Living with Crazy: Surviving Stigma

Another blogger once chided me for using the probably politically incorrect term "crazy" in the title of my blog, CrazyinSuburbia. He said the term might offend some people with mental illness.

I told him I could see his point, but that my husband, who is also mentally ill, likes to toss the word around, usually in a joking way. Maybe by using the word--in the same way as gay men use the word "queer"-- my husband is hoping to break down the stigma associated with mental illness.

But now I wonder: PC-wise, perhaps the only people who can use the word crazy are those who are mentally ill, in the same way that only gay men can use the word "queer" and only African-Americans can use that you-kn0w-what word.

But wait! I'm not so sane myself. Seriously, I've probably lived with a mild level of depression and a high dose of self-hatred much of my life. My husband's diagnosis 10 years ago of schizoaffective disorder only added to my depression, anxiety and self-hatred. It also made me ashamed. You know, the stigma can extend to family members.

I try to get by. My husband and I together try to get by, and he is of course much sicker than me. In simple terms, his illness combines schizophrenia and bipolar illness. Before medication, he was psychotic, in and out of touch with reality. He heard voices, he saw things, he would wake up not knowing where he was or how he had spent the previous week. He also had to deal with the mood swings associated with bipolar disorder. He was not very nice to people he worked with--but more on that long, unsavory chapter of our lives at another time.

Actually, even with the meds, he still hears those terrifying voices sometimes, he'll become disoriented about time, and he'll sink into depression.

Before I go on--and speaking of stigma and mental illness--a friend and I are attending a talk Thursday evening, "Sheding the Stigma of the Psycho Straightjacket," sponsored by the Contra Costa chapter of the National Alliance on Mental Illness.The speaker is Los Angeles Times award-winning writer, Robert Jaffee, who will share his personal journey with mental ilness.

"As a writer on mental health issues and as someone who has experienced psychotic breaks and hospitalizations, Robert aims to offer insight, hope and the opportunity to overcome stigma," the NAMI announcement reads.

The talk will be part of the chapter's regular general meeting, which starts at 6:30 p..m. and takes place at the John Muir Medical Center-Concord Campus.

My friend is going through something somewhat similar to what I went through 10 years ago: suddenly learning that her bright, successful, professional, seemingly wonderful, mentally healthy husband may have a mental illness. I imagine that, like my husband, hers did a great job of hiding his symptoms from other people for years, and probably denied the illness to himself.

Even as a child, my husband was terrified of what the voices and a diagnosis would mean. He feared being ostracized by society and of being locked up the rest of his life. After we got married, he was terrified of losing me, so he never told me about the voices. He only told me that sometimes he would get depressed. He covered his illness very well, being a loving husband and father, until a crisis forced it out into the open.

In the first year or two after my husband's diagnosis, I attended support family suppport groups sponsored by NAMI Contra Costa. I also took NAMI's excellent 12-week Family to Family course, to help me better understand all aspects of mental illness, including symptoms, medications, legal issues, and, very important, what it's like to be ill and to hear voices.

But as I recently told my friend, many of the family members I met through NAMI were parents dealing with a mentally ill child. I rarely met spouses trying to cope with their husband's or wife's mental illness--either by staying together or breaking up. Having a spouse diagnosed with one of these chronic illnesses involves a different set of challenges than having a child who is ill.

It's been 10 years since my husband's diagnosis, and this is the year that I finally started to face what it all means. As you can tell, I can cling to denial pretty well and for a long time.

Just a few examples of what I'm learning it all means.

1) My husband takes a buttload of medication to keep him stable, but some of it, mainly the anti-psychotic zyprexa, has serious side effects. This drug made my formerly skinny husband gain weight and it may one day compromise his liver, cutting his life span by 10 years. He's dedicated to taking medication. He likes being sane and never wants to go back to how he felt, thought before.

2) The medications slow him down. Some mornings, it's tough for him to get out of bed. Sometimes, it's tough for him to get through the day. Perhaps the combination of the meds and the illness affect his memory and concentration, such that he will probably be limited in whatever work he does, if he is able to work at all.

This is all sad, because he is a very smart, gifted man, and he has so much to offer, not just to his family but to the community. Currently he's offering his gifts to Fresh Start, the Walnut Creek-based homeless service agency. He's very good at talking with the clients, listening to their fears and helping them solve the immediate problems facing them.

3) Life is not what I expected it to be when we married 20 years ago. For the last 10 years, I've been living with a combination of denial and terror. I was in survival mode. The denial may be lifting but the terror never goes away. And with my husband's illness and this economy we're all dealing with, I'm back more than ever to survival mode.

I wish I could go through the rest of my life, saying the right things, doing the right things, and looking really lovely and noble--like Jennifer Connelly, who won a Supporting Actress Academy Award playing the wife of schizophrenic Nobel Prize-winning mathemetician John Nash in the 2001 film A Beautiful Mind.

