CONNECTING THROUGH MENTAL ILLNESS

“This is only my body mom, not me. I am standing next to you and am fine.”

I was married in February 1979 to a man who had two-year-old twin boys, Bobby, and his brother, from his first marriage. Because of circumstances, the twins did not see or speak with their biological mother until they became teenagers. Over the next five years, we had two more boys together.

After a strenuous 15-year marriage, we divorced. The twins, now in high school, moved with their father a few miles away, and the younger boy’s stayed with me. At their dad’s insistence, I had very little interaction with the twins. Although word around town was that they started hanging around with the tough kids and later dabbled in drugs and alcohol. Bobby had strange reactions to the drugs he experimented with, even after they wore off.

When Bobby was young, he had problems with sweaty palms, anxiety, and the need to be perfect, from his hair to his clothes. It wasn’t an ego thing; it was simply a pattern of keeping everything in order. And, for Bobby, when it wasn’t, the anxiety became overwhelming for him. We didn’t overthink it then; we just thought it was part of growing up. However, by his late teens, the anxiety and paranoia became so intense that he went in for a complete neurology exam. Bobby was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and his drug usage accelerated the onset of the disorder. He was 18 years old.

The next four years were very difficult for all of us. So many diagnosed with schizophrenia feel incredibly uncomfortable in closed places. It was no different with Bobby, and the streets became his haven.

I’d be driving around town and see him walking barefoot, arms stretched out, talking to no one. Emotions would bombard me from all directions at the same time.

“I’ve got to stop!”

“No, I can’t stop; I don’t know if his reaction would be controllable!”

“No, I have to… but…Bobby, I don’t know what to do!”

Tears would flow, and I felt the strong urge to throw up!

I’d make it through the front door just in time to lose control, fall apart, and end up huddled in the corner of the house, hugging my legs, saying repeatedly, “Bobby honey, I am so sorry!”

One day, when I came home from work, I glanced through the window next to the front door and saw both of the younger boys (now 10 and 14) just sitting on the couch. There was no TV or radio blasting as usual, and they had very fearful looks on their faces. Then, when I entered the house, I could see the whole couch.

“What’s going on, kids?” I asked, shutting the door behind me.

Before they could answer, Bobby turned around and said, “Hi, Mom! I was talking to the boys.”

Without missing a beat, I said, “Hey, sweetie. Boys, I’m sure you have homework to do.”

I didn’t have to say it twice, and they were gone.

Bob followed me into the kitchen.

“Hon, you know the rules. You are welcome in this house, but only when I am here.”

“I guess I forgot. Hey mom, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay, let’s talk,” then we sat down at the kitchen table.

I don’t remember a lot about that conversation, but I remember him explaining that he had ridden his bike 10 miles to see me and asked if I could give him a ride home.

His father had told me to be careful around Bobby. He could change his personality anytime, become dangerous, and possibly harm me. I wasn’t concerned with that at all. The physical pain he could inflict was nothing compared to the pain my heart carried every day. If he came after me physically, there was no fear. I would handle it.

So, I packed his bike in the trunk and took him to the apartment he shared with a friend. He did most of the talking, telling me he would try out for baseball and make it big one day. It made me smile. He sounded joyful for just a few moments, and his humor lightened my sadness. We hugged as he took his bike and headed for his apartment.

A couple of days later, Bobby was arrested for preaching the Bible on his balcony at 2:00 am. He was taken to a rehab center and placed in locked down about 20 miles from our home.

This behavior became Bobby’s new “normal.” He would float in and out of my life. He was back in rehab six months later, and I felt it was essential to see him. He had been in this overcrowded facility a few times before, but was released on good behavior and promised to take his medicine.

Visitors to the facility had to pass through three separate doors, each made of thick metal, and locks that echoed as they slammed every time someone passed through. We had to leave all of our belongings outside the first door and would collect them on the way out.

Bobby rarely took his medicine, making him feel sluggish and very tired. When he was at the center and given medication, he would hide it under his tongue and then slip it into his pocket when they left. He was irrational and unpredictable, and the facility had no other option but to keep him locked in his room when not supervised.

