Why I Won’t Comment on Donald Trump and Mental Illness

Who cares whether Donald Trump has mental illness?

(Hint: Whether or not he has mental illness does not matter)

Let’s be clear: I hate Donald Trump as much as the next freedom-loving American. Trump is a self-described sexual predator, a liar, a xenophobe, a racist, and a bad businessman. His friends and advisors include white supremacists  like Steve “Darth” Bannon, formerly of Breitbart fame, now wreaking his alt-right havoc on the entire world. Trump has openly expressed admiration for Vladimir Putin, the autocratic Russian leader whose record is not likely to be enshrined in anyone’s Human Rights Museum any time soon.

While I have little else in common with Trump’s supporters, at least now I can sympathize with how that “birther” crowd felt when President Obama was elected in 2008. For reasons too numerous to list here, Donald Trump is #notmypresident. 

But while I welcome (and enthusiastically retweet) nearly all negative news and commentary regarding Trump and the Orwellian nightmare he and his evil Avengers have wrought on my beloved America, there’s one “criticism” of him that makes me cringe. Any time a layperson or even an expert weighs in on whether Trump has a mental illness that would make him unsuitable for office, I refuse to engage in the conversation.

The problems with linking mental illness and Trump include but are not limited to the following:

1. As far as we know, Trump has not been diagnosed with a mental illness. In 2016, his own physician, in a report that was undeniably unusual in its hyperbole, described the then-presidential nominee’s overall health as “extraordinary.” 
2. Armchair diagnosing, even for the professionals, is not considered an ethical pastime. The so-called “Goldwater Rule” that condemns this kind of behavior was named after 1,189 psychiatrists responding to a survey described the 1964 presidential candidate as “psychologically unfit.”   In 2014 (pre-Trump), Forbes contributor Cheryl Conners  summed up the ethical standard: “It is not okay to directly suggest a mental health diagnosis for public figures…[T]o address a person’s mental health in speculative articles, or to serve an ideological or political agenda, is…still a professional and ethical ‘no.’” 
3. Discussing Trump’s (alleged) mental illness as a potential disqualifier under the 25^th Amendment of the U.S. Constitution is inappropriate and stigmatizing. Here’s the language in question:
   

   Section 4. Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President (25th Amendment, U.S. Constitution).

It’s likely at this point that you have read the opinions of people who want Trump’s alleged mental illness to disqualify him as president. But living with a mental illness would not and should not necessarily proscribe anyone from being an effective president.

Exhibit A: Abraham Lincoln. His spells of “melancholy” were well known by friends and foes alike. In his 2005 exploration of Lincoln’s likely clinical depression (the Goldwater Rule does not extend to deceased public figures), Joshua Shenk wrote:

In his mid-forties the dark soil of Lincoln's melancholy began to yield fruit. When he threw himself into the fight against the extension of slavery, the same qualities that had long brought him so much trouble played a defining role. The suffering he had endured lent him clarity and conviction, creative skills in the face of adversity, and a faithful humility that helped him guide the nation through its greatest peril. 

Let me be clear: I am NOT comparing Trump, whom I think history likely to judge as America’s worst president, to Lincoln, who to my mind still retains the title of America’s best president. I am, however, making the important distinction that it is not mental illness that makes a president great, or mediocre, or downright abysmal. People are who they are. In Lincoln’s case, and in many people’s cases, the challenges of living with mental health conditions may actually confer certain advantages in leadership positions, including empathy, resilience, and an ability to think creatively.

As a mental health advocate, I am asking my fellow Trump-haters for a favor. Please continue to shame Il Cheeto for his shameless behavior, and even for his tiny hands. Call out his cruel and un-American policy decisions. Keep demanding that he release his tax returns. But stop speculating about whether Trump has mental illness, and whether living with mental illness would make him unfit for office. 

Stop Profiting from Pain

Walmart’s suicide costume is an affront to decency and morality

My son at age four

“Why do you tear me?
Is there no pity left in any soul?” 

Dante’s Inferno Canto VIII, John Ciardi trans.

I’ll never forget the first time my child talked about suicide. He was four years old, sniffling and shivering after a several-hour fit of thrashing, incoherent rage. As I rubbed his white-down hair and cuddled him, he said, “Mom, I don’t want to be anymore. I just want to be a zero.”

Nine years later, when I finally learned my son’s diagnosis, bipolar disorder, after years of specialists, hospitals, tests, medications, juvenile detention, and ongoing suicidal ideation, I was relieved. I knew people who lived with this illness and managed to have successful, happy lives. In fact, one of my closest friends from childhood, diagnosed with bipolar disorder in college, had married a wonderful man, raised four children, worked as a librarian and historian, and was writing her sixth novel.

Many of the 10 million people[i] in America who are diagnosed with severe mental illness can live healthy, happy, productive lives. But instead of celebrating their bravery, our society stigmatizes their illness by mocking it in horribly offensive ways.

There’s no time of year mental health advocates dread more than Halloween.

Every single year, it’s the same thing. Mental illness becomes the punchline of a joke, or the theme of a horror attraction. This year, Knott’s Berry Farm and Six Flags did the right thing, shutting down their horrific asylum-themed virtual reality attractions when advocates expressed justified outrage. A representative from Six Flags explained the company’s decision to me in an email: “This is a good lesson for us all about perpetuating stereotypes, and we apologize to anyone that we may have offended.”

This is a lesson that Walmart, the nation’s largest retailer, desperately needs to learn. A picture of a “razor blade suicide scar wound latex costume make up” (I won’t link to it, because it is a real trigger) is the latest and most egregious example of the ongoing battles people with mental illness and their loved ones must face to educate the public about the reality of mental health conditions.

