In the Wake of Newtown

[HKHaugan]

The Real Problem is Mental Health Resources

Posted: 20 Dec 2012 07:49 AM PST

Thinking the Unthinkable
This is a post by a mother who has a son like Adam Lanza.
In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.
Three days before 20 year-old Adam Lanza killed his mother, then opened fire on a classroom full of Connecticut kindergartners, my 13-year old son Michael (name changed) missed his bus because he was wearing the wrong color pants.
“I can wear these pants,” he said, his tone increasingly belligerent, the black-hole pupils of his eyes swallowing the blue irises.
“They are navy blue,” I told him. “Your school’s dress code says black or khaki pants only.”
“They told me I could wear these,” he insisted. “You’re a stupid bitch. I can wear whatever pants I want to. This is America. I have rights!”
“You can’t wear whatever pants you want to,” I said, my tone affable, reasonable. “And you definitely cannot call me a stupid bitch. You’re grounded from electronics for the rest of the day. Now get in the car, and I will take you to school.”
I live with a son who is mentally ill. I love my son. But he terrifies me.
A few weeks ago, Michael pulled a knife and threatened to kill me and then himself after I asked him to return his overdue library books. His 7 and 9 year old siblings knew the safety plan—they ran to the car and locked the doors before I even asked them to. I managed to get the knife from Michael, then methodically collected all the sharp objects in the house into a single Tupperware container that now travels with me. Through it all, he continued to scream insults at me and threaten to kill or hurt me. That conflict ended with three burly police officers and a paramedic wrestling my son onto a gurney for an expensive ambulance ride to the local emergency room. The mental hospital didn’t have any beds that day, and Michael calmed down nicely in the ER, so they sent us home with a prescription for Zyprexa and a follow-up visit with a local pediatric psychiatrist.
We still don’t know what’s wrong with Michael. Autism spectrum, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant or Intermittent Explosive Disorder have all been tossed around at various meetings with probation officers and social workers and counselors and teachers and school administrators. He’s been on a slew of antipsychotic and mood altering pharmaceuticals, a Russian novel of behavioral plans. Nothing seems to work.
At the start of seventh grade, Michael was accepted to an accelerated program for highly gifted math and science students. His IQ is off the charts. When he’s in a good mood, he will gladly bend your ear on subjects ranging from Greek mythology to the differences between Einsteinian and Newtonian physics to Doctor Who. He’s in a good mood most of the time. But when he’s not, watch out. And it’s impossible to predict what will set him off.
Several weeks into his new junior high school, Michael began exhibiting increasingly odd and threatening behaviors at school. We decided to transfer him to the district’s most restrictive behavioral program, a contained school environment where children who can’t function in normal classrooms can access their right to free public babysitting from 7:30-1:50 Monday through Friday until they turn 18.
The morning of the pants incident, Michael continued to argue with me on the drive. He would occasionally apologize and seem remorseful. Right before we turned into his school parking lot, he said, “Look, Mom, I’m really sorry. Can I have video games back today?”
“No way,” I told him. “You cannot act the way you acted this morning and think you can get your electronic privileges back that quickly.”
His face turned cold, and his eyes were full of calculated rage. “Then I’m going to kill myself,” he said. “I’m going to jump out of this car right now and kill myself.”
That was it. After the knife incident, I told him that if he ever said those words again, I would take him straight to the mental hospital, no ifs, ands, or buts. I did not respond, except to pull the car into the opposite lane, turning left instead of right.
“Where are you taking me?” he said, suddenly worried. “Where are we going?”
“You know where we are going,” I replied.
“No! You can’t do that to me! You’re sending me to hell! You’re sending me straight to hell!”
I pulled up in front of the hospital, frantically waiving for one of the clinicians who happened to be standing outside. “Call the police,” I said. “Hurry.”
Michael was in a full-blown fit by then, screaming and hitting. I hugged him close so he couldn’t escape from the car. He bit me several times and repeatedly jabbed his elbows into my rib cage. I’m still stronger than he is, but I won’t be for much longer.
The police came quickly and carried my son screaming and kicking into the bowels of the hospital. I started to shake, and tears filled my eyes as I filled out the paperwork—“Were there any difficulties with….at what age did your child….were there any problems with…has your child ever experienced…does your child have….”
At least we have health insurance now. I recently accepted a position with a local college, giving up my freelance career because when you have a kid like this, you need benefits. You’ll do anything for benefits. No individual insurance plan will cover this kind of thing.
For days, my son insisted that I was lying—that I made the whole thing up so that I could get rid of him. The first day, when I called to check up on him, he said, “I hate you. And I’m going to get my revenge as soon as I get out of here.”
By day three, he was my calm, sweet boy again, all apologies and promises to get better. I’ve heard those promises for years. I don’t believe them anymore.
On the intake form, under the question, “What are your expectations for treatment?” I wrote, “I need help.”
And I do. This problem is too big for me to handle on my own. Sometimes there are no good options. So you just pray for grace and trust that in hindsight, it will all make sense.
I am sharing this story because I am Adam Lanza’s mother. I am Dylan Klebold’s and Eric Harris’s mother. I am James Holmes’s mother. I am Jared Loughner’s mother. I am Seung-Hui Cho’s mother. And these boys—and their mothers—need help. In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.
According to Mother Jones, since 1982, 61 mass murders involving firearms have occurred throughout the country. (http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/07/mass-shootings-map). Of these, 43 of the killers were white males, and only one was a woman. Mother Jones focused on whether the killers obtained their guns legally (most did). But this highly visible sign of mental illness should lead us to consider how many people in the U.S. live in fear, like I do.
When I asked my son’s social worker about my options, he said that the only thing I could do was to get Michael charged with a crime. “If he’s back in the system, they’ll create a paper trail,” he said. “That’s the only way you’re ever going to get anything done. No one will pay attention to you unless you’ve got charges.”
I don’t believe my son belongs in jail. The chaotic environment exacerbates Michael’s sensitivity to sensory stimuli and doesn’t deal with the underlying pathology. But it seems like the United States is using prison as the solution of choice for mentally ill people. According to Human Rights Watch, the number of mentally ill inmates in U.S. prisons quadrupled from 2000 to 2006, and it continues to rise—in fact, the rate of inmate mental illness is five times greater (56 percent) than in the non-incarcerated population. (http://www.hrw.org/news/2006/09/05/us-number-mentally-ill-prisons-q...)
With state-run treatment centers and hospitals shuttered, prison is now the last resort for the mentally ill—Rikers Island, the LA County Jail, and Cook County Jail in Illinois housed the nation’s largest treatment centers in 2011 (http://www.npr.org/2011/09/04/140167676/nations-jails-struggle-with...)
No one wants to send a 13-year old genius who loves Harry Potter and his snuggle animal collection to jail. But our society, with its stigma on mental illness and its broken healthcare system, does not provide us with other options. Then another tortured soul shoots up a fast food restaurant. A mall. A kindergarten classroom. And we wring our hands and say, “Something must be done.”
I agree that something must be done. It’s time for a meaningful, nation-wide conversation about mental health. That’s the only way our nation can ever truly heal.
God help me. God help Michael. God help us all.
This story was first published online by the Blue Review. Read more on
current events at www.thebluereview.org

