Will's Choice

by Gail Griffith

  5. You’ll be expected to pay $350 a month for your room and board. This will cease should you decide to enroll in college full-time. Rent will be due on the first of the month. You’ll be shooting for April 1 for your first rent check.

  6. We want you to take it slow on the hours you keep, until you are comfortably settled in. The first two weeks, nothing after 10:00 p.m. without special permission. After that, 11:00 on weeknights and 1:00 on weekends. Hours will always be subject to conversation, while you’re living at home. They will be determined in part by which other kids are at home with you. For as long as you’re at home, you will need to make some concessions to the sleep patterns of your parents. On mornings when you have a chance to sleep in, nothing later than 10:00 a.m.

  7. We are going to expect very close communication on your whereabouts for the first three months. But even after that time there will be a need to let the other members of your household know your whereabouts. It will be your responsibility to make sure we know where you are and with whom. For the duration of this contract you will be expected to carry either a cell phone or a beeper when you are away from home. (Work is the one exception.)

  8. We will want to monitor your relationships with old friends and new for the duration of this contract. Bring home the people you spend time with. We will want to meet and get to know any new friends you happen upon, and we will want to be confident that when you’re in the company of old friends they will be acting in your best interest.

  9. During visits to California, we are going to want an open door policy whenever you are in your room during the day, whether alone or with friends. You can excuse yourself to play your music more loudly or to sleep.

  10. No more than an hour and a half at a stretch on the computer or the video game consoles. And no more than seven hours total in a given week, unless you are working on a writing project.

  11. Flat out no drugs. We’re going to reserve the right to request a drug screening at any time. Refusal will be regarded as equivalent to a positive reading. You will limit alcohol use, in keeping with your understanding that the meds make you especially susceptible to its effects. No alcohol period when you are planning to drive.

  12. We will help you plan a visit with Maga and Pop [grandparents] in Texas. You can make this visit as soon as a weekend can be worked out with your new job.

  13. Go to college. We’re not going to beat on this idea endlessly, and you’ve made it clear that you want time to work or travel first and will explore college later. We understand this and are open to it, but don’t mistake this understanding for any less concern that you get started on college when you’re ready. We regard it as all but essential. We will encourage the decision to get back to school with financial support.

  14. A family meeting time will be established, probably on Sundays, when we can update one another on how all this is going.

  15. Consequences for the breach of the terms of this agreement may include loss of car privileges, grounding, or drudgery tasks.

  16. This agreement is intended to last for six months. It expires August 22, 2002. At that time we can discuss whether an extension to the agreement makes sense.

  Here’s to the future…. With love,

  Your parents and stepparents

  Two issues in the contract stand out and merit amplification. They have to do with friends and peers (item 8) and drugs and alcohol (item 11). Often the two go hand in hand. Articulating imposed limits on alcohol consumption or defining a “no drugs” policy must seem shockingly obvious to parents of children who have never experimented with drugs or alcohol. But research on behavior in young people today finds that a majority of kids have experimented with both before they reach the age of eighteen.

  According to data from the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, over the course of a twelve-month period during 2001,

  56% of teens reported drinking alcohol during the previous month;

  33% reported episodic heavy drinking during the previous month;

  25% used marijuana during the previous month;

  13% reported having sniffed or inhaled intoxicating substances on at lease one occasion; and

  8% reported using cocaine on at least one occasion.

  When I talk to other parents of teens, the topic of drugs and alcohol hardly ever enters the conversation, unless and until these substances present a problem for the parents of the child. This is a failing of our contemporary culture. Maybe because so many parents of my generation have personal histories replete with underage experimentation with drugs and alcohol, we turn a blind eye to our children’s usage, cross our fingers, and try to rationalize it away: “They’re going to try it anyway”: “It’s nothing I didn’t do when I was their age” “One beer won’t do them any harm.”

  We need to face the fact that the pass we are giving our children on alcohol and drugs does do them harm. The reasons we look the other way are complex. And I’m not sure what the solution is, short of a national debate on drugs and alcohol that somehow addresses the distinctions between (1) experimentation, (2) casual usage, and (3) substance abuse. I don’t expect the debate to occur in my lifetime.

  My real concern, however, focuses on drug and alcohol use in depressed teens. There are a couple of warnings worth reiterating. First, teens engage in risky behaviors without regard to consequences. This suggests that a depressed teen with a history of substance abuse—or a depressed kid who uses drugs and alcohol even occasionally—runs a very real risk of compounding the problems associated with depression. Their perceptions about reality, the size and scope of personal problems, and consequences of their behavior are further occluded under the influence of drugs and alcohol.

  Dr. David Shaffer, in a 1996 study of boys ages sixteen to nineteen who committed suicide, demonstrated that a full sixty-six percent had been abusing drugs or alcohol in the weeks or months prior to their deaths.1 Since substance abuse is evident in the majority of teen suicides, we need to address it now. Drug and alcohol abuse do not always accompany adolescent depression, but they certainly turn up as symptoms in most depressed kids.

  The second point to underscore is that a young person in treatment for depression, who is being prescribed a course of psychotropic drugs, is already under the influence of some very powerful chemical agents. Introducing illegal drugs, randomly or haphazardly—even something as seemingly benign as marijuana or alcohol—to this mix is just plain stupid, and parents need to be very wary and very aware. As difficult as it may be, it behooves us to be open with our children and address the issue of substance abuse head on.

