Booker T. Washington once said, “Those who are happiest are those who do the most for others.”
You could hear the anguish in her voice. Her adult child was admitted to the psychiatric unit of a community hospital for observation. Again.
A life, permanently altered by mental illness. A parent’s dreams, dashed decades ago. Hopes of honors and accolades replaced by calls from teachers, school administrators, and stints in hospitals, jail cells, and finally, prolonged periods of homelessness.
“They won’t let me see him,” she said. “I need to be with him.”
As parents, we suffer when our children are in pain, regardless of how old they are. Most parents I know would go to the ends of the earth for their children. She is no different. Her child is. She is not alone. Nor was she a bad parent.
Sadly, it is not the first time a mother (or father) confided in me. Even before a change in employment resulted in taking on the leadership of a group whose mission is to help others with mental illness, I have been the confidante for many friends, family members, and even strangers who were in need of the experience or information I have gained in my six decades on this earth.
Younger parents seeking the advice of an experienced mom, parents of school-aged children struggling to keep up academically despite the parent’s attempts to advocate for special services. Girlfriends who want to discuss life, love, and other matters of the heart.
I gladly answered each call. An ear to listen, a friendly voice, an encouraging and nonjudgmental response. While my circle is small, I would hope that those closest to me would return the favor . . . most have.
This call was different. Intellectually, there are no words. As a parent of a young adult in the midst of crisis due to self-injury, mental illness, depression, bullying, or destructive choices, you feel broken, powerless, and isolated. While he was the one with mental illness, she lived with constant heartache.
Thankfully, she had taken the steps to get help; he did not, causing great anguish to those closest to him. For years, he had spiraled out of control and refused help until he was living under a bridge alongside others fighting similar demons.
My friend never gave up, and one recent cold winter day, she found her son and offered him the shelter of her car and a warm meal. He agreed to get in the car. Instead of accepting assistance, shelter, or even comfort on her couch, he chose to sleep in the car. When another relative got sick, she was able to get some (temporary) help for him, which brings us to why she called.
“What can I do for him?” she added. “They will let him go, and he will return to the streets.”
So, how did I respond? I listened. I did not ask how I could help. Instead, I took some time to think about what she needed. After about an hour on the phone, I asked her if I could speak to her the following morning. By that time, I had made a few calls and provided her with professional tips on how she could initiate long-term care for her son.
I also reminded her that she needed to take care of herself. Eat, sleep, and take a few moments to focus on something else, without feeling guilty. By the end of day three, I was exhausted and not even certain whether our calls would provide any real assistance for this young man.
Drained, I left the office, and when I returned home and walked into my house, I glanced at my own sons. Each is healthy, happy, and able to accept assistance to deal with their problems: big or small. Softly, I shed a tear for all the moms in pain.
by Jen Riley 
by Her View From Home 
