As a professional case manager, one of the most important things I learned is how drug abuse and mental illness interact. Sometimes people are mentally ill and they use street drugs because of that fact. They self-medicate, so to speak. And sometimes, the drug abuse itself causes a psychotic break, which means that if they weren’t mentally ill to begin with, they are now. The doctors seemed to have an idea of which was which, but as a Case Manager…I didn’t have a clue. I was just there to deal with the client’s reality. I had a client at one time who was a Mom. And she was on welfare and living in the projects. I remember that she had three children, and struck me as more like a child than an adult herself. She was sweet. And thrived on my mix of Mom/Case Manager in dealing with my clients. We got close. I think she trusted me. And while I knew that she abused drugs, I trusted her as much as you can a drug addict. She was also one of my most “sick” clients. When in a psychotic episode, she would see terrifying things (called a visual hallucination) and would call me because she was so scared. That meant a trip to the hospital and stabilization on medication. Then she would get out of the hospital, and despite the fact that I would beg her, eventually she would stop taking the meds and start using street drugs. Of course, that made absolutely no sense to me. Unless you recognize the fact that there is no common sense in drug addiction and mental illness.
No, mental illness makes no sense. That wasn’t the first time I learned that lesson. The names that my Mom called us made no sense. She kept calling my Dad “queer”. No, my Dad was not in the closet. He was a married man who loved his wife when she was healthy. The thing he missed the most when she was in the control of her mental illness was his relationship with his wife. And in spite of the years of abuse and anger, he was faithful to my Mom till the day he died. When my Mom had a ‘clear’ moment, I remember them having a discussion about what “queer” meant. And she didn’t really get it. They had gone to a movie. And homosexuality was part of the plot line. And my Mom and Dad were talking about how that was what she was saying about Dad. My Mom seemed shocked. She apologized and said that she would never say that again. To nobody’s great surprise, she was calling him a “queer” the very next day. My poor Dad looked so defeated. (By the way, homosexuality wasn’t the problem, the inaccuracy and anger were.)
So, what did I learn from that? I was furious with her. As a child who loved her Dad, I hated what she called him. I don’t know exactly when this happened, but by the time it had, I had long since gotten over the “Respect your parent” kind of thing and yelled at her about it. In response, she called me a name. Another day in the loving Schwartz household. We were all defeated. And I was SO confused. For many years, my resentment towards my mother grew. I hated her. She didn’t bathe. She called us names. And she didn’t even clean the house. I kept asking her “What kind of Mom are you”? The implication was clear. ‘You are a lousy Mom.’ I even used language that was totally unbecoming to a child. But I was growing up fast. I called her names that a longshoreman would be ashamed of. And I was not yet out of elementary school. Most of them, I had learned from her.
As I got older, and my Aunt lectured me about talking to my poor Mom nicely, I tried to moderate it. It was hard. I didn’t always do so well. Our fights were legendary. The worst of Judy came out. Even towards the end of her life, my Mom could still be a trigger for me. She would say something, and I would go off. As an adult. And one that definitely knew better. I would sometimes simply detach from her, which meant that I would not contact her for long periods of time. This is a behavior which shames me to this day. Underneath it all, I loved her.
But I did turn that anger into something else. The overriding lesson that I took from this experience was the need for compassion. So, I could deal with my drug addicted/mentally ill clients with love. I learned to not take the relationship at face value. Yes, my clients didn’t always listen to me. I wouldn’t hesitate to say that my success rate in actually changing their behavior was 50% or less. Probably considerably less. (50% is probably delusional.) But I could love them. When my client called me about the snakes, I didn’t lecture her. I tried to respond with love. I helped to get her into the hospital. No judging, blaming or recriminations. Thanks, Mom.
No, mental illness makes no sense. That wasn’t the first time I learned that lesson. The names that my Mom called us made no sense. She kept calling my Dad “queer”. No, my Dad was not in the closet. He was a married man who loved his wife when she was healthy. The thing he missed the most when she was in the control of her mental illness was his relationship with his wife. And in spite of the years of abuse and anger, he was faithful to my Mom till the day he died. When my Mom had a ‘clear’ moment, I remember them having a discussion about what “queer” meant. And she didn’t really get it. They had gone to a movie. And homosexuality was part of the plot line. And my Mom and Dad were talking about how that was what she was saying about Dad. My Mom seemed shocked. She apologized and said that she would never say that again. To nobody’s great surprise, she was calling him a “queer” the very next day. My poor Dad looked so defeated. (By the way, homosexuality wasn’t the problem, the inaccuracy and anger were.)
So, what did I learn from that? I was furious with her. As a child who loved her Dad, I hated what she called him. I don’t know exactly when this happened, but by the time it had, I had long since gotten over the “Respect your parent” kind of thing and yelled at her about it. In response, she called me a name. Another day in the loving Schwartz household. We were all defeated. And I was SO confused. For many years, my resentment towards my mother grew. I hated her. She didn’t bathe. She called us names. And she didn’t even clean the house. I kept asking her “What kind of Mom are you”? The implication was clear. ‘You are a lousy Mom.’ I even used language that was totally unbecoming to a child. But I was growing up fast. I called her names that a longshoreman would be ashamed of. And I was not yet out of elementary school. Most of them, I had learned from her.
As I got older, and my Aunt lectured me about talking to my poor Mom nicely, I tried to moderate it. It was hard. I didn’t always do so well. Our fights were legendary. The worst of Judy came out. Even towards the end of her life, my Mom could still be a trigger for me. She would say something, and I would go off. As an adult. And one that definitely knew better. I would sometimes simply detach from her, which meant that I would not contact her for long periods of time. This is a behavior which shames me to this day. Underneath it all, I loved her.
But I did turn that anger into something else. The overriding lesson that I took from this experience was the need for compassion. So, I could deal with my drug addicted/mentally ill clients with love. I learned to not take the relationship at face value. Yes, my clients didn’t always listen to me. I wouldn’t hesitate to say that my success rate in actually changing their behavior was 50% or less. Probably considerably less. (50% is probably delusional.) But I could love them. When my client called me about the snakes, I didn’t lecture her. I tried to respond with love. I helped to get her into the hospital. No judging, blaming or recriminations. Thanks, Mom.
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