I AM A PRISONER TO MY CHILD’S MENTAL ILLNESS
The holes in the wall are much bigger now. His strength and anger have amplified. What were once small marks, are now craters. The beautiful walls of this beautiful room have been laid siege so that they now resemble the surface of the moon. Filled with holes. Holes that remain as evidence of the man-child that was once my son. The small child that I held and loved who has now been all but consumed inside the raging animal of mental illness that has replaced him. Instead of a happy coat of bright blue paint, the walls are now covered with big, ugly holes. I’ve stared at these walls innumerable times. Putting my son to bed. Playing with him on the floor. Laughing together on the bed. Great memories. Perfectly smooth, light blue, happy walls. Now damaged.
The door used to hang perfectly on its hinges. It swung open and closed with barely a creek. In this room, behind this door, my son slept for most of his life with us. It was a room filled with happiness. Good memories of a loving and sweet child. The door now sits in the middle of the hallway. Lying askew like a soldier killed in battle. Resting in the spot that it landed after having been ripped from its posts. My son, in a fit of anger, after having punched numerous large holes in the wall of that same once loving bedroom, ripped the door from its hinges. So now, instead of protecting a room of a loving little boy, it sits as further evidence of the mania that occurred last night. A casualty of war.
The mirror is cracked. The mirror that once hung in my bedroom in the first house my wife and I owned together is now ruined. I’ve stood in front of that mirror countless times. Making a tie. Combing my hair. Tucking or untucking my shirt. Smiling. My son dressed for baseball in front of this mirror. Most recently, my granddaughters marveled at their own reflection in it. Now, the top corner is cracked. Broken pieces of glass spewed all over the floor. The damage, the result of a TV remote hurled at it at high speeds during a fit of rage. Like a projectile ripped from the ground and launched during a hurricane. The mirror, another victim of the illness that sits inside of my son.
The house and many of the things in it, are damaged beyond repair. But I feel like the real victim.
I am a prisoner of my son’s mental illness. I am a captive. The one who does not know what tortures await him with the coming day. The one that does not know how long his sentence will be; what tortures await him that day. I do not know what is expected of me. I only know that I will never be truly free. I do not control what happens to me from one day to the next. I am a true prisoner.
Living with mental illness is the most painful thing one can experience. While the sick person is the one with the benefit of the diagnosis, it is the loved ones that suffer the most. It is not something that is often spoken about — except in the whispers of therapy. It is not something that can be cured. It is not something that you can argue your way out of. It is a gut-wrenching, all-consuming torture. You want to be able to help. You want to be able to do the things that need to be done to make life better. Make life more livable. But you can’t. And the harder you try, the worse it gets. The tighter you grab at the bars in the cell, the louder you yell to be let free, the harder your captivity is. The more you fight, the more they torture you.
My son suffers from severe depression mixed with anxiety and moments of utter rage. The depression is sad. Dark. Difficult to watch. Listless and quiet. The anxiety is debilitating. Paralyzing. Causes sudden attacks of panic and worry. The rage is terrifying. Comes on unexpectedly. Leaves damage in its wake. Dangerous. As each hour of each day passes, I worry about which of these illnesses will take over the pilot seat. Which one of these evils will control my son that day and determine my fate. Which one will decide how the prison guards treat me that day.
And it’s all because I love him. It would be different if I didn’t. I could just walk right out of the jail. In broad daylight. No one to stop me. No search party sent out in the middle of the night to hunt me down. But that is not my fate. I love my son. I hurt for him. I feel every ounce of his pain. My prison is my love. I will remain a captive, locked inside this cell for the rest of our lives. There is no escape. No real freedom.
We have tried. There has been hospital stays and medication and therapy. There have been residential treatments. And counseling. And wilderness programs. Appeals made. Arguments with god. Yet, all these years later, I remain a prisoner.
The house use to be filled with joy. Now it is haunted. Haunted by memories. Good ones replaced by bad ones. Instead of seeing smiles, I see faces filled with pain. Tortured anguish. A world of Edvard Munch characters. The house and all the things in it are damaged beyond repair. But I feel like the real victim. I am a prisoner to my child’s mental illness and there is no escape.
