Try to understand that I'm trying to make a move just to stay in the game

This was posted originally on February 25, 2008. Though I haven't heard anything of my friend since December 2008, I'm still thinking of him, and hoping for the best-that he is hanging out on the beach somewhere in Cali, and charming everyone he meets with his wit and kindness.

Since Everybody's Changing, and I Don't Feel the Same

Three years ago today, I signed papers requesting an involuntary commitment to a mental health treatment facility for one of my dearest friends.  He had been acting in such an erratic manner for the three or so weeks prior, that none of his friends understood where he was coming from, or what was going on with him.  There were no parents to call:  his mom died from cancer when he was six, and his dad raised  him on his own after that, and from what I remember, they had a volatile relationship.  His dad was murdered in their home the fall of our freshman year in college by a neighbor looking for cash for drugs, and he knew that Mr. S kept cash in the house.  Ironically, Mr. S was an attorney and had defended the neighbor on drug charges as a favor to his parents a few years prior to that.  The neighbor murdered and robbed Mr. S, and stole his Lexus, and was caught shortly after that at a nearby park.  My friend was summoned from his university to come home to identify his dad's body, and from there he began the journey of fear, heartbreak, and mental illness.  His friends were his family, and no one knew exactly what to do.  Although we all had varying opinions on what should be done, we were united in that we were terrified that it would not end well. 

When did his illness begin?  Had it been there all along, and was he just too charming and loved for us to see it?  He was eighteen when his father died, and he had family friends with whom he cut ties when they attempted to enact their role as guardians.  They were insistent that he stop the imprudent spending of the  ridiculous amount of money he received from his dad's estate, and that he return to school to finish his degree.  He did end up going back to school-he would start each semester strong, and then would just stop going.  It wasn't that he wasn't smart enough to do the work-he is annoyingly intelligent-he justcouldn't finish.  As the years went by most of us ended up finishing our degrees and moving out into the work force.  Because of the money he had, he lived a life of haunted leisure, buying whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, picking up huge dinner bills and bar tabs for his friends and sometimes strangers.  He was innately charming, loving, humorous, and generous to a fault-no one could help but love him. 

For me, the first time I really noticed behavior that worried me more than usual was at JWO's and my wedding in October 2004.  37 of us went to Negril, Jamaica and spent days together celebrating and enjoying paradise.  He kept to himself most of the time, which was uncharacteristic of him-he usually seemed to hate being alone.  Following our return home, his behavior became more and more bizarre, and he stopped returning calls and initiating contact with his friends.  When people did see him, he could not follow conversations or differentiate reality from fantasy.  He had delusions of grandeur, and sometimes felt sure that he had mystical powers.   After days of deliberation, tears, agonizing and arguing, his best friend called me and said that he was afraid that our friend was going to leave, and our worst fears would come to fruition-that he would commit suicide or run away and we would never see him again.  A group of six of us got together that night and tried to find him since he had taken off on foot, and then we decided to go to the police station in order to sign the involuntary commitment papers.  In an even more bizarre turn of events, our friend walked into the station while I was signing the papers.  He had had another friend drop him off there because he thought his car had been stolen, and he had come to the police station to file a report.  I was not visible to him from where he was standing, but I could hear him talking to the police on duty a room away.  Surreal is not even the word for it.

As an aside, it was disturbing to me how easy it is have someone sign a request for involuntary commitment for anyone.  I basically had to put down his full name, birth date, and address, and then a listing of behaviors he had exhibited that indicated that he might be a danger to himself or others, and then my name, signature, and phone number.  That.  Is.  It.  I even asked the magistrate if he needed to see some ID, and was told no.  That should have been an indicator to me of how ineffective and supremely disorganized our mental health system is, and that our battle of meandering through the mire was just beginning, but that is a whole 'nother blog entry. 

To make an epic story a little shorter, our friend went to the hospital for a bit, was released, and bounced around for several months after that.  The money began running shorter, and we saw less and less of him.  When we did see him, he was subdued-I think he was afraid to do or say anything, because he truly did not understand why we were so worried, or what about his behavior had pushed the decision for us to have him committed.   In his eyes, we had betrayed him, and though I think that he desperately wanted to be with his friends, he was terrified that we would have him committed again.  How horrible must it have been for him to see at least 20 of his friends stand up at his hospital hearing and ask the judge not to release him?  So,  he kept his distance, and quietly got sicker and sicker.  It has been over two years since any of us have seen him, and the last anyone heard, he was somewhere in California drifting around.  He is completely out of money, and he is sick.  We miss him. 