Yeah, I agree that the film, though it won Best Picture, Hollywood-ized the real story of John and Alicia Nash. In the book by Sylvia Nassar, on which the film is based, both characters come out as much more complex, flawed, and therefore more human than their movie counterparts.

Still, I'd love to be able to occasionally pull out a line--brimming with love, support and hope-- like the one Jennifer Connelly says to Russell Crowe at a key moment in the film:

"I need to believe... that something extraordinary is possible."

Living with Crazy: From Date Night and Romantic Music to "I think I'm supposed to know who you are."

On the Friday before my husband came home from work to say "Something bad has happened," he and I went out out for a date night. We started at one of our favorite restaurants, a cozy little restaurant a few blocks from Arcata's main downtown square and just over the freeway, 101, from campus.

Although at least a six-hour drive and seemingly remote from Bay Area life and culture, Arcata and Eureka were not cultural backwaters. Like other coastal towns up and down California, they attracted their fair share of artists, free-thinkers, intellectuals, and entrepreneurs. Arcata also had the advantage of being a university town, so there were a number of PhDs among the population. Among those migrated north to escape the expense and crowds of city life were foodies. When we lived in Arcata, we ate well: a Spanish tapas retaurant, great sushi, decent Mexican, and a white-table-cloth hotel restaurant in Eureka that won raves in Wine Spectator magazine.

This restaurant my husband and I went to on our last date night before his crisis was small and bistro-like with a wood-fired oven, an open kitchen and soft candlelight on the tables. We both were in good moods, I remember, feeling a bit sentimental that we'd be leaving Arcata, appreciating our last dinner here, and talking optimistically about our future. I don't know why but our conversation also turned to our lasting devotion to each other. Perhaps we were talking about friends contemplating divorce, and we agreed that we would never do such a thing, we would never leave each other. We wouldn't do that to our child. We would grow old together. Maybe after our son was up and out of high school, we'd think about living overseas again.

The future seemed so full of possibilities. My husband was bright, successful. And once our son was started kindergarten, I could get back to devoting myself to writing that novel that was sitting in the drawer.

After dinner, we went to campus, to hear a touring performance of the St. Lawrence String Quartet, a internationally acclaimed group of Canadian musicians now based at Stanford University. I've always liked going to listen to chamber ensembles rather than full symphonies. The sound seems so much more pure, and the audience's proximity to the musicians is more intimate. You can see the individual artistry blending together into such precise harmony. I wish I could remember what the group played that night. Probably something by Beethoven, Bach, Haydn, Ravel, Dvorak, or Schubert--some of the usual suspects. They also played something very modern and atonal, which was just breathtaking in its inventiveness. They definitely deserved the accolades they would receive in a New Yorker magazine profile I came across a few months later.

*****

Six days later, on Thursday, March 22, 2001, I was writing in my journal, but my thoughts were scattered. It was the day I had to call the ambulance to have my husband 5150'ed because he was considered a danger to himself--he was threatening suicide.

After a visit by a police detective who was investigating allegations against my husband of misconduct at this job, I found a friend who could look after our toddler, so I could drive over to the hospital emergency room and see if my husband was there.

Mad River Community Hospital is a 78-bed facility that always looked as though it had been built out of portables. It served Arcata, which has a population of around 17,000.

The hospital staff let me into the emergency area, where I found my husband sitting, in the sweat pants and jeans he had dressed himself in. He had wrapped one of those thin hospital blankets around him. He looked up at me with this pleasant smile on his face.

"I think we live together," he said to me. "I think I'm supposed to ask how you are."

"I think this is a hospital," he added. "I don't know how I got here."

He also said something about odd about clocks or watching, something that made my mind flick to something out of a Salvador Dali painting. In another hour or so, he would be transferred to the county hospital, where he'd stay for a six-day evaluation.

Those are the only semi-coherent things I wrote later that day. The rest of it was all over the place:

John.

He's in the hospital. Mental collapse. He didn't know who I am. What is this? Life turned upside down? What's going to happen to my husband? He's detached himself from reality. I've lost him.

Not that I ever had him, and now I'm in the position to be the rock. The man who handles things. Takes cares of things. It's so unreal.

Living with Crazy: Calling in a 5150

At about 8 a.m. Thursday, March 22, Humboldt State University Police Officer Tom Dewey heard over the radio that a suicidal man was barricaded in the bathroom of his Arcata home.

Dewey was interested because the address was the Arcata home, where my husband, John, child and I had lived since 1998. Dewey was especially interested because the suicidal man would turn out to be my husband, and my husband was the prime suspect in an investigation Dewey was now charged with leading.

"We parked outside the residence while [Arcata police officers] dealt with the situation," Dewey wrote as part of his report on his investigation into my husband's crimes at Humboldt State.

