This has been a 25-year journey with our son diagnosed at 21 with Schizophrenia. Add in Anosognosia, and self-medication with alcohol and whatever is on the streets. So, we have had cycles of stopping meds, going to the streets for drugs, being arrested, gets back on meds in jail, and we are back on the recovery track.

We get so excited to see their reasoning and clarity begin to return that we dismiss our sleepless nights hearing them talk to voices, going in and out all night to smoke, and wonder what the kitchen will look like after he combines concoctions of food items that should never be eaten together. We dismiss the holes in the wall from the meltdown, we dismiss the slap I received from behind when I finally got out of bed at 5 am after the 6, 7, 8th time of him going to the backyard to smoke.

I read they are calmer after that nicotine receptor is fed. I thought this might be a good time to convince him to take his meds and do a walk-in at the clinic. I should have noted the blank, wide-eyed look like he didn’t even recognize me. When I said his name, he didn’t respond. I should have walked away. That little natural alert we feel in our chest when in danger, I ignored. This was my firstborn born who is the most loving mama’s boy and would never hurt me. I asked him to come sit in the family room to talk.

I turned my back, and it happened. One slap to the side of my face. No words, just a slap and as I screamed. He backed into his room. I was more shocked than hurt. My husband came, responding to my scream. He asked him “what is wrong with you?” His reply was “she is always f*cking with us.” I called for crisis intervention, but was reluctant to tell them he hit me because I knew they would take him to jail on assault and elder abuse as I was over 50.

Thankfully, they took him to a psych hospital. After 3 days on meds, I got a call with the most heartfelt apology and promises to never stop meds and treatment. That, unfortunately, didn’t hold, but what did hold was that I never allowed my son to live in our home again for my safety. I had read the articles over the years of especially about mothers being beaten or killed.

I even lost a dear friend at the hands of her son while in a psychotic break. I did/do not want to join that club. I am still my son’s closest advocate. He knows I will find him on the street, call for crisis intervention, go to court hearings to advocate for diversion, order extra food/snacks while he’s in jail, and be there upon release with new clothes from underwear to shoes. But the sting and shock from that slap I still feel from 14 years ago is my reminder that he can never live at home again.

For 20 years, I have facilitated classes and groups for families/supporters of individuals living with SMI. My story is not unique, or the worst. Many family members don’t talk about it out of shame and fear that our loved one will be locked away. We need to talk about this hidden secret in mental illness to support families.