea that things happen for a reason because of an event that occurred last night.  Parrish told me about it when I picked him up today to go grocery shopping.

Parrish was returning to Concorde Suites after a late afternoon walk, and when he approached the Baymont Inn, which is across the street, he witnessed a man in the front parking lot screaming at a woman in a car.  The language was vulgar and abusive.  The man shouted the name “Diane” a number of times.

As the woman drove away, Parrish could see the man clearly.  He recognized The Famous Writer from my  description of him.  

“Are you The Famous Writer?”

Parrish offered his hand, which The Famous Writer refused.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Parrish Gray, Claudia Schlottman’s son.  You spent a few weeks at her house.”

“So, you’re the ruffian jailbird.”

“I suppose you could say that.  I understand that things got unpleasant while you were at Mama’s house.”

“Your mother is a shallow cunt!”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.  She’s a cunt and you’re a ruffian and a jailbird.”

“And you are a fucking ass-hole.  That’s my mother you’re talking about!”

Parrish described The Famous Writer as disheveled with his gray hair in disarray.  He was wearing jeans and a pajama top that was only partially buttoned, and he was carrying a bottle of Pinot Grigio.  His round red eyeglasses had slipped down to the tip of his nose, and he kept pushing them up. 

“Mama, he looked like a maniac!  He looked just like a crazy person.”

“That’s because he’s a madman, P.  Please don’t take anything he said to heart.  He’s a mean old man, a hopeless alcoholic, and there is no dealing with him.”

“He asked me if I were going to hit him.  The old me, drunk and unmedicated, would have decked him and ended up on jail for assault.  I might have killed him.”

“Punishing yourself because The Famous Writer is unacceptable is punishing the wrong person.  We have no control over him or his speech, and as much satisfaction as I would get out of knowing he will somehow suffer for his bad acts, that is out of our hands.”

“Mama!  He said you don’t know anything about music and that you listen to shit and call it music.”

“I don’t care what he said.”

“But it’s just so wrong!”

“I don’t care and neither should you.”

I tried to reassure him, to make him see that what The Famous Writer says should be ignored, dismissed as the rantings of an unbalanced soul.  

“But he called my mother a cunt - to my face!”

“I understand that, son, but it’s not important what he says or what he calls me or anyone else for that matter.  He’s angry and bitter and has been drunk for weeks, maybe months.”

“I really wanted to hit him.”

“But you didn’t!  There’s a victory here for you.  Don’t you see?  You walked away.  I don’t think I have ever been more proud of you than I am right now.”

I am particularly impressed that P didn’t call me last night and rant about his experience.  The drunk and unmedicated Parrish would have been taken a swing The Famous Writer, and there is no telling how seriously he could  have injured the diminutive man.  It is like a gift to me that he didn’t call me five or six times to tell the story.  He knew I was in a funk yesterday and needed some down time and some rest, so he saved the story for today. 

Instead of burdening me with the events of his evening, he opened his journal and wrote about them.  Yes, cj, there is a Santa Claus.  I have been trying for years to convince my son to write down his feelings. 

This is no small victory.  That Parrish could refrain from beating the shit out of The Famous Writer is nothing short of a miracle.  That he would write about it rather than call me to tell on The Famous Writer is a side of him I don’t know.  I am encouraged, very encouraged.  And, to add to my feelings of being blessed, he called about an hour ago and told me he had an emergency ride to AA.

There is hope.  There is always hope.

Those who believe in the idea of things happening for a reason would say that P running into The Famous Writer was some sort of test, that he was led there in order to be able to prove to himself and to me that he is growing and healing, that he can problem-solve without violence.  

I’m just glad he handled it the way he did.  I am so very glad.


© 2013 cjschlottman

Merry Christmas

It’s four in the morning and I have been wasting time scrolling through Facebook.  For over a week I have been wasting time on Facebook, on solitaire.  I will tell myself I am too tired to write but then spend hours burning my eyes out of their sockets staring at my computer screen engaging in moronic pursuits.  Why is that?  Why is solving a cryptogram more important to me than writing down my thoughts?

And there are many thoughts for me to write down.

Parrish appears to be emerging from the funk that engulfed him when he got out of jail and realized that there was no reward waiting for him.  At first depressed and withdrawn and on the edge of hostility, he is now accepting of the fact that he must make a life for himself that does not include living with me.

