My Family Doesn’t Want My Son at Christmas

Navigating the holidays with a son with a major mental illness

My son just got out of jail. He was in there nine months on a minor vandalism charge, which is cruel and unjust, I know. But the fact is, he got his head on straight in there. He started taking appropriate medication. He stopped being psychotic. When he was released, he was and still is someone I enjoy spending time with.

There are so many stories I want to tell right now. There was the penultimate hearing, full of frightening cliffhangers, in which he was ALMOST sent to a state hospital for an indeterminate amount of time, and ALMOST lost his subsidized housing, which I classify as a bona fide miracle that he ever got in the first place and continues to hold — the hearing in which the judge revealed there was a NEW psych evaluation, which neither lawyer (nor anyone else) had seen or known about, and which my son was unaware had taken place when a stranger talked to him on Zoom.

That stranger, who we found out in court was from the state hospital system, determined in 15 minutes that my son was still incompetent to stand trial and therefore should be committed to Napa State Hospital.

The judge had the evaluation printed out, gave copies to the lawyers, and moved on to other cases while they discussed it in the hall.

“Reading this report, it seems doubtful he’s even capable of living on his own in an apartment,” the prosecutor said, asking why she should agree to his release on a “mental health diversion” program.

“He’s been living there for three years,” the defense attorney said.

I held mum, as much as I could, not wanting to throw a monkey wrench into the mysterious Rube Goldberg that was slowly and continuously crunching up my son and was just now on the verge of spitting him out. I wanted him out of its gears and belts and clutches. I wanted him out.

Not everyone was of the same opinion. “Wish us luck,” I said to Ferg’s father as I left our apartment at 6:45 that morning in order to get to the courthouse on time.

“I’m not sure I want to wish you luck,” he said. “I’m not sure Ferg should be released. Maybe he would do well at Napa...”

Here’s a song I’ve been listening to over and over that makes me cry. It’s called “It Will Never Happen Again,” and although a careful listen to the lyrics reveals a very different story, to me, it calls up my hope that my son will never lose his shit again.

It’s so hard for me to hope for that — so vulnerable and impossible and stupid and sincere. This family trauma has been going on for 18 years — bringing us to hospitals, and jails, and courthouses, and lawyers, and policemen, and doctors, and homelessness, and social workers, and upset, and argument, and banishment, and riot — screaming, fisticuffs, injury, fear...

Yet I do hope, despite the foolishness. I do hope even though it breaks my heart to hope that my son could somehow miraculously be restored to me — to all of us.

As it turned out, he WAS released that day in court. The judge gave the order at 11am. I went over to the jail to wait. He was released at 10pm, wearing silly women’s slippers.

“Where’d you get those?” I asked.

“They lost my shoes, so they gave me these.”

I told my husband there was a paperwork snafu. He said no, they were doing it on purpose, to make us suffer. My husband is like that: cynical. I tend to see the best in people. But later, after waiting for hours on a hard bench in the cold jail lobby, after practically crying on the phone to the people in charge, I decided he was probably right.

When I asked the clerk at the counter when my son would be released he said, “Sometime before 11:59pm.”

That’s all they had to commit to in order to carry out the judge’s order that Ferg be released that day.

Ferg and I had planned to do a number of necessary errands upon his release, including calling a locksmith to come out to his apartment since he had lost the only key. But since it was so late, and I was exhausted, I didn’t want to do that when the time came. I wanted to bring him home to our apartment and go to sleep.

But there was a problem. We don’t do that anymore — not since his dad had a literal heart attack while Ferg and I were yelling at each other in another room. So I texted and asked how Dad would feel about having Ferg sleep on our couch, being sure to give him the option to decline without any hard feelings. He said it would be okay.

So we drove from Redwood City to San Francisco. Ferg slept on the couch without incident. The next morning we went to his apartment and called a locksmith. Also a housekeeper. The place was covered in moldy dust in addition to the ordinary dirt and chaos. I didn’t want to go inside. The housekeeper worked from 2 to 7pm on his one-bedroom apartment, and it still wasn’t completely clean.

I was telling this story to my sisters when one asked if Ferg would be coming to Christmas. I hadn’t thought about that. I was so caught up in the hearings and getting him out of jail and saving him from the state hospital and preserving his apartment subsidy that the thought of him and the holidays eluded me.

I could see that she didn’t really want him to come. Most wouldn’t. Phone calls would have to be made to multiple people. And I would be the one who would have to make them — asking, supplicating. Would you mind…? Would you be okay with…? He’s doing well, or was on Tuesday… There would be tension and worry on my part and others’ on the actual day.

Ultimately, I decided not to make those phone calls. I told Ferg I didn’t think he should come to Christmas this year — that many people had bad feelings about him, that he needed to take the time to rebuild his reputation so they’ll be happy to have him next year.

“Oh, really? I didn’t realize that people were mad at me,” he answered. “Okay. Whatever you think…”

That gave me more hope.

Besides writing about women and mental illness and voodoo and politics and books and movies on Medium, I’ve published two novels here: Thirsty Work and Count All This. Check them out! If you need a membership for access, use my referral link and make me happy. And if you’re a writer with a passion for equality, submit to Fourth Wave.