Grief and Happiness Can Coexist

I just got home from downtown Los Angeles, where I spent the day with my brother. The traffic-filled ride home took nearly an hour and forty minutes, and I spent most of that time crying.

Downtown Los Angeles triggers me. I see mentally ill, drug-addicted people sleeping on sidewalks, in doorways, and doing drugs, while regular people walk past or around them. This isn’t even Skid Row. I have been to Skid Row looking for my son. It was a traumatic experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

My son has been missing for the past nine months. He has not contacted anyone. I turned off his phone after discovering he may have sold it for drugs. That phone was my only lifeline to him—and his only link to friends and family.

My son graduated from college, had his tonsils removed, and was placed on a 5150 psychiatric hold all within one week. Doctors said he might have Bipolar Disorder, or that the episode could be temporary and was drug-induced. At the time, my son smoked a lot of cannabis. I didn’t see it as a problem. He worked, went to school, had a great girlfriend, and earned good grades. I had no idea this was the beginning of a painful road for both of us.

I was naïve about the fact that marijuana could induce psychosis. Doctors later told me that in recent years they have seen more 5150 hospitalizations from marijuana than from meth or heroin. My son was prescribed antipsychotic medication. His brain took time to heal, but eventually he seemed better. He stopped taking his medication because it made him lethargic, foggy, and caused weight gain. This had been a very bad experience, but I thought it was a one-time incident and that he could move on with his life.

For about a year, he did. He moved out of state with his girlfriend and lived a relatively stable life. Eventually, he moved back in with me and my younger son so he could pursue his master’s degree. Within months, he was back in psychosis. The first time he had been calm; this time he was angry and violent.

I was again distraught and at a complete loss. I called the police, hoping they would hospitalize him. They did nothing. Eventually, I reached a breaking point and told him we could not live like this—that he needed to get back on meds or leave. It broke me to make that decision, but it was our lives or his. My last resort was calling the Psychiatric Emergency Team (PET). Somehow, they convinced him to go to the hospital.

This hospitalization was longer, and his recovery took nearly a year. Each psychotic episode requires a longer healing period. He was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder. Doctors gave him clear instructions on how to live with his illness: exercise, therapy, regular psychiatric care, connection with friends, journaling, and—most importantly—sobriety and medication compliance. He never consistently did any of these things.

Two friends urged me to return to Al-Anon, a twelve-step program for families and friends of alcoholics and addicts. My life was in shambles. I was barely functioning. I just wanted my son to be okay. I began attending several meetings a week and found comfort among people who understood the emotions I was experiencing—fear, grief, shame, and helplessness. My friends were loving and supportive, but none had a child like mine. In Al-Anon, I was understood.

I learned that the program is not about fixing my son; it is about my own growth. I learned that he has his own journey and must want wellness for himself. I quickly got a sponsor who supported me through this painful process and helped me work the twelve steps. I came to understand how growing up in a family affected by addiction shaped me into a co-dependent caretaker—someone who helps others to the detriment of oneself. I am learning to undo those patterns. I am learning to put myself first, not selfishly, but in order to survive and enjoy the remainder of my life.

My son was stable for about two years. The rule to stay in my home was that he needed to be taking his meds and not smoke marijuana. I suspected he was smoking but stuck my head in the sand. He finished his master’s degree and moved out again. I believed he was taking his medication. I was in denial—about both his addiction and the likelihood that he would stop his meds. Even while attending Al-Anon, I struggled to accept that his mental illness and addiction were inseparable.

My therapist who had worked in a state institution with mentally ill addicts told me repeatedly that my son had to want sobriety and medication compliance for himself. It took months for that truth to sink in. I finally understood that even in psychosis, I cannot force him to get better. Thankfully people in Al-Anon don’t tell you how to think or what to do. They allow you to arrive at reality in your own time, supported but not directed.

I had told my son many times that if he stopped taking his medication, I would not help him. When it happened the third time, I followed through. I did not let him come home. I did not give him money. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I of course wanted and still want to help my son who I love more than anything in this world, but I’ve learned that enabling him will not help him.

I do not know what the future holds for my son. I do know that I want to be okay with my life. I have learned that grief and happiness can coexist. I continue working the Al-Anon program to grow spiritually and find serenity. I am functioning better, though I remain in deep pain.

Thanks to Al-Anon I have not stopped living. I practice gratitude daily. I meditate. I spend time with friends. I walk my dog and notice the beauty of nature. I go on trips. I focus on my younger son, who has also suffered deeply; as brothers they were very close. I have learned that self-care is not optional—it is essential. I am learning to trust in a higher power. I believe my son has one, too, and that brings me some peace.

Bari Schmidt