Last Wednesday, after an aborted attempt to see a psychiatrist or at least a nurse practitioner, at Gateway, I took him to the ER.  He was out of lithium, the only drug he’s been on since being released from detention.  Because a nurse called in sick, or so the story went, the personnel at Gateway were unable to see P for his scheduled appointment, and when he explained that he was completely out of meds and was on the verge of crisis, they referred him to the ER.

When we arrived at the hospital, Parrish was visibly manic and I watched the mania escalate in a matter of half an hour.  He was frightened, afraid he wouldn’t get the medicine he needs, even more frightened that he would drink if he didn’t.  He wanted to see the doctor alone, and I didn’t protest.  Learning the accept what might or might not happen has been a hard lesson for me, but I have finally reached a place in my personal development where I can tamper my desire to make things right for Parrish. 

Years of trying to manage him were an exercise in futility, yet I continued to make the same mistakes time and time again , year after year.  Trying to run his life did nothing to make it better and ultimately ended in disappointment for me.  I was even so foolish as to try to break up his relationship with a woman I knew to be toxic for him.  My feelings stayed hurt for years because P could not handle his illness and his life and I could not do them for him.

In June, when he tried to kill himself, something happened inside me.  I cannot name it, but there was a profound change in my own desire to live.  After four years of paralyzing grief and depression, I experienced a new desire to live, but I wanted more.  I wanted to thrive.  Was that because Parrish came so close to death?  

I could have let him die.  He begged me to let him die, and it is only now that I begin to write down my feelings, write down the events of those weeks when he was hospitalized.  The other day I looked back through my journal entries for this year, and there are none from the day he was hospitalized on June 19, until I was here on Saint Simons on July 20, to find a place to live.

I need to back up, revisit those weeks and write it all down now.  Why did it take all these months?  I suppose it was some sort of psychological defense mechanism.  I talked to Ann Carol and Sondralyn about it.  I talked to my friends about it, but I did not write it down.  At least, if I did, I don’t remember it and cannot not find any evidence of it in my journal.  I didn’t write a blog post about him and the events in our lives between April and September, and as soon as he got arrested, I stopped writing about it again.

I didn't stop writing; I stopped writing about him.  In future posts, I will tell that story.

At the hospital, a physician gave P a dose an anti-anxiety medicine, prescribed Celexa and Elavil and Valium and gave him a week’s worth of each, and in three days he was more stable and began letting go of his resentment and started to be grateful for the things that are right in his life.  On that day, I reminded him that he experienced a miracle on the day his daddy and I joined forces in support of him.  In the previous weeks, he seemed resentful of the fact that we were on the same side after all these years.  I believe in my heart that, without proper medication, his illness was fueling his life, his feelings, his inability to understand how fortunate he is.  I don’t blame him.  I can’t blame him for being sick.  He can no more help being sick than and diabetic can. 

The difference now is that, by some miracle, I have internalized the idea that I cannot fix him.  Hell, I’ve been saying that for years, but for whatever reason, I now believe it.  I have unhooked my happiness from his.  I want more than anything for him to be sober and properly medicated and reasonably happy, but if he is not, I will live my life as fully as I can in spite of his troubles.

The ER staff made Parrish an emergency appointment at Gateway for the next day, and that appointment led to another on Monday, the day before yesterday.  Because we got him moved into an extended stay hotel on Sunday, he was able to walk to that appointment.  Beginning in late January, he will see a private psychiatrist who will monitor his illness much more efficiently than a public health facility can.

I have not abandoned him and neither has his father.  He checks on P regularly.  I have told Parrish for years that as long as he is actively working on managing his illness and is sober, I will do everything that is reasonable to support him in living the best life he can live.

During the first two weeks after his release from jail, I took him to the Social Security office to apply for his disability benefits to be reinstated.  We applied for a new Social Security card and went to Driver’s Services to obtain a picture ID for him.  Both are now in his wallet, along with his Medicaid card.  In the past, I kept all of those things in my wallet, afraid he would lose them, and with good reason.  He may lose them this time, but they are his to lose, not mine.  I cannot run his life for him.  His disability benefits will now come to me, and for a time, anyway, I will handle his money.  I expect that to change.  I expect Parrish to stay sober and prove to himself and to his father and me that he is responsible enough to manage his own money.  That will come with time.

For now, I need to get some sleep.  I am cooking Christmas dinner for my son.  I’ll go pick him up at his little efficiency and bring him over here and we will cook together and enjoy a Christmas meal for the first time in more years that I care to count.

For today, life is good. 


© 2013 cj Schlottman 

Make it Work - or Not

I suppose, now that Parrish has been out of jail for a week, that I must begin again chronicling his story.  After a three month hiatus from writing down his story and how it affects me, there is again much to say.