The first time I went to see him, he was sleeping. They didn’t allow me to enter his room as they couldn’t guarantee Bobby’s reaction and my safety. However, there was a rectangular window on the door that I could look through. The security guard welcomed me to stay as long as I wanted and said that if Bobby woke up, to let him know, and he’d bring him out.

The room had one piece of furniture, a bed with a thin mattress. Bobby’s shoes lay on the floor next to the wall. They were tattered and worn with no shoelaces, just in case he got creative and tried to harm himself with them. His Bible lay next to him. The cover was black and the material worn. Bobby used the words to preach to others the easy access to Hell if they did not follow the road to righteousness.

As I examined this young man, he seemed peaceful. His hair was unwashed and past his shoulders, and the greasiness took on a shiny glow, giving him a somewhat dignified look. The clothes were simple and stained. His feet were the color of sand as if he had been trekking through the desert for days.

My eyes moved again to his face. How many times did I wash that face and kiss those cheeks?

When he was younger, I remember him telling me, “Mom, I’m going to be a basketball star when I grow up!”

We always thought he’d be a bank president. Even as a young man, he had carried himself with a sophisticated, suave kind of charm. Just looking into his deep brown Italian eyes, you were hooked!

And funny? He was hilarious!

I remember walking into the kitchen once and seeing him washing the dishes with wads of tissue stuffed up his nose.

“Bob? Really?”

“Mom, this is the best way to stop my nose from running, and it works!!!” Then he’d do a little dance around the trash can.

“How you make me laugh, honey!”

As my focus returned to the window, looking through to my son’s withering body, my eyes filled with painful tears of what was…and what is now. I knew I couldn’t stay.

A few more months passed, Bobby was back in rehab, and his mindset was further out of control. He was now hearing angry voices and more forceful in his desire to save people from going to Hell. He felt it was his “calling.” And for some reason, the book of Revelations brought him so much fear; that was all he talked about.

The rehab center was losing patience with his outbursts and was almost at their limits with him. His mental stability continued to decline when he talked about taking his life. I didn’t care what his father told me; I would see him.

Back at rehab, the last door to the visiting room slammed behind me, and I glanced around the room. The last time I saw Bobby, he had been sleeping, and I chose to let him sleep. This time I spotted him in the middle of the room, pacing with his head down, holding his Bible close, and talking to himself. His hair was still shoulder-length and unwashed. His clothes hung on his thin frame, and he was barefoot.

Instantly, I felt a lump in my throat and wanted to cry. It was something my heart always did when I saw him, and this time was no different. I was able to swallow it down and soothed my emotions by saying to myself, “You can do this, Terry. You have to do this. He needs to know how much he is loved. Breathe deeply now and step forward. Your heart will take care of the rest.”

Everyone in the room seemed to fade into the walls, and I heard no voices except my own…

“Bobby, honey?”

He turned and faced me. At first, he didn’t recognize me. It’s like when you see a family member in a place you would never expect them to be, and for a split second, it’s like your looking at them for the first time. But, when our eyes met, the connection was made.

“MOM! What are you doing here?” His eyes began to water.

“I came to see you, honey!”

As he came closer, he wrapped one arm around my back, the other clutching the Bible. Then, instinctively he put his forehead on my shoulder and started to cry.

“Mom! Mom, I’ve missed you so much…why have you come?”

His ear was close to my lips, and I whispered, “To spend some time with you, sweetheart.”

He was crying hard now, and his body began to shake.

I quietly said, “Let’s sit down.”

It took a few minutes for him to calm down, and as I held and soothed him, I asked God to please let me feel my strength to bring this child some peace. To keep me focused and let the tears flow later.

Bobby then looked up at me, eyes deep brown, dilated and red, and so sad.

He said, “Mom, I have to ask you something?”

He tightened his hand on the Bible.

“Was I a good boy when I was little?”

“Of course, you were a very good child and absolutely adorable!”

