Personal stories are a testament to the resiliency of individual's recovering or recovered from mental illnesses. The sharing of experiences offers opportunities for reflection, understanding, and growth. Additional stories will be added in coming weeks.

Jacob: My Experience in the Children's Mental Health System
Martin: Choosing
Mike: He’s Too Happy
Neta: Beyond "Normal" to "The Sky's the Limit!"

He's Too Happy
“There has to be something wrong with him, he’s too happy.” These words resonate inside me to this day. They set the foundation for my relationship with my mother, the woman who spoke them, for the rest of my life.

I can understand why my mother felt the need to protect me from myself. As a child, I had “anger problems.” When I was eleven years old, I was hospitalized for them at Western Psychiatric Institute and Clinic (WPIC). Soon after, my sister made allegations of abuse against her dad, my adoptive dad, and he was removed from the home. A year later, I was diagnosed with diabetes after almost dying, and two months later, I was removed from the home, also for alleged abuse of my sister.

I spent six months in shelter and 19 months in a residential treatment facility for young offenders. Over and over, I insisted that I did not abuse my sister (who was four when the allegations were first made). Finally, when she was older and able to communicate better, she was able to support my claim in court, which led to nine months in foster care, and finally I was sent home at 16. When I got home, though I had changed, the home had not. It’s one of the biggest problems with our child-serving systems. The Office of Children Youth and Families believes that the natural family is the best place for a child, but the efforts to help the natural family become a healthy one are simply not supported, and so I didn’t stay there for long.

I moved in with my grandmother, who took care of me and let me do what I wanted. She cooked, cleaned, did laundry…everything. By this point, I had had diabetes long enough to think that because it was unfair that I had it, I shouldn’t have to take care of it, and my grandmother didn’t supervise my self-monitoring. My apathy towards my care was increasing and contributed to the days just prior to my mother’s heart-wrenching statement.
Grandma had accidentally put my insulin through the laundry, and it stopped working. I found myself back in the emergency room for my diabetes. Testing revealed that my Hemoglobin A1C, a test that shows how blood sugar levels are controlled over a long period, was 13 (double what it should have been). It was obvious to everyone that I was trying to kill myself. I insisted I wasn’t, but the evidence was contrary.

After three days on an involuntary commitment, the doctors agreed with me. They said I was a good supporter for the other kids on the unit, and that I was happy, not suicidal, and I was simply “apathetic” about my diabetes care. That’s when she said it. That’s when I found out that my mother’s opinion of happiness is that it isn’t normal. I realized that my mother was probably not the best person to be in control of my mental health decisions.

So who, then, should be? ME.

I spent the next 30 days thinking about how I was responsible for my situation, rather than blaming my mother. If I had been taking care of my diabetes, the blood test wouldn’t have supported my mother’s claim that I was trying to kill myself. If I had been checking my sugar, I would have noticed it elevating before it had become dangerous. If I had been doing my own laundry instead of letting Grandma take care of it, my insulin wouldn’t have gotten washed. These were all things that I had the power to change.

I spent those 30 days in the hospital by choice. I chose to get my life together. I chose to start caring for my diabetes. I chose not to let anyone else choose for me because I realized that choosing not to choose is a choice. I learned that even though my problems may not all be fair and they may not all be my fault, that doesn’t change the fact that solving them is my responsibility.

When I got out of the hospital, I petitioned for emancipation. I started working on a career, and eventually got to the point of working in mental health, inspired by the inpatient staff who told me I would be good at this. They gave me hope to do something meaningful with my life, and hope is the only cure for apathy.

Today, I co-chair a program called the Youth Outreach Union. We are a support group of young adults who have been “there.” We help each other by sharing our experiences, and our shoulders. We advocate for the rights of other young adults in the mental health system. We try to make sure that youth are heard when they speak for themselves, and for youth in general.

Hope, personal responsibility, support, education and self-advocacy were the fundamentals of life that I hadn’t learned as a child. They are the foundation of our individuality, the foundation of our humanity, the foundation for our recovery. They are things we all need, mentally ill, or not.

My mom was right when she said there was something wrong with me, but the happiness I had then is pale by comparison to the happiness I have now. What was wrong with me was that I wasn’t choosing to live, and now that I am, I know there is nothing wrong with happiness.