Imagine if I told you that my child had an incurable illness with a risk of death as high as 20% [ii] If I told you that the illness in question was cancer, you’d be bringing my family casseroles, organizing community bake sales, and demanding that your legislators provide more funding for research and treatments. 

You’d be outraged by my inability to access quality medical care for my child. And you would be furiously calling for a boycott if a major retailer released a Halloween costume called “bald head cancer patient latex costume make up.”

But when I tell you my child’s illness is bipolar disorder, you back away. The risks and challenges are the same (I know—my father died from cancer when I was in college). But when I and other advocates express our outrage about suicide costumes and asylum-themed attractions, you tell us, “Stop being so politically correct,” or “Can’t you just take a joke?”

No, I can’t just take a joke. To those who don’t understand why this is all so wrong, I say in all sincerity, I’m glad you don’t. I am glad that you have never lost a child, or a parent, or a spouse, or a sister or brother or close friend to a choice-stealing brain disease. Because the pain of that loss never heals.

And I’m glad that you have never had to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, to come out the other side a survivor, but still struggling in a society that thinks your illness is “a joke.”

Our pain—and our loved ones’ pain—should never be used for entertainment or profit. If you think that I am just too thin-skinned—that I can’t take a joke—I have a Halloween costume idea for you. Go as yourself. You scare me.

---

[i] Serious Mental Illness (SMI) Among U.S. Adults. National Institute of Mental Health. Retrieved from https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/prevalence/serious-mental-illness-smi-among-us-adults.shtml

[ii] Pompili, M., Gonda, X., Serafini, G., Innamorati, M., Sher, L., Amore, M., ... & Girardi, P. (2013). Epidemiology of suicide in bipolar disorders: a systematic review of the literature. Bipolar disorders, 15(5), 457-490.

Success, Failure, and Perspective

One of my 2016 New Year's resolutions (okay, maybe my ONLY 2016 New Year's resolution, since the usual ones about losing ten pounds and being nice to people on Twitter never seem to work out for me) was to start publishing essays from guest bloggers. I made that resolution in part because I wanted to share this poignant and heartbreaking story from my friend Shauna Robinson, an extraordinary mother with a lovely, brave daughter. Both Shauna and Renae agreed to let me publish this story of Renae's descent into depression and how it affected her mom. We changed Renae's name at her request.

Also, I realize that it's now June--six months past my initial resolution to kickstart this blog. What does that say about me? I prefer to think that it says I always get around to the important stuff, as soon as I can. Those of you who know what's been going on in my personal life will understand.

If you have a story you would like me to share, please contact me on Twitter @anarchistmom or Facebook.  

Here's Shauna's powerful story of parenting a teenage daughter with mental illness.--Liza

Success, Failure, and Perspective

It can be hard not to feel like a failure when your child
is suffering, and you don't know how to help.

by Shauna Robinson

"It killed me inside to walk away from my child. I was desperate to keep her alive and find help for her to be happy again. All I have wanted for her was to be happy and alive."

I remember the moment as if it were yesterday.  In fact, I had been anticipating this exact point in time for just shy of a year and was so curious to see the little life that had been growing inside me, face to face. About a week prior to this day, she almost put her tiny foot through my stomach while stretching, in an effort to let me know she needed more space, so I knew she possessed some spunk.  My labor flew by before I even knew what was happening, and then all of a sudden, I held in my arms the most amazing creature I had ever laid eyes on.  

Nothing, and no one, could have ever prepared me for how I would feel as I gazed upon my baby girl for the very first time.  In a flash, I was flooded with so many emotions; I could not take my eyes off her slimy little face, and I could not keep the lid on my heart.  It burst and the tears poured down my cheeks; pure joy.  This little one in my arms had to be the most beautiful gift I had ever received, and certainly, her birth, the greatest success of my life. 

Renae (name changed) was born a redhead, but not that bright orangey red.  Her eyes were brown, her skin creamy, and her hair auburn.  When she had been in the sun all day, she would tan instead of burning like most redheads with fair skin.  I was always amazed at how perfectly God had put her together and blended all her colors.  From the first time she was able to hold a crayon in her wee little fingers she was a full-fledged artist.  Over the years, as she grew, she dabbled in several different mediums of art, including musical instruments.  I have loved everything she has ever created and enjoyed watching her blossom.  She grew into a lovely, kindhearted, creative, hilarious, talented, and feisty young teenager.  

Sometime during Renae’s 16th year of life, I started sensing that something had changed.  It was subtle, and I could not be sure I was sensing things correctly; so I would lie on her bed with her at night before she would go to sleep and talk with her about her day.  I enjoyed those moments together.  Occasionally, I asked her, “Is everything okay?  It seems like something is bothering you.”  

“I’m fine,” she would respond adamantly.  

I felt her pushing me away, and my heart hurt.  “Okay, honey.  I do not want to pressure you, but I want you to know that I am here for you if or when you want to talk about anything.  I love you so much.”  

“I know, mom,” she would reply.  This continued on occasion for about three months.  I knew something was wrong, but I could not force her to confide in me.  I could not figure out what had changed in our relationship.  We had been so close and could talk about anything.

One night my husband came to me and told me that he heard Renae crying in her bedroom. He went in and asked her, “What is wrong, honey?”  

She could not answer him because she was sobbing uncontrollably.  He thought she might be willing to talk to me. Unfortunately, that was not the case.  We lay there and I held her for an hour or more while she sobbed so hard she would begin to hyperventilate.  I kept holding her and coaching her to try taking a deep breath in order to help her calm down.  I felt so helpless, and was puzzled as to what could possibly have her so upset. Everything was great. She was a normal 16 year old junior in high school looking forward to her future—so I thought.  

The next day we began looking for a counselor so she might be able to talk about whatever it was that was bothering her so deeply. We interviewed a few before she found one with whom she felt comfortable.  She met with this counselor a few times before the counselor told me that Renae was severely depressed, and she thought it would be a good idea for her to see a doctor.  