Our Time in Newtown

Posted: 20 Dec 2012 07:06 AM PST

Christopher Leighton is an old friend who is Rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Darien, CT. He posted the following on his blog: www.frchristopherblog.wordpress.com

Our Time in Newtown

By Fr.Christopher Leighton and Pastor Gabrielle Beam

A Reflection on These Five Days

December 19, 2012

We’ve spent five straight days going to Sandy Hook, a small village that is part of Newtown, Connecticut. Last Friday, as we heard the breaking news, we set out in the early afternoon. I, Christopher, had contacted the priest in charge of St. John’s in Sandy Hook – a friend, Fr. Mark Moore. Fr. Mark was not able to go, but he said he could open the church for us, and we could lead prayer for the town – and for any and all who wanted to come in. We did lead prayer, into the evening, with a small number of folks stopping in. We had brought along with us a large sandwich board sign that was placed in front of the church, offering “healing prayer today”. The sign stayed up for 24 hours, and was a source of comfort to many.

Actually, St.Paul’s’ connection goes back decades. We would send a van full of lay ministers weekly to be with the residents in the extraordinarily large mental hospital called Fairfield Hills in Newtown. Ordained ministers from our church led worship for years at St. John’s, Sandy Hook, and we actively supported a Cursillo community centered at St. John’s. Most recently, since June, a handful of us from St. Paul’s have been traveling to Newtown in order to meet there in the home of a member, and to pray for the town. We found ourselves concentrating each week for the citizens to know their need for God.

St. John’s is only hundreds of yards away from the Sandy Hook Elementary School. Memorial shrines have been set up all along the area. Thousands of people have come and gone since the massacre, grieving. Myriads of members of the press, from all over the world, have been telling the story.