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Choosing
let me tell you about being on the streets and shelter/mission for three years.

i had had enough of the turmoil of living at home. i thought my father had gone on the warpath. i was thirty-one years old. ever since graduating college, i had had a difficult time adjusting to the world. i couldn't make a graceful transition into the workplace. the situation at my parents house felt hostile. my older brother was still abusive as he had been all my life. i had tried living in a couple of rooming houses to no avail. i couldn't make it. so, when an 'oppurtunity' came along, i hit the road in my little toyota pick-up truck. i had driven through trenton as felt suspended in time. the world seemed like a ball of confusion. i didn't know where things were. it took me three days to wind-up in the vicinity of reading, pennsylvania a distance of seventy miles as the crow flies. at one point, i had been searched by state troopers who then fired three warning shots into the air and told me to get going. whew!

my truck lost power at the a-plus sunoco station in north reading. i stayed in it for about a day. i had a little money. i found my way to the fairgrounds mall about one half a mile away. a guard there gave me the address of the local mission. i went there hoping all my problems would be solved. i would find shelter and begin my life again. little did i know that twenty-two years later my life would center in the reading area. i stayed in that mission several times over the next three years. everytime, i get fed up with the structure and my lack of ability to associate with my fellow workers. so, i head out onto the streets. life seemed grand for a little while until the cold or rainy weather set-in at night. there were people in the night who scared me. there were dogs who barked too much. there was too little available food.

at that time in the mid-eighties, the popular hang-out was mc donald's at fifth and penn. i would go in and bum a cup from someone and get a refill until the management became wise to this trick. i'd sit with the mexicans ( i knew a little spanish from high school ) and stumble through a conversation. some of the people there were rude to me. they were very defensive. i bumbled my way through all the season's. in the winter, i'd wear all types of clothing to stay warm: men's or women's. i had to be creative to survive. in the summer, i'd go to the water and swim with some of the other poor people. they'd made a reclaiming pool at the bottom of a storm drain. it held a lot of water. enough to swim in. i thought there was little problem other than those who would take umbrage at my behavoir. then, i'd have my doubts.

all this while, my father kept trying to get me services in the mental health system. during my misadventure on the streets, i'd wind up in wernersville state hospital two or three times. i'd go there and eat, shower, sleep and read. well, my recoveries must have be striking as those stays were only for a few weeks at a time. but, i would slide back into the place half a year or so later. near the end of my street escapades in nineteen eighy eight there was a rumor going around that the shelter would be closing due to lack of funds or some such thing. so, being the ever valiant dude i walked from reading to harrisburg in two days peeing myself along the way. i had eaten only once in lebanon at an impromptu shelter/house. in harrisburg i sought a place to stay and heard of an agency to who would put me up. well, the girl took one look at me and made a phone call. we chatted a while. then, the police took me away in shackles to the venerable harrisburg state hospital of which you're very familiar. i'd stay there thirty-one days and was granted disability benefits.

once the benefits came through, i cashed in a nine hundred dollar check and burned one for four thousand. i blew the nine hundred trying to take care of myself. i eventually found an apartment. whoppee! only, i still wasn't med compliant, trashed the place, wound up in wernersville and became afraid. i had grown-up as a laborer on my parents house. both of my parents had been in the military. so, their idea of a good time was fixing up our three story mini-mansion. well, we did it was a real cinderella story. so, i had become concerned about losing my apartment. but, through the grace of God i was given another chance. at that stay in wernersville, i had had a showdown with the psychiatrist. she nearly put me on forced injections. but, i convinced her of my intent to remain on meds. once back in my quaint little abode, i became convinced about taking the meds. through a twitching of a finger, i realized my days on the streets would be over and i'd become stronger with meds. so, i embarked on my own version of the doctor's regimen. this worked to such a degree that i was capable enough to hold a job.