I took her to the doctor, and they began to try her on various medications and various doses of those medications. Renae seemed to be getting worse instead of better.  In a matter of months, I watched a vibrant, creative young woman, who was only two years from beginning her life as an adult, sink deeper and deeper into a black hole. It was as if something had come along and sucked her very soul right out of her body.  There was no life left in her eyes. She would not talk to me.  I was scared.

During this time, I felt the extent of my own powerlessness.  The beautiful life I had brought forth into this world now threatened to be taken out and would exist no more.  My husband and I both lost hours and hours of sleep, our stomachs in knots. I would creep into Renae’s bedroom to make sure she was still breathing several times a night. I was going crazy. He was going crazy. Our days were spent researching every drug, depression, mental illnesses, talking to counselors, doctors, and psychiatrists. No one knew the answers to make our precious girl okay again.  No one knew what had happened; not even Renae could explain why she felt this sense of despair.  Nothing made sense.

Then one day, I received the phone call.  My stomach dropped as if I was on one of those rides at the fair that goes up high and then drops from 100 feet in the air.  Renae had plans to kill herself within the next couple of days, and she had a specific plan on how she was going to do it. In fact, she had two different plans. 

The next 24 to 48 hours were a blur.  Within that timeframe, we met with Renae’s counselor and we contacted a treatment facility that said if we could be there by 1:00 the next afternoon, they had a bed for her. This was a home-like atmosphere instead of a mental institution, but had the care for the specific things with which Renae was struggling. We packed her things, got in the motor home, and drove all night long.  The 12 hour drive was quiet and heavy. We arrived in the nick of time.  

Once we had toured the facility and talked with the admissions counselor and some of the girls who were living there, we felt this place was our best option to keep our daughter alive and get her the help we thought she needed but could not provide for her. Everything within me screamed, “NO!!!  This cannot be happening!  How did this happen?  How did we get here?”  

Renae was so angry.  She sneered at me. I had gotten in the way of her plans to die, and now, I was going to abandon her when I had always been there for her. My husband, our son, and myself all wrapped our arms around Renae, hugged her tight, and we all cried.  Renae stood there, hard.  We told her we loved her and said we would be back when we could visit, then began to walk towards our vehicle. She cried in a barely audible voice, “Don’t leave me here. Please don’t leave me here.”  

As we kept walking she grew more and more desperate to change our minds, but we could not.  It killed me inside to walk away from my child. I was desperate to keep her alive and find help for her to be happy again. All I have wanted for her was to be happy and alive. It was either walk away in that moment and trust these people to help us, or risk that we would wake up one morning, or come home one day, to find the beautiful “gift” we had been given, now 17 years ago, gone forever, no longer living.

This moment, too, feels as if it were yesterday. Sadly, Renae has never been as fully alive as she was during her first 16 years of life, which causes me to ask this question:  If her birth was my greatest success, would her death, even figuratively, be my greatest failure?  If I were to make a hypothesis based on my experience with my daughter, I would have to say yes. However, would that hypothesis be proven true or false?  I believe it is a matter of perspective. Success and failure are in the eye of the beholder.

My Son, My Mentor

Sometimes our children know more than we do

How well I remember The Gaze!

In the third week of September 16 years ago, I met my second son for the first time. A difficult pregnancy with preterm labor and several long, tedious weeks of bed rest concluded anticlimactically with an apparently healthy baby born on his due date, a relatively easy two-hour labor. He was loud about announcing his arrival into the world but quieted quickly when the doctor placed him in my arms.

Any mother and most fathers can tell you about The Gaze, that first moment when your newborn child fixes his or her eyes on you and makes him/herself the center of your world. Michael was a master of The Gaze. As I stared into his endless midnight-blue eyes, I was possessed by a sudden strange thought: “This soul is much older than I am.”

The moment stayed with me through my son’s agonizing marathon toddler tantrums that grew into inexplicable preschool rages, continuing right up until he was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 13.

I was and am his caregiver. But I have always felt an ancient wisdom when I’ve looked in his still-deep blue eyes, a sense of timelessness that transcends our relationship and his illness. Michael is an old soul.

And I’m not even really like that. I’m the science girl, not the New Age one. I read quantitative studies and consider outcomes and sample sizes and effects, not the ineffable but undeniable power of my child’s mind.

But now that he is celebrating his 16^th birthday, I think about everything he has had to overcome in his brief life: the night terrors, the paranoia, the overwhelming sensory swamp, the dysgraphia, the bullying from peers, the teachers and principals who have said, “He has so much potential. Why does he act this way?”

I think of his four stays in juvenile detention, his three hospitalizations. I think of the keen loss he experienced when he was separated from his siblings for several months. I think of the hole in his heart created when his father left him.

This second son of mine has fought so much harder for happiness than most of us ever have to.

September 2016, "Heroic Pose"

And the thing is, he’s winning. Despite the illness, despite the odds, Michael is winning. Maybe not every day, but slowly, bit by bit, his resilience, my son’s old soul, that ageless wisdom, that precocious sense of humor, keeps him from the abyss that rocks below every cradle, but especially below the cradles of our children who have mental illness.

I am his caregiver, his mother. But he has taught me lessons about humility and strength, about perseverance, and about forgiveness. His experiences with his own “different” brain have taught him to be so much more tolerant of others’ differences, and he has taught me by example.

Mental health is important to all of us. But people with mental illness have to work so much harder at it. My son is my hero. As I watch him claim the life he deserves, I remember that day when we first met, when he caught me in the power of The Gaze. This is a young man who will go far in life (again?). This is a young man who can teach me a few things. I look forward to learning them.