His face became serious again.

“It says in the Bible that the bad will go to Hell, and I’m afraid I’m going there. I hear God’s voice telling me that’s where I’m going! I don’t want to go there, Mom!”

His lips began to quiver, and a few tears rolled down his cheek.

I could hear myself clearly inside, “ Be strong! Be focused!”

I moved my hands to cup his face. “Look at me, Bobby, and listen very carefully.”

“God did not tell you you were going to Hell. He is a God of only love! You hear voices from this disease and from not taking your medicine. It is not God!”

I waited for the words to sink in.

“Listen to me…I did not give birth to you, right?”

He shook his head yes.

“But, I’ve raised you and your brother since you were two years old. In my heart, you are and always will be my child. You and your brother are no different from the younger boys.” I stopped for a moment and cocked my head to one side, and said, “Let’s say that these voices were true…which they are not, but let’s just say you were to go to Hell. Well then, I would go with you.”

His eyes lightened.

“I would go with you, protect you, and we would find a way out together. I would never leave you! Do you understand that?”

Again he moved his head up and down.

“Now, if I carry this much love for you, can you only imagine how much love God carries for you?”

Looking into his eyes to make sure our connection was clear, I continued, “It says in the Bible that God is all love, Bobby, and God…being ALL love would never send you or anyone else to a Hell. Love doesn’t do that!”

I gave it a few minutes to sink in, then said, “Honey, have I ever lied to you?”

His eyes became softer as a tear floated on the bottom rim, and he said quietly, “No.”

“Then you can believe me now that what I’m saying is the truth. Okay?”

His words broke a little, and he answered, “Okay,” and he again laid his head on my shoulder.

“Another thing, hon. If the words in this Bible are scaring you, you do not understand its message. It is not to scare you but to guide you in life.”

“Please stop reading it if that is not what it is doing for you. When was the last time you laughed and enjoyed the sunshine?

No answer.

“Give your mind a rest, child. Watch a funny movie or read something light, okay?”

Still no answer.

I could feel his body relax as I spoke. My voice had always done this for the boys. They didn’t listen to my words as much as they would feel soothed by the sound of my voice.

After a few minutes, a bell sounded, and then an announcement came on over the intercom stating visiting time was over and to please start exiting through the main door.

Bobby’s body jerked as if falling in a dream, and I quietly told him it was time for me to go.

Almost whispering, he asked me not to.

I responded, “Hon, please remember that I love you and will always love you, no matter what.”

The moment was broken when two security guards came over and gently said that visiting time was over. So, we stood, and as my son put his arms around me, I could feel his chest shake, he didn’t want to let go, and I was afraid for him.

“Bobby, it’s time to go,” And whispered again. “I love you.”

He quietly responded, “I love you, Mom.”

His hold was tight. And then he looked at me. When our eyes met, there was an unspoken bond. Call it a communion, a familiarity, an understanding of connection. But, it was there and deeply felt.

The guard gently took Bobby’s arm, and I could feel him stiffen.

“Go, hon.”

He looked deeply into my eyes one more time and then looked down as he was led to his cell.

I didn’t move until I could no longer see him.

The feeling of peace was fading with him, only to be replaced with weakness of the heart. The bubble I was able to swallow and hide in some sacred place throughout our visit slowly returned. Patients and visitors were gone except for a couple of guards standing around talking and looking my way.

I breathed deeply and moved towards the door with my head and body straightened. As I stepped through and it shut, the echo made my shoulders jump. The distance to the second door seemed longer.

I felt weaker, tears started filling behind my eyes, and the next door seemed to bang harder as it shut, and I felt my lower lip begin to quiver. And even though I was still walking tall, I could not feel my feet. With my eyes straight ahead, my breathing became shallow.

WHAM! Went the third and final door. The noise of the door’s lock felt like a gun had been fired, and the bullet grazed my left ear as it passed. I don’t know how I was able to ask for my belongings or even walk to my car, but I made it.