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My Experience in the Children’s System
My time in the mental health system started roughly 20 years ago. Over the years, I have seen many changes, some for the better and some not. We all have had changes in our lives and my changes have happened within the system. Now after reading this you might think to yourself that this person has had a great professional career. Well, you could be half-right, but guess what, I am a client. Though I am only 22 years of age, my time has been well-spent learning, growing and now teaching others. My experience in a way could be considered professional—spending time with therapists who are supposed to help you and then turning it around and teaching them something. Who is the professional? I have been able to teach myself things to be able to manage some of the flows in the system. You tend to learn these things as you get better or stronger and the system doesn’t.

My first hospital visit was the turning point that changed my mind forever. With all due respect, the doctors may have thought they were right, but the information they were given just made my situation worse. I was seven years old with emotional stress and anger. Is this possible? Yes, it is possible and my feelings were real. They did not know how to help the situation properly. Through all this, I found my first great experience at P ace School (an approved private school). Founded in 1967 in Pittsburgh, P ace has served as a groundbreaking school for children with emotional and learning disorders. I spent eight years there learning about my problems and finding out that I was not alone with my situation. The key is not feeling as if you are the only one with a problem. I found many great counselors at P ace who were there to guide me with genuine feelings about my problems. To this day, I still look for the genuine feeling of someone who really cares.

One of the key issues I still hear from clients I work with is, where are all the other people with problems? Well, I always say they are here and you just haven’t found each other yet. I find that guiding people to places were they might find comfort helps that feeling of being alone with a problem. It’s like a person who has just come off an addiction and they need a group to support them. The first step is caring about the problem and then guidance.

I left Pace when I was 15 years old and went back to a public school setting. For the first two years, I saw a lot of changes in the school system and how they view people who may have a few more problems than others. After a great teacher took me under her wing, I was able to leave knowing I was not alone and could succeed, even though I wasn’t sure what I was going to do in college.

I have been interested in art since I was a young child. I still use my art to help me cope with issues. I figured rather than letting my talent slip, I would go to college and apply my skills in a new area. College can be pretty challenging if you are not completely ready for it. I was not used to living away from home and I still needed some guidance for my depression and anger. I had begun to rethink what I was doing and if this was right for me. In a cry for help, I felt I needed a drink. My loved ones didn’t know and at the time I wasn’t ready to approach the idea that I might have a problem. To change the situation I found an apartment away from the dorms and people. It was a good move for the time being but I still needed a boost. My depression came to the surface and I was feeling overwhelmed. I had begun to drink again and was looking to keep myself up in the process. I was off on the wrong track and was fooling myself into believing everything would be fine if I drink this or take that, but it wasn’t fine. I had enough and I found myself ready to leave college when along came my next big break.

The Community Outreach through Resource and Education (CORE) program was introduced to me by my case management service at the time, and it was the guidance I needed. The program was something new and fresh and I was ready to try it. The focus this time was to help me pull through college one-step at a time. This was the support I needed. CORE also helped me to see that my family had been there and the people I thought had turned their backs were there. I was getting so used to stopping or trying to give up that I couldn’t see what I needed to see.

So here I am three years later and still motivated to help others more than ever and still keeping myself in check. I finished college in 2005 and I have been clean and sober for 2½ years. Now people might ask, is that it? This is never it and I hope to write a book some day soon. I want to thank God, my family and the workers who put time into my life to help me through every rough time and every battle. In the end I am thankful it all happened because I was able to learn and help along the way.

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Beyond “Normal” to “The Sky’s The Limit!”
Who decides what is “normal”? What is it based on? Does anyone actually fit the description? I personally would call myself your average “normal” person. Yet, I also am paranormal, meaning I am beyond the scope of normal; I surpass it. Of course, this is all based on what I think is normal.

Growing up it was “normal” to hear my dad holler to my mom, “Toot, get me a beer.” Growing up it was “normal” while visiting with my grandfather to have a wonderful morning and be cursed at and thrown out by mid afternoon because grandpa had hit the bottle too many times during the visit. “Normal” was a call through the night asking my dad to put up bail for Uncle John who had shot at a building while drunk. Or it was my mom counseling my aunts who had lost their mother, my grandmother, to death, from a car accident caused by a man who was... you guessed it, drunk.