The Power of One

How a Single Juror Made All the Difference to Families of Children who Have Serious Mental Illness

Like many Americans, I held my breath on Friday, August 7 at 5:00 p.m. as I waited for the verdict to be read in the James Holmes case. No one questions that Holmes shot up a movie theater in 2012, killing 9 innocent victims and injuring 70 others. And few question that Holmes met Colorado’s legal definition of sanity when he committed this violent act. Similarly, few question that Holmes suffered from schizophrenia, an incurable mental illness with sometimes violent behavioral symptoms.

The only question in that moment for parents of children who have serious mental illness, parents like me, was this: would Holmes be sentenced to death for behavioral symptoms of a brain disease?

One juror found that outcome to be unacceptable. One juror saved James Holmes’s life.

And while the Internet swirled with hateful comments, mothers across America breathed a collective sigh of relief. Three of these mother wrote letters to the lone juror and shared them with me.

Leisl Stouffer of Bold Faith Ministries has watched her son’s dramatic improvement with residential treatment, something few parents can access. She wrote this to the lone juror who had the moral courage to save James Holmes’s life:

I will never forget the morning I woke up to “Breaking News.”  A movie theater. A gunman.  

Carnage. Death. Slowly the details emerged as we all sat in shock over the latest mass shooting. And then the media showed us his face. James Holmes. The cold blooded killer with the bright orange hair.   

But I saw more than his hair.  I saw the look on his face. I saw his eyes, and I was rocked to the core. 

That empty, faraway look.  Glazed over. No emotion. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. This man’s eyes revealed a look into his mind.  An abyss of darkness.  A chasm of illness. 

Mental Illness. 

I had seen that same look in my own home.

Laura Pogliano’s story was profiled in a USA Today series on caring for children with mental illness  in November 2014. Then, she called herself a “fortunate mother” because despite the enormous financial costs of obtaining care, she had been able to get treatment for her son Zac. Just a few months later, Zac died at the age of 23 of heart failure. Laura wrote this to the lone juror:

When the final sentencing verdict was read, I cried. Instead of the death penalty, Holmes was given life without the possibility of parole.  A juror spokesman related afterward that a single juror refused the death penalty as an option.  One out of seventeen. This lone juror’s refusal to put Holmes to death is probably the only reason Holmes was spared. 

My son was seriously mentally ill with paranoid schizophrenia for seven years before he died at age 23 of heart failure. If I could say anything to the Lone Juror, here’s what I would tell him or her: 

Thank you for sparing James Holmes’s life. By refusing to agree to the death penalty, you reminded us all of some important things we used to know as a nation but seem to have completely forgotten in the last 40 years.We have forgotten that treatment matters more than any single thing in a desperately ill person’s life. We evolved into a culture where it’s okay to ask for help with any disease except mental illness. With every mass shooting that we trace to untreated mental illness, with neighbors and friends all saying they saw a need for help, we grow more and more callous to the idea of treatment. 

The national chorus after a tragedy is, “why didn’t he get treatment?” By refusing to put James Holmes to death, you reminded us that he could have been saved by treatment. And you’ve shone a light on the very real deficits this country faces with our broken mental health system and very real barriers to care. Thank you for shining this light.

Diana Mandrell’s daughter also has a serious mental illness. Her family has struggled for 15 years, trying without success to find effective treatment for her daughter’s psychosis. Her daughter is currently on probation for misdemeanor assault. The family has been told their daughter must commit another crime before she can be committed to a hospital and get treatment.

I am the mother of a child who has serious mental illness, and I wanted to thank you for allowing James Holmes’ parents to keep their son alive. I know the pressure must have been very hard on you to vote for the death penalty, and I want you to know that I think you made the right decision. I know that what James Holmes did because of his disease was horrible, and my heart goes out to the victims and their families, but I also know that James and his family are also victims. They are victims of a mental health care system that is not only broken, but shattered. I know from experience that it is almost impossible to get treatment for patients with mental illness who cannot recognize their own illness. In this case, the fact that James did know and tried so desperately to get help shows that the system is even more broken than one might think. 

These parents’ stories are not uncommon, yet in the wake of Holmes’s sentence, many people attacked the brave juror.  People also continued to blame James Holmes’s parents. As parents of children who have serious mental illness, we are distressed that two-thirds of the jury apparently thought death was an appropriate sentence for a young man who had schizophrenia and acted out his awful delusions. We are profoundly grateful to the lone juror who stood up for what she believed in—that death is not an appropriate punishment for someone who has a brain disease. And we have hope that Congress will take action and pass HR2646, Representative Tim Murphy's much-needed mental healthcare reform legislation, before the next Aurora. Or Chattanooga. Or Lafayette. 

But mostly, we hope for meaningful change before another one of our precious children becomes homeless, or is jailed, or dies by suicide because of an untreated brain disease. These are the private, everyday tragedies of mental illness, tragically overshadowed by the rare and awful mass shootings that raise awareness but also contribute to fear and discrimination. We can each be the lone juror, speaking up for help and hope for the most vulnerable within our communities.

The mothers' full letters are reprinted here, with the authors’ permission:

To The Juror Who Spared James Holmes’ Life:

Thank You. Thank you for your willingness to sit on a jury in such an emotionally charged and high profile case.  Thank you for taking time away from your family and your life to serve justice. But most importantly thank you for standing firm in your convictions to spare James Holmes’ life.

In a case as horrific as this, it would be easy to say that the only true justice is death.  It appeared to be cold blooded murder. Lives were lost.  Lives were destroyed.  Dozens of families will never be the same.  The aftermath is unthinkable.  

Our human response is to call for vengeance.  

A life for a life equals justice.

But from where I’m sitting, I see things differently. 

I will never forget the morning I woke up to “Breaking News.”  A movie theater. A gunman. Carnage. Death. Slowly the details emerged as we all sat in shock over the latest mass shooting.

