MENTAL HEALTH
The Words from My Mouth Were Meaningless Until People Saw First-Hand
Break down the metaphorical door of mental health stigma
Squeak, creak, thunk. Squeak, creak, thunk.
The heavy wooden half-door that separated the audience from the attorney tables and the Judge’s bench swung awkwardly. It clung for dear life from just one of the two hinges.
I tried not to stare at it.
I was a little embarrassed but not overly surprised.
See, I had tried to tell them.
I think they finally believed me.
One month before the damaged door, I explained to the Family Court guardian ad litem how our family experienced the dark days. I dipped into a few details of my daughter’s behavior when her mental illnesses collided with her autism. My daughter’s caseworker stood to the side, only half listening. As I recounted some specific incidences, both sets of eyes had gone from wide and receptive, to veiled and relaxed which, I had seen far too many times before.
I had come to recognize those very moments. The ones when I am no longer believed.
It became obvious that they had written me off as overly dramatic.
They had mentally checked out.
I trailed off and let my explanation die right there.
We had stood in the back of the courtroom. A social worker had asked me a few questions and appeared concerned and curious, at first, to my dry delivery of factual information. She wanted to understand the depths of my daughter’s illnesses.
It was my habit to start with small tidbits. Little teasers would indicate if I could reveal more. I usually began with sleep deprivation. Mine.
- I slept with a chain belt looped around my bedroom door handles. The clanging sound, if she crept in when I was most vulnerable, would alert me to her presence.
- My wallet and car keys were hidden under my pillow each night with my head firmly atop.
- I had represented her in court, fended off lecherous strangers, ran clean up after her, as a way of life.
- I was on a first-name basis with much of our local law enforcement.
- Baker Acts were her favorite weekend escape and she knew how to orchestrate them to her benefit. The Baker Act in the State of Florida provides emergency mental health help up to 72 hours in a facility.
- I was her primary target. As her doctors explained to me, she knew that I would never abandon her no matter how hateful she became toward me.
Past experience told me that any explanations to outsiders must be handled devoid of excitement. A flat and non-emotional delivery was my only hope to ensure credibility.
The irony regarding factual information is that the more bizarre it is or how foreign it is to another, the more likely those facts will be dismissed. Some things are simply too fantastical to be absorbed as reality.
Many are familiar with mental health illnesses. Maybe just as many are familiar with the autism spectrum. Having a child with dual diagnoses, Cluster B personality disorder, and PDD (Pervasive Developmental Disorder— (emotional developmental delay) can be confusing. Both, but especially mental illnesses, may have the treatment option of medication.
Autism Spectrum Disorders, formerly referred to as PDD, had us relying heavily on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.
The diagnoses competed with each other in my daughter’s case.
Until people experienced my reality, even for a split second, they cannot comprehend my truth. Her behaviors radically switched from fun-loving and carefree to angry and volatile.
The triggers changed daily and prevented a sure-fire game plan, ever.
When I watched these women disengage, and categorize me as an embellishing helicopter mom, I was crestfallen. I knew I lost yet another potential ally or two, from this family court setting. Once again, I resigned myself that I can’t force people to comprehend the incomprehensible.
It was January, and the monthly court session concluded. I walked to the elevator, heavy-hearted with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and passed by the seated people who would be called next. The filled benches lined the narrow hallway walls under the 6-foot tall windows. Sadly, family courts were always packed.
I hated it there.
The upheaval wouldn’t happen until the next month when the family court was scheduled to reconvene on Valentine’s Day.
The dreaded day that the door would hang.
The day my truth would be seen first-hand by the naysayers.
I was oblivious to the unfolding events on the 2nd floor of the Justice building as I parked.
I never thought to look up at those windows.
Had I looked up, I may have witnessed the mayhem.
The February day was classically sunny for Florida, though fresher and with cooler temps than usual. I was a bit early. I took my time collecting the baby bag and removed the carrier from the car seat base. No rush and no anxiety necessary.
The day was stunning and my mood light.
I was lulled into believing the beautiful weather and calmness of my spirit warranted my happiness.
I had no idea my every movement was being watched.