"We saw Sterns [my husband] walk down his driveway and climb into an ambulance. Then the ambulance drove away. I learned that Sterns had left the bathroom voluntarily and decided to commit himself ... for a mental health evaluation."

Minutes later, Dewey was at my front door. I let him in. He acted concerned, and I was in shock, but calm and wary. He was the officer assigned to investigate whatever it was my husband had done wrong. I only had a vague idea of how much trouble John was in; John had not told me too much.

With Dewey, I would be polite and cooperate but on guard. At certain points in our otherwise cordial conversation, I would say "I don't know" or actually say "I'm not going to answer that."

As our 2-year-old remained quiet in the upstairs master bedroom, I sat with Dewey downstairs in our living room and, within limits, answered his questions.

Here is what Dewey reported:

"Ross said that she and Sterns had met in the late 1980s. They were married in 1991. They have a 3-year-old son. They lived in Thailand from 1989 to 1992, and in San Francisco from 1992 to 1998..."

"Ross said Sterns has a history of depression, which started in his teens. He has told Ross that he attempted suicide once prior to their marriage. He saw a psychotherapist in Berkeley for his depression from 1994 to 1996. In recent years, it seemed that Sterns had a handle on his depression, and knew how to deal with it now. He has not seen a psychotherapist, psychiatrist or psychologist since arriving at Humboldt State in 1998. He is not presently prescribed any mental health medication.

"Starting last year, it seemed that Sterns was starting to have some trouble with depression again. He was struggling with the depression, off and on. They began looking for employment elsewhere. ...

"On Tuesday, Sterns came home and told Ross that he had been placed on administrative leave. Ross told him that he needed an attorney. ...

"Sterns' depression became more visible late on Tuesday and again on Wednesday. After [he] met with [his attorney], Sterns disclosed to Ross that he was thinking about hurting himself. Ross replied that if Sterns did hurt himself, it would destroy her and [their son]. They talked about things, and Sterns seemed open and rational.

"On Wednesday night/Thursday morning, Sterns was apparently up during the night. At about 5:30 a.m., Sterns was up. He phoned his sister. ... Then depression flooded over Sterns. ... He disclosed that he felt like hurting himself again. ...

"They made an initial plan to have Ross take Sterns to the hospital after she took [their child] to school. Before Ross left for school, Sterns ended up breaking down again. They decided they needed to take Sterns to the hospital immediately, and called for an ambulance to respond.

"I provided Ross with an employee assistance informational sheet. I offered to take weapons for safekeeping. She admivsed me that Sterns possessed no weapons and that there were no guns in the house. We left about 9:02 a.m."

Living with Crazy: March 20, 2003, another day that will live in infamy

As morning dawned on Iraq March 20, 2003, U.S. and coalitions forces launched missiles and bombs on that country.

"On my order," President George W. Bush said in a televised addressed to the American public, "coalition forces have begun targeting selected targets of military importance to undermine Saddam Hussein's ability to wage war."

I admit that some members of my family and I were not paying as much attention to the launch of Iraqi Freedom as we should have.

On the evening of March 19, 2003, when Bush gave his televised address, my 80-year-old father, William Ross, was in Kaiser Permanente Medical Center, dying of a combination of ailments mostly centering around congestive heart failure.

My father, the former superintendent of the Acalanes Union High School District, was a World War II veteran, having served as a Navy officer in the Pacific theater. After the war, he served in the Navy reserves, becoming a reserve captain. He strongly opposed the invasion of Iraq, didn't trust the motives behind it and feared the loss of American and Iraqi lives.

On March 20, we were to take him out of the hospital and bring him home, so he could die in the Walnut Creek house he and my mother had shared since the early 1950s.

Sometime around 7 a.m. on March 20, 2003, hours after the bombings started in Iraq, my mother received her own version of the "something bad has happened" message, via a phone call from the hospital.

"Bill's dead," she said, walking into the living room, numb. Her husband was dead, and he wouldn't be coming back home. He had died overnight in the hospital as bombs, half a world away, were dropping on Iraq.

***

A few months after my husband was fired from his job at Humboldt State University, my son, then 3, and I left Humboldt County and moved back in with my parents in Walnut Creek.

My husband and I were separated at the time, and my son and I had no place else to go. My parents and I never talked too much about what was going on with John. We tried to make out as if life was moving on. Police investigated his case, and the Humboldt County District Attorney's Office eventually fired criminal charges. After a separation of about four months, John came back to live with us, in my parents' home. He was free on his own recognizance pending the legal outcome of his case. There were court dates, another hospitalization, psychiatric exams, and the diagnoses of serious mental illness: schizoaffective disoder, simply put a combination of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. In April 2002, my husband pleaded no contest to nine felony counts involving theft, forgery and falsification of records.