And then the media showed us his face. James Holmes. The cold blooded killer with the bright orange hair.  

But I saw more than his hair.  

I saw the look on his face.

I saw his eyes and I was rocked to the core.

That empty, faraway look.  Glazed over. No emotion. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. This man’s eyes revealed a look into his mind.  An abyss of darkness.  A chasm of illness.

Mental Illness.

I had seen that same look in my own home before.

I am the mother of a 17-year-old son who suffers from severe mental illness.  We have been battling this horrific and devastating disease for almost his entire life.  He is currently living in a residential treatment center where he is doing well and regaining his health, his dignity, and his life.  He used to have that faraway look in his eyes.  We had lost our son to the illness. 
But now, with treatment, he has life in his eyes.  He laughs.  He smiles.  There’s a twinkle. 

There is hope.

When I saw the image of James Holmes flash across my television screen, I did not see a cold blooded killer.  I saw a young man just like my son.  A young man who was unimaginably sick. 

I certainly do not condone his acts or the horrific crimes that were committed, but I saw James Holmes as a victim in this too.  He is a victim of a terrifying and gravely misunderstood illness.  He is a victim of our nation’s failed mental health care system.  This system refuses to provide treatment until the person is deemed an “imminent danger to self or others.”  By that point, it’s too late.  

I don’t know why you decided to spare James Holmes’ life but I am thankful you did.  The few articles and news stories I have seen report that the issue of mental illness played a significant part in your decision.  If that is indeed the case, thank you.  From the bottom of this mother’s heart, thank you.

We will never get back the lives that were lost, and for the victims and their families, life will never be the same.  But because of you, another life was saved. 

My heart goes out to everyone involved in this devastating tragedy.  If we want real justice, then let’s start by fixing our mental health care system.  That will bring real change.

Love and blessings to you, the Juror who spared James Holmes’ Life.  I am grateful. 

Leisl Stoufer

***
Dear Juror:

Like many parents of a child with mental illness, I waited with suspended breath for the verdict in the James Holmes murder trial. Holmes was found guilty of murder on all counts. He was not found “not guilty by reason of insanity,” but guilty, legally sane, meaning Holmes qualified for the death penalty in Colorado. The jury did not find enough mitigating circumstances, even though he has schizophrenia, to outweigh the evidence that he was legally sane at the time of the shooting.  This wasn’t good news for Holmes. The final phase of sentencing would include victim testimony, and then the jury would retire again for this final phase, to decide if Holmes deserved the death penalty.

When the final sentencing verdict was read, I cried. Instead of the death penalty, Holmes was given life without the possibility of parole.  A juror spokesman related afterward that a single juror refused the death penalty as an option.  One out of seventeen. This lone juror’s refusal to put Holmes to death is probably the only reason Holmes was spared.

My son was seriously mentally ill with paranoid schizophrenia for seven years before he died at age 23 of heart failure. If I could say anything to the Lone Juror, here’s what I would tell him or her:

Thank you for sparing James Holmes’s life. By refusing to agree to the death penalty, you reminded us all of some important things we used to know as a nation but seem to have completely forgotten in the last 40 years.
With over one million seriously mentally ill men and women in our prisons, we forgot that being mentally ill isn’t a crime. We forgot that mental illness comes with behaviors we don’t like, but which are driven by illness. We forgot that a person’s deeds sometimes aren’t “himself.” We forgot that being mentally ill isn’t a moral issue. Mental illness is just that: illness. We used to know it was illness, treat it as illness, “believe in it” as illness. Mental illness is real. Untreated mental illness can be debilitating, progressive, ruinous. Thank you for reminding us of this.

You reminded us that all people have value, intrinsic value; not just the value we assign them by how much they contribute to the economy. You reminded us that as a nation, we used to think of ourselves as a compassionate, human rights-oriented people. We understood that many people with mental illness could not fend for themselves, support themselves, care for themselves. We understood that while we couldn’t cure it, we could provide benevolent, long term solutions, like custodial care for those most affected. We used to know that people who were sick deserved treatment and weren’t social outcasts for asking for it. We used to know that even chronically sick people, now our homeless population, have value. Thank you for reminding us that all people have value.

We have forgotten that treatment matters more than any single thing in a desperately ill person’s life. We evolved into a culture where it’s okay to ask for help with any disease except mental illness. With every mass shooting that we trace to untreated mental illness, with neighbors and friends all saying they saw a need for help, we grow more and more callous to the idea of treatment. The national chorus after a tragedy is, “why didn’t he get treatment?” By refusing to put James Holmes to death, you reminded us that he could have been saved by treatment. And you’ve shone a light on the very real deficits this country faces with our broken mental health system and very real barriers to care. Thank you for shining this light.

What you reminded us of as a nation by refusing to send James Holmes to his death is that our justice system, often described as broken and corrupt, works once in a while. You reminded us that Justice should be tempered with Mercy, that our best legal precepts still work: Innocent until proven guilty, mitigating circumstances, punishments that fit the crimes.  We used to know that justice was separate from revenge. This is an important lesson.

Finally, we have forgotten that one person can make a difference. One person’s vote can alter nearly impossible circumstances; it can defy the odds and create change. One person’s refusal to do something that is against his moral judgment can matter more than 16 other people’s wrong opinions, or ten thousand’s. You showed us that in our best incarnation of ourselves as Americans, we used to believe this: One person can make a difference.  One vote can make a difference. Thank you for reminding us of this truth.

From the mother of a beautiful son who was stricken with paranoid schizophrenia, the same disease that James Holmes has, thank you. I know you would have done the same thing for my son.