For my husband “normal” was no alcohol in the home. “Normal” was every Sunday morning in church. Normal was the whole family around the table at night. Normal was having the only battles over Oreo cookies and who got the most. It became “normal” for my family to go to church every Sunday morning when my dad decided he’d had enough of an alcoholic’s life. My dad broke the “normal” mold. My mom didn’t drink and was always a woman of strong faith, and she had been praying for my dad for a long time.

For a woman named Angie it is “normal” to be drunk. It is “normal” to feel inadequate and depressed. It is all she knows to be abused by men and people. It’s normal to need a drink as soon as she wakes up because she can’t deal with all her feelings of despair. It was/is normal to lose her little boy because she can’t care for him. It was normal to drink through her pregnancy because she just couldn’t help herself. It was inevitable that she would bear a son who would spend the rest of his life dealing with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (FAS).

My husband, Brad, and I do not drink. We completely abstain. Many people have asked us why. Our response is, “We’ve never met an alcoholic that didn’t take the first drink.” This, I suppose, definitely disqualifies us from “normal” and that is very OK, because “the sky’s the limit.”

We were asked to care for Skylar as foster parents the day after his birth. He was diagnosed with FAS and intrauterine growth restriction. Skylar was a gift we had been praying for a long time. He was six days old when we brought him home from the hospital. I was up all night the first night, and this marked the many sleepless nights that would come. Many days and nights were spent in the emergency room.

Skylar had infant asthma. We used a nebulizer regularly everyday for months. He had pneumonia three times. Feeding would take hours, not minutes. At four months he was hospitalized for failure to thrive. During this time Skylar looked me in the eye for the first time and made me his mommy. At about six months we began physical therapy through early intervention. He had outpatient surgery for double hernia repair at six months. We were told we could adopt him, and on February 9, 2001, when he was eight months old, he became our son and we threw a party.

By one year we had consultations regularly with nutritionists, gastroenterologists, occupational therapists, and visiting nurses. He began walking at 13 months. He was always sick. At two, he had the Rota virus and was hospitalized overnight for intravenous rehydration, only to come home, spike a fever and go back to the emergency room from a fever seizure. Soon after he turned two, he had a feeding tube placed. During the time he had his feeding tube we started with some natural medicines, specifically a liquid multivitamin and cod liver oil. As he was able to get hydrated and receive the nutrients his body needed, we started to see a child who would have the ability to go beyond “normal” for a child diagnosed with FAS. At three his feeding tube was removed and he had surgery to close the tube site. Age four was pretty uneventful—the first year without wraparound support and regular doctor visits. He began eating on his own, although it was still a battle. Now he is 5½ years old, and we are still often on edge concerning his health but he is much healthier. He can dress himself, he brushes his teeth, and he feeds himself. Each of these is a major accomplishment that has taken a lot of work.

We have been home schooling and we started kindergarten in the fall of 2005, but had to slow down. His maturity level and fine motor skills are not quite at the normal kindergarten level; however, he is so bright, with extremely coordinated gross motor skills, he loves to sing and play, and he is really good at riding bike. He is the light of our life. I cannot express the joy he gives us everyday.

Oh, he’s not “normal.” My sister-in-law has a little boy who has just turned one year. She meant well when she told me one day that she wished I could experience a normal baby. She can’t know that Skylar is everything I could ever hope for. The work in Skylar was like experiencing three babies in one. He’s more than “normal.”

May I suggest a new way of thinking? First let’s break away from “normal”! Do any of us live in a picture perfect “normal” world? Obviously, considering the brain damage Skylar has experienced and the effects he will experience for the rest of his life from the prenatal alcohol, many people will not consider him “normal.” As his mom I will do all I can to equip him to find his own success. I can’t say I have a formula for this success; I don’t even have a game plan. I have only been able to educate myself one step at a time. When I research too far I become too overwhelmed with what “might be,” and honestly I am too busy meeting Skylar’s needs right now.

While home schooling, Skylar and I were learning about our senses. On a particular day of reviewing something we learned quite well the day before, Skylar just could not recall the sense we use our noses for. After asking him several times, thinking he wasn’t even paying attention to me, he responded in exasperation, “My sense of humor!” It’s hard to break away from “normal,” unless you have no choice. Maybe having no choice is actually what opens the door to many choices, and frees us to embrace the uniquenesses of a wonderful child like Skylar.

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