I am Adam Lanza's mother ZZ# WaterWorld - 未名水世界
M*u
1 楼
康州这场枪击案，除了禁枪的呼声，也重新引起了很多人关于对mental illness孩子的
焦虑。这篇文章在twitter上很火，转来给大家读读，明枪易躲，神经病难防。应该
identify那些potential会出问题的孩子，防止他们酿成大祸。
连接：http://thebluereview.org/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother/
I am Adam Lanza’s Mother
It's time to talk about mental illness
Friday’s horrific national tragedy—the murder of 20 children and six
adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in New Town, Connecticut—has ignited
a new discussion on violence in America. In kitchens and coffee shops
across the country, we tearfully debate the many faces of violence in
America: gun culture, media violence, lack of mental health services, overt
and covert wars abroad, religion, politics and the way we raise our children
. Liza Long, a writer based in Boise, says 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 Jason 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. 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.
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.
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.
(Originally published at The Anarchist Soccer Mom.)
Liza Long is an author, musician, and erstwhile classicist. She is also a
single mother of four bright, loved children, one of whom has special needs.
焦虑。这篇文章在twitter上很火，转来给大家读读，明枪易躲，神经病难防。应该
identify那些potential会出问题的孩子，防止他们酿成大祸。
连接：http://thebluereview.org/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother/
I am Adam Lanza’s Mother
It's time to talk about mental illness
Friday’s horrific national tragedy—the murder of 20 children and six
adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in New Town, Connecticut—has ignited
a new discussion on violence in America. In kitchens and coffee shops
across the country, we tearfully debate the many faces of violence in
America: gun culture, media violence, lack of mental health services, overt
and covert wars abroad, religion, politics and the way we raise our children
. Liza Long, a writer based in Boise, says 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 Jason 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. 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.
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.
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.
(Originally published at The Anarchist Soccer Mom.)
Liza Long is an author, musician, and erstwhile classicist. She is also a
single mother of four bright, loved children, one of whom has special needs.