The phone rang at about ten in the morning last Monday, 

and it was P calling to say he is out of jail.  I expected him to be released three days later, on Thursday, and was unprepared to deal with him.  I had a been suffering severe back spasms for three days and was in terrible pain and having difficulty getting around.

He said he was at the bus station, so I told him to sit tight and give me time to collect myself before coming to get him.  The phone went dead.  I checked caller ID and realized that he was not calling from the bus station at all.  He was calling from the jail.  His first lie came only minutes after his release.  I redialed in an effort to reach him again, but the woman who answered said he was already gone.

I tried to dissuade Marnie from going with me to deal with Parrish.  She had been to Athens with Stanley all weekend and was tired and stressed.  She insisted on going, saying she didn’t want me to go alone, given how bad I was feeling.  So, an hour or so later, we got in the car and drove to Brunswick.

Parrish was outside the old Greyhound station on Gloucester Street.  He seemed agitated and refused to make eye contact with either of us.  He was chewing a massive wad of gum and the smell of cinnamon permeated the car.  I immediately wondered if he had already been drinking, just hours out of jail.  

I decided when he was arrested in September that, upon his release, P was not to come to my house for any reason.  I was resolute in my decision and had made it clear to P while he was still in jail that coming to my house was not an option.

“Do you want something to eat, Parrish?”

“Yes.  I haven’t had a decent meal in three months.  Then can we go to your house so I can take a shower?” 

“No, I will take you to a hotel until we can secure and apartment for you.  You can clean up there.” 

I drove to Waffle House, where we ate breakfast.  Having taken the time before we left the house to research affordable hotels in Brunswick, I them drove to Microtel and checked P in for a week. 

We went to Wal-Mart where, fueled by mania, he commandeered the shopping cart and began wheeling around frantically, dropping items into it and criss-crossing the store.  He had found a tin of snuff in his bag while we were in the car and had some of it tucked inside his lip, so he found a cup to spit in and carried it around with him.  Had he been drinking?  It seemed so to me.  Still in severe pain, I hobbled around after him, wanting only a warm heating pad and my bed.

We left the store with provisions and a phone for him, and from there we went to McGarvey’s Efficiencies for a rental application.  Learning that he could not file the application without a photo ID, we took it with us, and I instructed P that he should fill it out the best he could and that we would get his ID from the Department of Drivers Services later in the week.

A couple of months ago, I bought a book called Buddhist Boot Camp.  It’s a daily reader of short pieces, teachings of The Buddha, and I have been working to assimilate these lessons of inner peace and acceptance and tolerance and empathy into my life.  On that day, remembering to breathe and center myself in my own peace, I was able to make the situation tolerable for myself.  I was unswayed by Parrish’s reaction to my resolve.  He was unbelieving that he could not play on my sympathies and manipulate my actions as he has in the past.  I had three months to do the work I needed to do to prepare for that day, and though I was sharp with him on a couple of occasions, I didn’t lose my temper.  I didn't know until then just how willing I am to protect myself from the stresses foisted upon me by others, even my son. In the middle of the chaos that is Parrish, I held fast to my decision to care for myself first. 

On the way back to the hotel, I told him to make a list of the things he needed to do.  I asked him to call his psychiatrist and make an appointment, to call Social Security and make an appointment to go in and apply for a new card and check on eligibility for Medicare.

“I need to call and get a new debit card for my SSI.”

“Yes, you should do that today as well, but your first concern is to get in to see your doctor.”

“Okay, I will.”

“And you need to call AA, find a meeting and ask that someone pick you up and take you to it.  It’s the quickest way you can start to help yourself.”

“I don’t really feel like going to a meeting.”

“It’s your life.  Work on it or don’t.  Your happiness depends on you taking care of yourself, and if you don’t, you will be back in jail before you can turn around.”

No response.  

By the time we returned to Microtel, Parrish was in full blown mania, rushing around in a confused state, declaring that he didn’t have the phone I purchased for him.  I sat quietly in the car while he located it.  Marnie helped him get his things inside while waited, wondering whether he would be able to handle life without me running interference for him and repeating to myself that he would have to.

Later in the day, he phoned my house no less than six or seven times.  With him there is always a situation, some sort of crisis or decision to be made.  Each time he called, I asked if he had made the calls necessary to get himself launched into his new life.  The only thing he had done was call to get a new debit card.  Money is what matters to him at a time when he is at a critical crossroads in his life.  I cannot change that.  

I finally stopped answering the phone.

© 2103 cj Schlottman