Derailed on the Bipolar Express

DERAILED ON THE BIPOLAR EXPRESS

Martin Sisters Publishing Company, Inc.

www.martinsisterspublishing.com

Copyright © 2018 Joie Edson

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by Martin Sisters Publishing, Company, Inc. Kentucky

Smashwords Edition

Memoir

Edited by Renee Belcastro

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DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the parents and families raising children who are coping with mood disorders. We shall travel on this journey together, and by sharing our stories, someday minimize the stigma associated with mental illness.

For Tommy.

ACKNOWLEGEMENTS

I wish to thank everyone who has coaxed, coached, convinced, and even threatened me to finally share my story of raising two sons with mental illness.

Foremost, I want to thank Jim for his scrupulous editing skills and unwavering support. More than two years ago, I shared with him my goal to write this book. I told him that I didn’t know how to begin the book, I couldn’t remember the chronological order of all the events. The details of the past 15 years were easy to recall, but the timeline was foggy. He suggested that I begin anywhere. Precise dates weren’t important. Sharing my story was what mattered the most. He patiently offered his assistance with the editing along the way, but most importantly, provided me with compassion and love as I poured out my soul on each page.

Kisses and hugs to my dear friend June, who offered to read and review my story as I wrote each chapter. The wisdom, advice, and wit she provided helped me to stay on track and keep on writing.

Thank you to my daughter, JoEllen. Her constant, yet not so gentle, reminder that I promised her father that I would someday chronicle our family’s journey gave me the impetus to finally begin writing. Many times, she urged me to write the damn book and often threatened to beat me to it.

I also would like to thank the Massachusetts Department of Mental Health, the Wakefield Police Department, and the countless psychiatrists, therapists, and social workers throughout Massachusetts who have aided my sons.

Most of all, I want to thank TJ and Kayvon. Thank you both for allowing me to frankly and openly share your story. I love you and hope you continue to grow in strength, wisdom, and acceptance.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1: Fasten Your Seatbelts. It’s Going to Be a Bumpy Ride

CHAPTER 2: Backpack on the Boston Marathon Finish Line

CHAPTER 3: The Bail Out

CHAPTER 4: Lady Gaga and Google

CHAPTER 5: Birdman (not to be confused with the Michael Keaton film)

CHAPTER 6: Social Media Sabotage

CHAPTER 7: The Looney Bin

CHAPTER 8: Welcome Aboard the Bipolar Express

CHAPTER 9: First Stop: South Attleboro

CHAPTER 10: The Challenge of Medications

CHAPTER 11: Dual Diagnosis

CHAPTER 12: The Same Yet Entirely Different

CHAPTER 13: Riding on the Double Decker

CHAPTER 14: Pit Stops

CHAPTER 15: Medical Emergency

CHAPTER 16: There’s No Place Like Home, Hospitals, Long-Term Mental Health Facilities

CHAPTER 17: The Light at the End of the Tunnel

CHAPTER 18: 911

CHAPTER 19: Navigating the System

CHAPTER 20: Mapping the Journey

CHAPTER 21: Rider in the Storm

CHAPTER 22: A Family Derailed

CHAPTER 23: Disembarking for Now

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

Fasten Your Seatbelts. It’s Going to Be a Bumpy Ride.

He was in front of me, bent over with his shorts pulled down below his knees, taunting me. You want your car key? It’s in there. Come and get it. I was appalled and disgusted. He had taken my car key and shoved it up his ass. Although this was not the most profound or notable act that my son had committed against me, it was one of the most disturbing.

I awoke to the sound of my doorbell early that morning. My initial thought was that I wasn’t expecting a package to be delivered that early in the day. Then a familiar sense of dread took over. My heart began to race at the realization that my son was paying me an unexpected visit at 7:00 a.m. Early morning visits meant trouble. He was unable to sleep due to mania. He would be demanding money. His behavior would be erratic and unpredictable. I hesitated, taking a deep breath, before opening the door.

The visit, as typical, began pleasantly enough. He looked disheveled with dark circles and hooded eyes from lack of sleep. I was wary, yet I welcomed him in and offered him breakfast. He told me he just needed to use my dryer to dry his clothes. He had gotten soaked in the rain from driving his scooter the 10-mile trip from his Boston apartment to my condo. We exchanged a few pleasantries. His mood was labile: one minute calm, the next sad, then angry. While petting our family dog, he started to cry, expressing his sadness that she was getting old and would not be with us much longer. Soon, the demands began. I’m broke. You need to give me my money. It’s my money, not yours. You are my Representative Payee and you are, by law, supposed to give me my money when I need it. I informed him that his monthly payment for Social Security Disability had run out. I offered to give him $20 to hold him over. That’s not enough. I need at least $150. I refused. That refusal set him off.