Laura Pogliano

***
Dear Juror:

I am the mother of a child who has serious mental illness, and I wanted to thank you for allowing James Holmes’ parents to keep their son alive. I know the pressure must have been very hard on you to vote for the death penalty, and I want you to know that I think you made the right decision. I know that what James Holmes did because of his disease was horrible, and my heart goes out to the victims and their families, but I also know that James and his family are also victims. They are victims of a mental health care system that is not only broken, but shattered. I know from experience that it is almost impossible to get treatment for patients with mental illness who cannot recognize their own illness. In this case, the fact that James did know and tried so desperately to get help shows that the system is even more broken than one might think. 

I stand with his parents and the parents of all people who have mental illness in the United States. We are trying desperately to help others understand the need for treatment before these tragedies happen. I am grateful to you for allowing James Holmes’s parents to escape the horror of knowing their son would be put to death because of his illness. I honestly believe with all my heart that this tragedy could have been prevented if someone would have listened and helped him to get the treatment that he so desperately needed. I am forever grateful to you for standing your ground and voting your conscience, for whatever reason, and for allowing his parents to keep their son alive. You made the right decision. Thank you from the bottom of my broken heart.

Diana L. Mandrell

Never Give Up Hope

The Price of Silence: A Mom's Perspective
on Mental Illness, is now available in
paperback.

Six Lessons I Learned in My Ten Year Quest for Treatment

In December 2012, after a tragic school shooting in Newtown, I thought I was the only mother in America who asked myself, “What if that’s my son someday?” It turns out I was far from alone. Every single day since I shared my family’s struggle in a blog post, “I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother,” nearly three years ago, at least one parent has reached out to me with a similar story of trying to get mental health care in a broken and fragmented system. I wanted answers—not only for my son, but for millions of other children and families who are struggling. As I researched the problem for my book, The Price of Silence, I also found some answers. These are six things I learned during my family’s long and painful journey toward treatment and hope. 

1. Speak up. You are your child’s most powerful advocate. Too many parents of children who have mental illness suffer in shame and silence, or are even in denial about their child’s illness. If your child is very young and exhibits behaviors that seem abnormal—frequent night terrors, excessive tantrums, or sensitivity to noise, for example—talk to your pediatrician, and ask for a referral to a specialist. If a medical professional tells you, “Oh, he’s just a boy,” or “She’ll grow out of it,” get another opinion. If your adolescent comes to you with mental health concerns, always take them seriously. More than 4,600 young people ages 10-24 die by suicide each year.

2. Find support and resources. Your local NAMI or Federation of Families can be a great place to start. Organizations like ChildMind.org, AtWitsEnd.org, and Understood.org connect parents with information and resources as well. Finally, Facebook groups can provide comfort and a safe space to share your challenges with people who understand. To protect their members, many of these groups are secret, but you can message me, and I’ll connect you.

3. Explore multiple treatment options. While medications are an important tool in treating mental illness, they don’t work the same way for everyone, and some have serious side effects. Educate yourself about the risks and benefits, and work with your child’s doctor to identify the most effective treatments. Many children who have mental illness also benefit from other therapies. Young children might do well with Parent-Child Interaction Therapy. Applied Behavior Analysis has been successful with children who have autism. My son benefits greatly from traditional psychotherapy, which helps him to manage the anxiety he feels because of his bipolar disorder, and from occupational therapy, which helps him with his sensory processing issues. And his smart phone has also been a useful tool for him, helping him with everything from medication adherence to stress management.

4. Work with your child’s school to ensure that he or she has educational support. Children who have mental illness, especially those who live in poverty, are too often shunted into a school-to-prison pipeline that denies them a meaningful future. Your child has the right to a free and appropriate public education. The school district should work with your child to provide accommodations and supports that will enable your child to learn and develop. Note: special education can be baffling for parents. I recommend a consultation with a disability rights attorney or professional special education advocate who can walk you through the process.

5. Take care of yourself. Caregivers of children with mental illness report stress levels similar to combat soldiers. It can be hard to manage the financial stress of costly therapies and complex treatment schedules. In fact, respite care is one of the services that parents most frequently report they need. Take time for yourself every single day, even if it’s just a 15-minute walk or a few minutes to journal. It will make you a better caregiver for your child.

6. Never give up hope. When I shared my family’s story after the Newtown tragedy, I felt helpless and hopeless. But because I spoke up, my son got the help he needed. He has not made any threats of harm to himself or others for more than two years, since his last hospitalization in May 2013. He is back in a mainstream school earning good grades, and he just finished writing his third novel. Most important, my now 15-year-old son has really taken charge of his illness and is becoming a powerful advocate for himself and for others. When we accepted a joint advocacy award from Idaho Federation of Families in 2013, he said this: “I’m not a politician. I don’t give speeches. But I do know this: The stigma and discrimination against people with mental illness has got to end.”

It took us ten years to find the right treatment. And our story is not over. I do not think that anyone would say that a diagnosis of bipolar disorder is a “happy ending” for a child. But it is an answer, and it provided a path for us. As we follow that path, I have every hope that my son will live the happy, productive life that he—and every child—deserves.  

Behind Dr. Oz's Curtain

My son's pictures on the Dr. Oz Show, September 9, 2014

What’s Really “Nuts or Normal?”

“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”—The Wizard of Oz, 1939

I don’t watch much television. In the aftermath of September 11, 2001, when I was shocked to see my then four-year old son crash his toy airplanes into towers built of blocks, I decided we didn’t need cable television and 24-hour news anymore. All the news was bad. And the rapidly expanding reality TV genre was worse. My children were raised on a media diet of PBS (delivered via old-fashioned rabbit ears) and DVD science documentaries we checked out from the library.

That being said, I’ve been on television more than some people, usually to talk about the increasingly desperate need to address the public health crisis of mental illness (one of my children has bipolar disorder). I’ve appeared on national media including the Today Show, Good Morning America, Anderson Cooper 360, Erin Burnett, and Al Jazeera America. I’ve done numerous local broadcast interviews, most recently in Bismarck, North Dakota and Cincinnati, Ohio.  