With the baby balanced in the crook of my arm, I worked our way through security and exchanged pleasantries with the now-familiar faces.
The elevator doors opened.
I mentally acted as the elevator operator, “Family Court, 2nd floor.”
The hallway lined with benches was eerily quiet though still overflowing with people. There was no mistaking the eyes that bored into the side of my head as we passed the people waiting.
Whispering. They are whispering.
We made it roughly halfway down the hall when people rushed toward me.
“You won’t believe what just happened. Everyone was watching you park through the windows. Your daughter went ballistic, and, well, it was awful. Everyone prayed that you would hurry because you would know what to do.”
They panted, eyes saucer-like, and heartbeats seemed visible through their shirts as they surrounded the baby and me.
A couple of the officials spoke at the same time, and all I could think was how shell-shocked each one seemed.
“I am so sorry, and this must be awful for you to hear. She and the baby’s father were removed from the courtroom.”
I detected pity in her tears and her hands shook.
“She was so angry. She broke the door! Can you believe it?”
Why, yes. Yes, I can.
I tried to explain these behaviors before.
No one believed me.
I reassured the panic-stricken representatives that all would be okay. I knew this road well. Our roles had switched, and I could feel them waiting for my guidance, now.
My strength soared to the forefront. I had knowledge, and understanding, and was familiar with my daughter’s language. No more coddling, no lolly-gagging. I had a captive audience and would take the reins they were handing me.
Because now they believed me.
I handed the baby to the guardian ad litem. My daughter needed help.
A deputy escorted me to a side room. I calmly spoke to my daughter for a few minutes. Her reactions were dictated by the energy field around her. Her anger melted away. She knew. She always knew that her short fuse and impulsivity were her enemies. Like all of the other times, she was properly contrite.
Dried and black make-up streaks ran down her cheeks. It was too late to undo much, and she displayed regret through her wringing hands and mournful eyes.
My heart bled. She wanted help; she didn’t want to need help. She desperately wanted the insanity to end.
She was banished from the family court that day.
As the baby and I stood before the Judge, his gaze spoke a different story from the social workers. His experienced eyes, filled with the wisdom of the bench, peered down at us with warmth, compassion, and understanding.
He motioned for me to approach. As I gingerly pushed the broken and sad door aside, I was conscious of the strain on the remaining hinge.
Squeak, creak, thunk. Squeak, creak, thunk.
The Judge reached behind him and toward the row of teddy bears on the shelf.
He took the largest one and handed it to me to give to my grandson. “This one is especially for him. Happy Valentine’s Day to you both.”
A tiny glimmer of hope ignited. My daughter had aged out of my parental oversight regarding her psychiatric care. It was frustrating and sad to watch her turn her back on the available and viable tools for mental health wellness.
But, now, others in power had seen her cries for help.
Would this finally be the day my adult daughter would be legally compelled to get mental health intervention and support?
No, it would not.
A few years have elapsed since that fateful day.
Just recently, she started seeking help on her own. It’s possible that the new wave of acceptance in her peer group paved the way. Open communication will only do good things.
Our next generations are doing a little better than we did.
I am proud of her for taking that step in the right direction.
There is no cookie-cutter version of any mental illness, autism, depression, Asperger’s Syndrome, or the wide variety of invisible illnesses. Denying them will not help. They do not disappear by turning our backs.
When a caregiver, or the individual, speaks of the challenges, believe them. Trust and verify.
Fear of the unknown is diminished with knowledge. The more the world educates ourselves, the more likely attached stigma will disappear.
One day, maybe, everyone will feel safe enough to freely discuss mental health and autism. A greater understanding will pave the road to wellness.
Isn’t it time to break down the metaphorical doors of stigma so no one has to kick down the real ones?
Squeak, creak, thunk. Squeak, creak, thunk.
If you, or someone you know, needs assistance and doesn’t know where to turn, there are options. If NAMI doesn’t meet your needs, they will offer alternatives.
My personal experience was so positive with NAMI’s Family-to-Family support program, that I stayed with the organization. I became certified through their NAMI Basics Course to assist our youth who experienced mental health symptoms.