Fr. Mark led a Eucharist on Saturday December 15, and we were invited to help lead. Dozens of reporters were there, and joined members of the church and community in being profoundly moved. Nobody knows what to make entirely of all of this, and
certainly, questions we’ve received from reporters convey despair at the overwhelming evil. Each day we’ve gone, simply to be present, to offer a listening ear, an open heart, and prayer for those who wish it.

Yesterday we found St. John’s Church door open, and those who work at the basement food pantry were present. About a dozen of retirement-age people were gathering. We entered in, and asked how everybody was doing. These elders have never experienced anything so devastating, and they welcomed us to minister to them. We formed a prayer circle, led a time of prayer for healing, and concluded by all holding hands, and saying the Lord’s Prayer. We squeezed our hands at the final sentence, “For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.” Hugs and tears abounded, and they resumed their work with joy in the midst of sorrow.

Reporters feel like they’re being intrusive; we’ve attempted to include them as part of the community. The story must be told so that we will never forget – and that in remembering, lasting fruit might be borne. What we hear over and over is that no one has ever covered a story this disturbing. Wars, calamitous storms, 9/11/01 – all seem more manageable. It’s the slaughter of the innocents, the raw evil that assaulted the children, adults, and their families.

We were instantly drawn to the Collect for December 28, Holy Innocents: “We remember today, O God, the slaughter of the holy innocents of Bethlehem by King Herod. Receive, we pray, into the arms of your mercy all innocent victims, and by your great might, frustrate the designs of evil tyrants, and establish your rule of justice, love, and peace, through Jesus Christ our Lord.” We have prayed this prayer over and over, substituting “the holy innocents of Newtown…”

There’s no question that some folks are rather testy. How could God allow such a thing to happen? When we ponder a response, we usually begin by saying, “Don’t accept any easy answers to that question.” I, Christopher, remember my grandparents’ skeptical charge against God, when my parents’ friends lost a son in a car accident. The father was an ordained minister, and the accusation came: “Where was his God when this happened?”

We’ve experienced untimely deaths, disasters, and unbearable suffering in this life. Frankly, it is harder to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ in good times, because it seems like no one really needs God. Apathy in the face of God’s offer of grace can be very discouraging to His ministers. Funerals, and tragedies, bring some in their pain to God. We like to say that God is very present in times of trouble (Psalm 46:1) – that Jesus Christ wept at the death of His friend Lazarus (John 11) – and that God the Father knows what it is like to lose His precious child.

Since Friday, we’ve prayed for God to throw a blanket of His comforting love around Newtown – and really, on each person so profoundly affected by what has happened. God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son. God is a God of love. His
kindness and love are meant to lead us into truth, especially truth about Him, and truth about ourselves.

There is something terribly wrong with the human heart. All of us are capable of spurning God, and of harming our neighbors. In the sacred Shema in Deuteronomy 6, Moses tells us: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy might.” To this, Jesus added, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” Love is a choice, and in Deuteronomy 30, we are told to choose life and good, as opposed to death and evil, to love God and to walk in his ways … so that we may live. We are also warned that if we turn away, and are drawn to other gods, then we will perish. We are to choose life.

Our nation, and indeed the entire world, must ask deep searching questions about our relationship to God. Have we pushed Him away, so that now we accuse Him of being absent? Have we refused to believe in Him, and then blamed Him? What a loving God He is, who allows us to ask such questions, and then who receives us, even when we come to Him as a last resort!

It is time for Americans to once again put our money where our mouth is. On some of our money it says, “In God we trust.” We’ve trusted in many things ahead of God. It is time to repent and return to Him. A culture of death has brought forth incidents such as the Newtown shootings. With all of our heart, we must trust God, and build together a culture of life.

This doesn’t lessen the pain of what’s happened. But it begins a new way to live, in the One who gives resurrection and life.

We approach Christmas this year perhaps differently then ever before. The pain of death is great and seems incongruous in celebrating birth – even if it is the birth of a Savior. Yet Christmas is the celebration of Jesus Christ’s birth. He wasn’t born in a palace but in a small town named Bethlehem at the edge of an Empire. The humble circumstances of his parents led to there being no room for them. That’s why he was born in a stable.

Is there room in the heart of the world today for Jesus? Will Americans bend low before Him who came to serve us? Is there room in your heart for Jesus?

We offer this prayer for you to consider addressing to the One who came to be your Lord:

Lord, I ask you into my heart. I have not allowed you in – please forgive me. I surrender before you. Come take your rightful place as my Lord. Let me choose and receive your life today. I will live for you. Amen.

Link from www.frchristopherblog.wordpress.com