I was even fortunate to be a guest on the Dr. Oz show last year to talk about my book. Though I don't watch much television, I knew who he was, mostly from his syndicated column that appears on Sundays in my local newspaper. And while I was also vaguely aware of controversy about some of the weight loss methods promoted on his show, I didn’t understand why people wouldn’t just do their own research. There aren’t many times the word “always” is appropriate, but I think it’s fair to say that “Get Rich Quick” and “Lose Weight without Diet or Exercise” promises are almost always too good to be true.

I’m a bit puzzled by the credibility that people attach to television celebrities. The medium’s first duty is clearly to entertain; daytime television never even pretended that it had an obligation to educate.  What are your ethical obligations, then, if you’re a daytime television celebrity physician who calls himself “America’s Doctor”? How do you entertain your audience while also upholding your Hippocratic oath to protect the individual patient’s health and privacy?

In light of this flurry of Dr. Oz criticism, including calls for his resignation from the staff of Columbia University’s medical school, my fearless friend and fellow mental health advocate Janine Francolini of the Flawless Foundation has been quick to remind the public of the Dr. Oz show’s truly terrible 2012 series “Are You Normal or Nuts?” in which a panel of “top psychologists” evaluated audience members’ mental health concerns. 

This truly tasteless show echoed an equally tacky Reader’s Digest annual feature by the same name, which trivializes the tremendous suffering experienced by individuals diagnosed with serious mental illness and their families. For example, the 2013 "Normal or Nuts" article led with this charming introduction: “Calling all neurotics, paranoids, and phobics! Our panel of experts says you might not be as loony as you think in this fan-favorite feature.”

And people wonder why there’s still stigma attached to mental illness.

Like Janine, I want Dr. Oz to use his celebrity status to promote mental health. In my personal experience with him, that’s exactly what Dr. Oz did.

“I’m a dad, and this is important to me,” he told me before we began taping a segment discussing my experience as a parent of a child who has bipolar disorder. His approach to my family’s story was overwhelmingly positive, highlighting the tremendous gains my son has made since his diagnosis in May 2013. The audience applauded when I shared that my son has now written a book of his own, a science fiction novel where the Greek gods all have a mental illness that is actually a super power. This is what the correct diagnosis and treatment can mean to parents and children suffering with mental illness. It means hope.

Dr. Oz has tremendous power to shape public opinion about mental health and mental illness. How can we encourage him to use his power for good, like he did for me and my son? When it comes to mental illness, sadly, too many Americans are still like star-struck Dorothy, believing in the all-powerful image of Oz, not willing to look behind the curtain and acknowledge the truth.

I have an idea for this season’s “Are You Nuts or Normal?” producers. Dr. Oz invites panelists to rate people like Judge Michael Bohren, who refused to authorize medical treatment for 12-year old Morgan Geyser, diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and locked up away from her family and denied medical treatment for her brain disease for almost a year.

Nuts or normal?

Dr. Oz interviews the six police officers who tasered 130-pound Natasha McKenna, diagnosed with schizophrenia, and asks them to explain why she died in custody. 

Nuts or normal?

Finally, Dr. Oz presents British parliamentary candidate Chamali Fernando so that experts can discuss her suggestion that people with mental illness should wear color coded wristbands. 

Nuts or normal?

The way we fail to treat children and adults with mental illness in this country is what is really crazy. It’s also expensive, not only in financial terms, but also in lives lost, in dreams shattered. Dr. Oz could rebuild his credibility by focusing his attention on this public health crisis, by providing help—and hope—to millions who are suffering with serious mental illness. 

Thoughts from a 40-Something Mom to All the 30-Something Moms who are Freaking Out about Internet Oversharing

Thou shalt not write about thy children online.
Photo courtesy of iceviking, www.freeimages.com

In 1994, when I was a senior in college, I searched the World Wide Web for the very first time. I still remember that Mosaic query: surfing conditions in Australia, a half a world away from Provo, Utah. The answer? A full report, including weather forecast, tides, and wave conditions. In that moment, I felt like I had won the Golden Ticket to Willy Wonka’s Knowledge Factory. This will change everything, I thought. I never once thought about trolls.

In 1994, you were ten years old. No one was thinking about what the Internet would mean for ten year olds.

In 1996, when I was a graduate student at UCLA, teaching assistants faced a daunting new requirement: virtual office hours.  The concept was so mysterious and misunderstood that some of my fellow students actually organized labor protests. But as a woman expecting her first child, I saw instead the potential to work from anywhere, which at the time seemed like an overwhelming positive. Maybe, with the help of a computer and a dial up modem, a mother could work from home, I thought.

In 1996, you were 12 years old. You were probably one of the 75 percent of public school students who were using the Internet for middle school research projects that year. In 20 years, working from home—or anywhere else, for that matter—would be your normal.

In 2001, I was a young work-at-home mother playing around with coding basic html websites, and a fleeting thought passed my mind: what if I could create a website to share pictures and updates of my two beautiful boys with our family and friends? A book editing project distracted me, though the idea never quite left my mind.

In 2001, you were 18 and headed to a very different college experience than the one I had a decade earlier.  In fact, the American Psychiatric Association reported that in 2001, one in ten college students was addicted to the Internet. A researcher explained the findings as follows:  "The sense of security afforded by the anonymity of the Internet provides some students with less risky opportunities for developing virtual relationships." (Ah, that sense of anonymity!)

