Gabi Coatsworth GCoatsworth@gmail.

com 05/15/2010 Headline: Lost Boy

Sneaking out, smoking pot, stealing from step-dads wallet Gabi Coatsworth wonders if she should have seen her sons bipolar diagnosis coming.
Hes running along the El tracks in Evanston, Illinois with his best friend Devin. After a while, they collapse laughing on the side of the tracks and, fumbling in his pocket, Devin hands Jason a crumpled joint. Jasons the one with the lighter, and he thumbs it into life, puts the joint between his lips, and takes a deep drag. They are thirteen years old. I, Jasons mother, and his little sister Helenka sleep on, undisturbed. Why not? Its 2 in the morning and alls well. So far as I know, my little boy is asleep in his bed. Was that when it started? Or was it some sort of sign that, had I known about, I could have picked up on? I knew Jason hadnt always been happy since we moved from a fairly settled existence in London to Chicago, where my new career took up a lot of my attention. I took him to the pediatrician since he had a constant stomach ache that wouldnt go away. Theres nothing physically wrong with him, said the doctor, peering over his glasses. This is psychosomatic. He needs to see a psychologist. I was British, part of me still is, and the British still view psychotherapy as just an excuse to sit and whine for an hour. But as a Brit I dutifully took Jason along to Dr. R, a wizened pixie of a man, barely taller than Jason. They met once a week, until I married my second husband and we moved from Chicago to CT. Our wedding photos are everyones dream. Were standing on the deck of the extended Cape Cod house wed found in back country Fairfield. Jason and Helenka are standing to one side of us, scowling. Jays two daughters are on the other side, attempting to smile through clenched teeth. As we are speaking our final vows, a thunderclap, followed by lightning,

announced cats and dogs rain, and we ran for the house. Looking back, I often wonder whether I should have take more notice of that classic warning from the gods. Jason never settled down with me and Jay. He stole money out of Jays wallet and once even destroyed a locked closet door with an axe to look for cash. I blamed myself. If Id been a better mother He started skipping school, and smoking pot became his major occupation, Raiding the liquor cabinet ran a close second, until we put a padlock on it. This had been a boy with an IQ of 130-something, an incredible and indelible memory, and a talent for languages, writing, art and music. That was the boy I remembered and wanted to see again. I could see the obvious. I could see that Jason was depressed and thought this was normal in a teenager, since Id been depressed myself. Jasons hair got longer, he stayed out later, slept later, and he smoked. The cigarettes I knew about, and wouldnt let him smoke in the house. But I had no idea about the pot. When I saw him stoned I thought hed been drinking, and often he had. Jay and I began to take it out on each other. Jay thought Id brought Jason up too leniently as a single mother. In self-defense I argued that his girls were lacking in street smarts and would break out in rebellion one day. (They didnt.) We tried taking Jason to a local outpatient facility for teenagers and their longsuffering parents, designed to improve behavior problems. We tried therapists. And finally we took him to an actual psychiatrist for an evaluation. We assured Jason that everything he said would be in confidence, and we believed it. When the shrink came out to talk to us he looked almost benign. But his next words were like heavy blows raining down on my head. Jason had taken so many drugs that it would take a genius to sort out his brain chemistry, he said. And he couldnt diagnose Jason unless we admitted him to the Institute for Living in Hartford for immediate rehab. And youd better do it fast, the doctor stressed, When he turns 17 you wont have the parental legal power over him. What I heard was: Lock up your drug addict (whack) for detox (whack) and throw away the key (whack). Today (whack). I sank into a chair, my mind a blur of thoughts that circled like piranhas. Drug addict. Detox. Today. Parental power. I couldnt do it. And he wouldnt go anyway, he told us. When I spoke to his father (an Englishman living in Florida) about the situation, he was not sympathetic. Ill sort him out, he

said. Ive done enough of these things myself that he wont be able to get away with anything. Send him down here for a couple of months. I was relieved. Maybe this would work? A couple of months turned into several years. Years when Jason kept running: to Spain, Florida, New Haven and Hartford. He would visit us occasionally, when he felt okay. But there were long periods when he was unreachable, physically and mentally. I would pray that somehow I would hear something about him. Be careful what you wish for said a friend. I visualized two policemen with grave faces at my door, wondering how to tell me the worst. I stopped praying for anything except that he was still alive somewhere. It would take sixteen years and an arrest in Hartford for marijuana possession before anyone mentioned the words that were to explain everything: bi-polar. For the first time, at the age of 33, my boy Jason was forced to stop running. I couldnt know then that when my sister died, I would inherit her boys and one of them would turn out to be bi-polar too. Or that eventually schizophrenia would rear its ugly head. Or that, up till now, bloodied but unbowed, we would survive it all. This column will focus on the ups and downs of day to day life in my bi-polar family. It isnt the end of the world for my sons not yet. Ill be telling you what Ive learned about this disease, which theories seem true to me based on my experience with my boys, and, hopefully, giving readers who have similar problems a chance to feel they are not alone.