“Dear Mom, and whoever else may or may not be listening. This goes out to my mom with deep heart-feltedness. For whatever I’ve done in the past, I’m extremely and genuinely sorry for, and will forever be.”
I have this recorded on my iPhone.
Why? Because one of the first things Ben did after I picked him up from West Hills Behavioral Hospital a few days ago was to apologize. I was so shocked I asked him if he’d say that again, into the phone, and make it official. He laughed (laughed!), and said sure.
It was a good moment. I’ve learned to treasure those, since they tend to be fleeting.
I was right. Unfortunately. Shit.
Ben had been in the hospital for over five months this time. It was a nice vacation for us (sounds cruel, but if you e been there you get it), though beneath it all is my mother’s heart that hurts for my son and all he’d lost after losing his full-time restaurant job to the Covid economy. I’d watched the downward slide for months, as he bravely (in my estimation) held on to hope and tried to fill his days with purpose. That’s didn’t go so well. Marijuana use increased, and so did his determination to not take his meds. All kinds of tricks, and we were powerless to do much except supervise, nag, accuse, try to outmaneuver him. It had worked…for awhile.
Now, after the hearings giving us right to treat and commit “over objection”, Ben finally stabilized – but not on the medication that had brought him back to a place where he could work as a restaurant server….and fool people into not knowing he has this devastating brain illness: schizophrenia.
No. Because he “doesn’t like the side effects “ of that medication (and I don’t blame him, but still…), he has chosen (and had the right to) an old antipsychotic, Haldol, which works okay but can have even worse (and permanent) side effects.
Yes, even in the hospital, we can win the right to treat, but not to choose the right medication. He has “rights” , which cause him harm.