For my husband's June 2002 sentencing, a probation officer prepared a report giving her recommendations on whether he should go to state prison or not. Many people wrote letters for and against prison state prison. I honestly don't remember how many years he was facing-somewhere around eight. I kind of blanked out on that detail. It was too unbelievable, and I was still moving through life in a state of shock, denial, disbelief.

One of those people writing a letter on my husband's behalf was my father. In his usual thoughtful, articulate way, he presented reasons to the judge for why it didn't make sense to send my husband to state prison.

In his letter, my father starts by pointing out that "in my professional military and public service careers, I served in many positions that called for the evaluation and character assessment of countlesss numbers of personnel."

He expressed shock and amazement at the allegations against John. "This was not the John we knew. As we look back over the many years in which he has been a part of our family, we see him as a trustworthy, honest, hardworking and bright young man."

What impressed my father the most is how John was an "exemplary parent for his 4-year-old son." My fathersaid that if John were incarcerated in state prison, the person who would suffer the most would be our son. My father pointed out how John was always reading to our son and taking him to parks, playgrounds and museums. My son, said my father, "is constantly going to his dad for information, help on projects and just plain companionship." My father, as an educator and former high school dean of boys, said that my husband and son represented, as a team, "the best in a healthy parental relationship."

I miss my dad. I'm also sorry to say that the Iraq war has cost more than 4400 U.S. lives and at least 150,000 Iraqi lives.

Living with Crazy: Total Lunar Eclipse

In January 2000, scientists from NASA and other organizations told people in the North and South America to be prepared to witness an amazing astronomical spectacle: the total eclipse of the moon. This would occur on the evening of Jan. 20.

Apparently, such an event can only take place when there is a full moon, and only if the moon passes through a portion of the Earth's shadow.

I must have been reading about all about the lunar eclipse that Thurday, or hearing about on the local radio.

It was to be a rare enough event and one of great beauty. It was scheduled for sometime around 8 p.m., Pacific time. Yes, that was a bit after our son's bedtime. He was less than 2 years old at that time, but I thought it couldn't hurt to keep him up a little longer and share this celestial event with him--even if he would be too young to understand or remember.

One concern many in Humboldt County would have on this day would be the weather--and whether the weather would allow them to see the eclipse.

One of those big Pacific Northwest storms had been passing through Arcata and the rest of the coastal region. These winter storms off the far North Coast of California are incredible to behold. I suppose they are not unlike storms--severity-wise--that we have in the Bay Area.

It's just that the North Coast setting gives these storms their drama and their beauty. On a stormy day, you can drive up 101, along the redwood-covered bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean, between Arcata and the state and national redwood parks. You can look west over the expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Above the ocean is the sky, all shades of gray and black. Both ocean and sky look as if they are massing for battle.

But it's beautiful, and I would love to take my son on drives up 101 on stormy winter days. After a stop at some vista point to look at the ocean and sky, I drive us some more, sometimes in the hope that he'd fall asleep for his afternoon nap.

Such a drive probably happened on this Jan 20., the day of this amazing lunar eclipse.

Fortunately by nightfall, the storm clouds over Humboldt County had parted. Those of us living here would be able to see the eclipse.

"It had rained in the afternoon. Poured," I wrote in my journal for that day. "But the clouds cleared away, so that by the time the moon started rising between the redwoods behind our house, the skies were perfectly, breathtakingly clear."

"It was a cold night, but not too cold. I had dressed our son in his pajamas, and wrapped him in a blanket," I wrote.

My son was a bit sleepy.

I was in my usual tights and sweater. There was a built-in bench on the redwood deck of our house in Arcata. I don't know where my husband was that night. Working? On a business trip? Just inside--depressed--and not interested in the lunar eclipse?

As I sat on the bench, still damp from the afternoon's early rain. I held my son on my lap.

As we waited for the amazing eclipse, I talked to him and tried to tell him some of his usual bedtime stories. He became tired and fussed, indicating he wanted me to take him upstairs to his room and put him to bed. I wondered if the cold night air, and the desire to be all cuddled inside, had made him sleepy.

"Slowly, a shadow passed over the moon, reducing its width to a crescent," I later wrote. "I don't think I've seen so many stars in the sky above our Arcata home. Millions and billions of tiny pinpoints of light. ... There were so many, I tried to imagine discerning the points of constellations. ... It was like trying to divine shapes in a pointillist painting."

I showed all the stars to my son. He settled down and looked up through sleepy eyes. He yawned and became still. I held him outside a bit longer, as the earth's shadow moved in front of the moon, making it burn colors of dark orange and gold, like embers in a dying fire. And as the moon darkened to its soft, low gold, the stars brightened even more.

Later that night, after I had put my son to bed, I looked out the window. The moon was back in all its glory: full and bright.