He took my phone and demanded that I transfer money into his account. I told him I wanted him to leave immediately. I felt threatened and began screaming at him to give me back my phone or I would call the police. He confiscated my iPad next, once again demanding a transfer of funds. I begged him to give me back my phone and iPad and threatened to drive to the police station if he didn’t leave my condo. That’s when he grabbed my keys, removed my car key from the chain, and shoved it up his ass. I became hysterical and began chasing him around my condo, pleading with him to return my car key. At one point a physical fight ensued and he threatened me with a knife. I left my condo and ran to the police station, which thankfully was only one-half mile away.

When I arrived at the police station, I was met by an officer familiar with me and my family. Unfortunately, for better or worse, the entire town is familiar with me and my family. There have been countless calls and trips to the police station over the past 15 years. The female officer sensed the reason for my visit as soon as I walked in looking desperate and ashamed. She invited me to take a seat. Looks like you’re having a bad day. Trouble again? Don’t worry … things will eventually get better. I turned to her and asked, Will things ever get better? I’m not so sure about that.

While telling my best friend about this most recent, disturbing incident, she turned to me and stated, It’s another chapter for your book. Countless times I’ve been told I need to write a book about the trials and tribulations of raising two boys who suffer from bipolar disorder 1 with psychosis. Their father, prior to his death from terminal stage 4 cancer, requested, as a dying wish, that I write a book. I have tried, on several occasions, during the past 15 years to begin writing. What has prolonged this process is the fact that I don’t remember every hospitalization, every arrest, or every conviction that has led to the time my sons have spent in jail due to the severity of their mental illness. The dates and the details of every psychotic and manic episode have become blurred in the past 15 years.

I’ve even questioned the purpose of writing the book. Will anyone want to read about the life of an ordinary woman who has unfortunately had to learn to survive extraordinary events caused by the psychotic episodes of her two mentally ill sons? Perhaps you are reading this book to gain insight on coping with a family member who has mental illness. Perhaps you just want to read about the bizarre and dysfunctional behavior caused by people who suffer from bipolar disorder. Maybe you simply want advice from someone who has learned to cope.

I hope you are not reading this book to judge my sons or myself. Raising children who suffer from mental illness is a lifelong struggle. It is a journey with many twists and turns. I have made many mistakes and taken countless wrong turns along the way. During the past 15 years, I have learned more about negotiating the mental health system, the criminal justice system, and the correctional system than I ever wanted to. I have been a staunch and relentless advocate for my sons.

What I’m hoping you’ll gain from reading this book is hope. This is a story of survival, acceptance, and redemption. This story is not simply about me. It is about my family and our journey.

CHAPTER TWO

Backpack on the Boston Marathon Finish Line

Many times, when asked how I deal with having to raise two sons who suffer from mental illness, my stock response has always been, Things could be worse. I’ve never wanted a pity party. I hear about parents who must care for children with chronic life-threatening physical illnesses or children who die suddenly from a tragic death. My heart goes out to anyone who has a physically ill child, whether the illness is chronic or acute. I wonder how this misery would be different from the struggle I will always deal with.

Quite frankly, I think the most prominent difference is that raising a child with mental illness can be humiliating. I am embarrassed to admit that I have often been ashamed and humiliated by very public displays of psychosis caused by my sons. A parent who has a child suffering from a physical chronic illness such as cancer is surrounded by sympathy and support. A parent who has a child like mine is often blamed for or accused by others of the events caused from their child’s illness. The visible symptoms of physical illness, such as baldness or deformity, evoke reactions quite different from the symptoms caused by mental illness. Mania, psychosis, depression, suicidal thoughts, and delusions are invisible. It’s difficult to empathize with someone else’s emotions because they can’t be seen. The community doesn’t rally together to hold fundraisers, road races, walkathons, or send care baskets to a child who is diagnosed with mental illness. It’s a lonely and often humbling illness to bear. Honestly, it sucks a lot.

The bombing that occurred on April 15, 2013, at the Boston Marathon finish line will forever be etched in the memories of Bostonians and the world. However, one year later, an event occurred, at