In 2007, I joined Facebook so I could play Scrabble online with my siblings. I quickly realized that it was the perfect platform for that shelved idea of sharing pictures and updates of my now four beautiful children. I never once thought about privacy. Why would anyone other than people I knew and trusted want to look at my Facebook page? I also created my blog, The Anarchist Soccer Mom. I loved the idea of an anonymous forum where I could be candid about the challenges (and joys) of parenting—and those challenges were becoming increasingly hard as my second son failed to respond to treatments for his erratic behaviors, which we would learn (much later) were caused by his bipolar disorder. Did I worry that people would know it was me? Of course not. No one—then or now—reads your blog.

In 2007, you were 24, transitioning to an adulthood that was shaped by unlimited access to all kinds of information. Maybe you had just bought your first iPhone, a device that transformed not only the way we access and share information, but refashioned our entire culture. Your adult life was shaped by a knowledge of this “revolutionary and magical” tool—the all-knowing computer in your purse. Before you had children, you had time to experience both the wonder and the terror of this new constant connection to all of humanity’s combined wisdom and ignorance.

40-something moms like me did not have that same luxury. Our children were young—or just being born—when all this wonderful and terrifying new technology was unleashed on us. In the 1980s, parents proudly carried wallet-sized print photos of their children. In the late 2000s, we started posting pictures, by the thousands, of our children online. We sincerely thought that the audience for those Facebook albums was the same as the audience for our parents’ wallet photos.

In 2012, when you had young children of your own, you knew better. You spent your early adult years watching people do stupid things and go viral. You experienced, either personally or vicariously, the extreme public shaming that only the Internet can facilitate. And you didn’t want your children to experience that level of public shame, with good reason. Internet bullying is awful, pervasive, and sometimes even fatal. 

So you created a new word to describe your criticism of the 40-something moms who were constantly posting about their kids: oversharenting. And you created a new commandment of mommy righteousness: “Thou shalt not write about thy children online.”

In 2012, in a gut wrenching intersection of a personal tragedy with a very public one, I shared a painful story about my own family on my anonymous blog. Then, after a lengthy conversation with a close personal friend, I decided to allow him to republish it, with my name attached. My revelation that my son had mental illness and we didn’t know how to help him has become Exhibit A in more than one essay about parental oversharing. For example, in 2013, Phoebe Maltz Bovy described my essay, “I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother,” as “the most outlandish version of a popular genre: parental overshare.”

In the aftermath of my viral blog post, I thought long and hard about my children’s privacy, and I made some pretty significant changes to the way I post things about my children on social media. I don’t ever use their names now. I think carefully about the content of any message concerning them, and I use privacy settings to limit access to people who can see what I post. Although I love Instagram, I try to make sure my kids’ faces are not visible in the pictures I share there.

But I absolutely refuse to stop talking about my family’s struggles with mental illness. In the case of mental illness, or any illness, advocacy trumps privacy.

Every parent writer struggles with how to talk about his or her children. Emily Bazelon presciently took on this topic in 2008. Wondering whether her own revelations about her children’s lives were violating their privacy, she asked, “Should we all close our laptops once our kids learn to talk?”

In response to her question, one honest blogger told her that he “mostly saw my hand-wringing over the ethics of writing about my kids as the result of ‘the same narcissistic impulse that causes us to write about our families in the first place. Because most people don't care what we write.’” 

This is a fact. If you write about your kids, or post their adorable pictures on social media, most people won’t read what you write. And your intended audience—real-life friends and family—are likely to appreciate your posts and feel more connected to you. I don’t see how that’s any more harmful to your children and their privacy than an annual holiday letter, and those have been around for a while.

But I also understand the privacy advocates who worry about what happens if people do in fact read what you write. Quite a few people read what I wrote about my son on December 14, 2012. More than four million, in fact.

My chief complaint with people who use me as an example of oversharing is quite simple: they all contend that what I wrote about my son was damaging to him or his future.

And that’s not even close to true.

I wish that Abby Phillip of the Washington Post had actually reached out to me to discuss the consequences of what she calls “oversharenting” when she quoted my blog. In our case, sharing our story had more positive than negative outcomes. Because I spoke up, my son got effective treatment and is now back in a mainstream school with friends who are totally fine with his bipolar disorder. In fact, they—and I—admire his self-advocacy and think he is brave for speaking out and sharing his story. We were also able to connect to an amazing community of mental health advocates. No one has ever approached us in the grocery store and said, “I know who you are. You’re that mom and kid who talked about mental illness after Newtown. You are horrible people.” It doesn’t work that way.

Google “oversharing child cancer” and see if you can find criticism of mothers who post about their children who have cancer on social media. (I couldn’t). Why was my alleged oversharing potentially damaging to my son’s future? Because we should be ashamed of his illness? Or because the writers who criticize me are ignorant about mental illness?

Would you like to know what is actually damaging to my son and his future?

1. The appalling lack of access to mental health care for children and families.
   
2. Our society’s decision to send children and adults with mental illness to prison.
   
3. The stigma we perpetuate when we respond sympathetically to a mom who writes about her child’s struggle with cancer but cry “oversharing!” when a mom talks about her child’s struggle with bipolar disorder.

These struggles—cancer and mental illness—are only different because the second mom will have tremendous difficulty both in getting people to care and in getting access to care.

Even Hanna Rosin, one of my most vocal critics after my blog post went viral, finally got this last point after she researched and wrote a moving piece on Kelli Stapleton, who will spend ten years in prison after a failed attempt to kill herself and her then 12-year old daughter, who has autism. 

When I suggested on Twitter that Rosin’s thinking had evolved on the subject of parents who advocate for their children with mental illness, she responded, “For sure. I really didn’t get it until I read your book and talked to Kelli.”

Now, in 2015, I share the most important and relevant portions of my family’s story, with my children’s permission, in every place I can.

And this is my heartfelt request to you, 30-something moms: keep sharing, especially if your child has an illness that can benefit from awareness and advocacy. Parents of special needs children actually rely on Facebook for much-needed support. You never know when sharing your experiences might change someone's heart and help to heal a mind.