Once inside the car, I couldn’t hold on any longer. Emotions overcame me. I felt tight spasms in my throat, and breathing became difficult. Then, I slowly allowed myself to calm down.

“ Think about nothing but breathing…relax your throat, soften your heart…calm down…he will be okay…he knows you love him”. As I mentally spoke to myself, I found my own words soothing, and then I just rested my eyes.

A few weeks later, I had made plans to revisit Bobby. I heard the rehab center was so fed up with his outbursts and refusing to take his medication that they literally threw him out the door, along with his Bible. He ran back and banged on the door, begging to let him back in. But, they refused.

A week later, on a Sunday afternoon, as I settled in to watch the movie “Ghost,” I got a phone call from a close friend whose son grew up with the boys. She told me that Bobby had run towards a moving trolley downtown, jumped in front of it, was dragged under, and had died. She also said that no one could get ahold of his dad and needed a family member to verify his body.

I was surprised at how calm I was. It was like I had anticipated this call for over a year, and it had finally come.

I could hear my heart say, “No more fears, no more confusion, no more watching this beautiful, precious young man, child of my heart, go through torment one moment longer.”

“He is now free!”

I took in a long, deep breath and allowed peace to flow slowly from my lips.

A friend who was with me at the time of the call came along. I drove, wholly focused and unemotional.

I arrived at the trolley tracks. I could see yellow tape surrounding the trolley where the scene happened a distance back. People and police were everywhere.

When I reached the front of the crowd, an officer stopped me, telling me no one was allowed past the yellow tape. I told him I was Bobby’s mother. He took my arm and brought me through to the other side.

I glanced over to the trolley where police officers were standing guard as we walked. I could see Bobby’s foot lying front side down, the shoe still intact, but nothing more. I told myself he was no longer in that body, and I remained focused.

While waiting to talk with the person in charge, a policeman next to me quietly said he was sorry about my son. He said he had a couple of teenagers, and one was having a difficult time with drugs, and it was tough.

I stared straight ahead; not taking my eyes off the trolley car, I whispered, “Thank you.” Tears rolled down my cheeks, but nothing else moved.

His father and twin brother arrived together. His father was uncontrollable and in no shape to identify Bobby’s body. He kept running to the trolley, and the police would catch him, return him to us and ask him to stay until they had finished. He said he would, and then he would run down again as soon as they let go of him.

After the third time, I calmly but firmly took his arms to face me. I looked straight into his pain filled eyes and told him that he did not want to see Bobby. It would be the last picture he would have of him if he did, and that is not what his son would have wanted.

I could feel his arms relax. I handed him over to Bobby’s brother and asked him to take his father away for a moment.

A young women police officer then brought over two Polaroid pictures of Bobby’s face that she had taken when they removed the trolley.

“Is this your son,” stating his full name?

As I looked, his eyes were closed as if he were sleeping. His face was intact. I could see the base of the neck had moved to one side, and the skin on his neck was stretched tight to keep the two pieces from separating.

Inside I heard a voice say, “This is only my body, mom, not me. I am standing next to you and am fine.”

I answered without looking up, “Yes, this is Bobby.”

She then wrote his name on the back of the pictures, thanked me, and walked away.

After a few minutes, I saw that his father was calmer. He was talking on the phone, and my other son came over to let me know they would follow the ambulance to the mortuary. We hugged, and I left to go home.

Bobby died on November 23, 1997. He was 22 years old.

When someone lives with a disease such as this and then passes the way Bobby did, family members and close friends will say, “If only we could have, would have, should have done this or that or something to help, this might not have happened.”

I would see the heaviness of guilt and sadness in their eyes, especially when we all lived in the same town and had a history together. So when I spoke at the eulogy, I brought this up.

“These words of guilt are just wasted energy and brings nothing but a heaviness that weakens the heart.”

Then I slowly met the eyes of the young adults Bobby grew up with and said, “If sharing Bobby’s story can help someone choose a more positive path, this crazy, beautiful, unpredictable world would be a healthier, peaceful place to live.”🦋

© 2022 Terry Pottinger

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