There are a myriad of emotions I have about the situation.  There are times when I think it is tragic, and there are times when I miss him terribly.  There are times I get so angry with him and anyone else involved for allowing him to go over the edge that I want to cry.  I feel guilty that I didn't realize what was happening before it got so bad-I have Master's Degree in a psychological field-where were my observation skills, training, and instinct? It is so clear now-I can track his psychotic episode timelines in my head.    When the group of friends is all together, I always feel that someone is missing, and then I remember that it is him.  In all honesty, if he were to come back, I think I would be scared of him.  Who knows what is going through his head at this point?  Would he even remember us or what happened? 

Overall, though, I and others miss him, and wish it were different.  Please forgive me, friend, for not doing a better job.  We did the best we could-I am beyond sorry that it wasn't good enough. 

Happy Birthday tomorrow
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zx4Hjq6KwO0

My Grandma and Your Grandma, Sittin' by the Fire

So, it finally happened. I found out that a person who was once close to me and I actually referred to as my grandmother died. Two and a half weeks ago. And the funeral has already come and gone. I knew it would happen eventually, and I am simultaneously shaken and relieved by it. It has been about five years since I’ve spoken to Bea, who was actually my dad’s stepmother, but she’d been in the grandmother role for me since the early 1990s. Prior to that, we had been closeish. I was holding on to the last vestiges of family at that point that I could, and they were some of the few people in my family of origin with whom I still had any contact. It is a Bermuda Triangle of Estrangement. I don’t talk to my parents. My parents don’t talk to each other, and my parents don’t talk to their own parents.

Honestly, my grandparents got on my nerves. They pitted their grandchildren and children against each other by obviously favoring the boys over the girls while completely denying they were doing it, and by announcing they had written various family members out of their wills when any of us acted erroneously. The final straw for me was Christmas of 2005, when Granddaddy gave his annual gift of $50 in cash to my uncle to give to me. It made no sense to do that, because my uncle lives across town from me, and I rarely saw him even then, but it was typical Granddaddy logic. Oh, and I think Granddaddy paid for my male cousin’s senior year of college that year. But no favoritism.  None. When I didn’t come to collect the $50 in enough time, I received a voice mail from my deaf granddaddy screaming that he had taken the money back from my uncle, and had spent it on suits for another cousin’s one and three-year-old sons. Because they apparently had upcoming job interviews and needed to look professional.

As an aside, it wasn’t about the money for me. I didn’t need the stupid 50 bucks. I usually spent more than 50 bucks on the nice bottle of booze I bought them every Christmas. It was the principle of the thing.

A few days later, I called Granddady’s house and spoke to Bea. Since deaf denial was rampant over there and Granddaddy couldn’t hear me on the phone, and he refused to utilize any of the phone services for people who are Hard of Hearing, I had to talk with Bea when I called their house. When I spoke to her, I mentioned that I felt like I was being mistreated when I got the message about my Christmas money being spent on my cousin’s kids. She got agitated and gave me the classic “sucks for you” apology that isn’t really an apology: “I’m sorry you feel that way.” And she hung up on me. I never called back. I had also been calling to tell them that I was pregnant with FOO, but I didn’t get the chance to tell her before she disconnected.

I have heard from family friends over the years that my grandparents were confused as to why I never called or came over any more. I really think it never occurred to them that you can’t continuously treat people like shit and expect them to keep coming back. But in their hearts, they must have known, or been unhappy with me, because my phone never rang from their number again.  Or they were that old and toeing the edge of senility that they didn’t remember it. I don’t really know that it matters. Acting like that is not okay.

Here’s the really messed up part. Since my dad and Granddaddy haven’t spoken in about seven years, my ridiculously passive-aggressive Granddaddy sent a complete stranger to my dad’s workplace to tell him that Bea died, and that Bea’s son is moving up to Charlotte from the Atlanta area to take care of Granddaddy, who needs assistance with activities of daily living. Twist the knife. Pour in the salt, you big freaking baby.

Yeah.  So I’m actually not sad about it. Or not sad about the loss of Bea, because I had already lost her years ago. It did prompt me to search the online obituaries of the names of other aging relatives, but no dice, erm, matches.