  No surprise, as the winter term at Montana Academy drew to a close, Will began to have qualms about leaving, about returning home, and he worried that his depression might return. We took some comfort knowing that he had learned a great deal about depression and we hoped he had learned a good deal about himself. If he were confronted with this illness again, we were counting on him to have the emotional tools with which to handle it, in the short-and long-term.

  In the future, as with most persons afflicted with major depression, odds are he will suffer another bout. He will have to be mindful of the triggers and recognize the warning signs of his illness. He will have to know when to ask for help and allow himself to be open to receiving it. And he will have to be vigilant and take steps to avoid suicidal thinking. It’s a lot to ask of anyone; I would argue that it’s a colossal challenge for a young person.

  On Tuesday night, February 19, Jack and I arrived in Kalispell to attend Will’s graduation from Montana Academy, scheduled for 4:30 PM the next day. Bob and Melissa flew in from San Francisco and met us in Whitefish, where we checked into Pine Lodge, a now familiar haunt on the main drag leading into town, overlooking a pristine river. I wondered if I would ever go back there, to that breathtakingly beautiful part of the country. The intensity of our attachment to the northwest corner of Montana sprang, it goes without saying, from unhappy circumstances. But I had come to appreciate t
he clean, spare feel of the small towns and the glory of Montana’s natural surroundings. Whitefish, Big Fork, Kalispell, and Columbia—all of these towns were as far from Washington, D.C., or San Francisco, geographically and culturally, as you could get.

  I believe the remoteness of the place afforded added value by dislocating us from our daily routine temporarily. Drawn to this stark setting, we were forced to concentrate all of our emotion and attention on the benefits of the therapeutic program absent everyday concerns. The isolation was no accident. We had seen evidence time and again to indicate that the remoteness afforded this same opportunity to the kids in the program, as well.

  On Wednesday morning, before we made our way to the ranch and the graduation ceremony, the four of us, Bob, Melissa, Jack, and I, stopped at a coffee shop we frequented on previous visits because of its excellent olallieberry popovers. I will remember Kalispell for its good coffee and wonderful breakfasts, in addition to other small treasures. Will’s own fondness for pastries, pies, and donuts was legendary and he had sampled the ollalieberry popovers whenever we were in Kalispell. We bought strong coffee and half a dozen popovers for the forty-minute ride up snow-laced roads to Lost Horizon Ranch.

  Finally, we were entering the home stretch. This was probably my last ride up the hill and down the dirt road to Montana Academy. I was so relieved we had made it—that Will had made it; but I also felt a blip of nostalgia. Or ambivalence. And a certain unease about what might lie ahead. Montana Academy not only offered Will an impenetrable cocoon; it provided the rest of us a respite to reflect and heal as a family in the aftermath of his suicide attempt. I wanted reassurance that when we traveled the road back to town later that day, Will in the backseat, diploma in hand, everything was going to be all right. What parent wouldn’t give a limb for a guarantee of that magnitude?

  Would Will miss this place? Probably not immediately. Maybe not ever. I would wager there were people, his counselors, his doctor, some of the kids, with whom he would remain in touch—at least in the short-term. But it would be hard to cast overboard the painful associations he automatically stored away for that time and place.

  I have a similar reaction to the Psychiatric Institute of Washington, where both Will and I “did time.” I cannot drive by the functionally ugly, brown brick structure on one of Washington’s main drags without feeling little electric zaps of anxiety.

  Sometimes, when I pass by in the summer, I see clusters of patients standing out in front of the building, smoking, sunning themselves, Styrofoam cups of coffee in their shaky hands. Some have that affect-less, sorry gaze that never manages to alight too long on any one object, or the agitated syncopation that keeps them rocking like a metronome to an internal beat, back and forth, back and forth. I know the telltale signs by heart. I can rev up those memories in a split second. Crossing to the other side of the street, I avert my gaze as if the scene in front of PIW were the tableau of a gory accident. “There but the grace of God…” I imagine Will will feel that way, too.

  Toward the end of his brilliant tome, The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression, author Andrew Solomon observes:

  That is, perhaps, the greatest revelation I have had: not that depression is compelling but that the people who suffer from it may become compelling because of it. I hope that this basic fact will offer sustenance to those who suffer and will inspire patience and love in those who witness that suffering.2

  I recall a conversation I had with a friend shortly after my first child was born. She asked, “What do you suppose he’ll grow up to be?” We were sitting on the living room floor, sipping lemonade, and Max was lying on a quilt between us, eyes wide open, placid and content. I was fawning over him, drinking him in with new-mother glory. “I don’t care,” I replied cavalierly, “as long as he’s not a dictator or a rapist.” But in the back of my mind, I thought, “I want my child to grow up to be compassionate.” Compassionate and caring.

  Children do not necessarily come by compassion naturally. It is a virtue that needs to be instilled—or “inspired,” as Andrew Solomon suggests. If Will gained anything during his many months of suffering, I’m sure he came to appreciate the many ways mental illness distills the experience of depression to its lowest common denominator, nullifying feeling and connectedness to others. But I know, from personal experience, that the process of healing requires you to take stock of who you are and where you fit in the world. This process demands a level of awareness of and attentiveness to the suffering of others.

  I do not believe you can survive the experience of depression without becoming a more compassionate person. No one wants his or her child to suffer depression. None of us ever wants to see our children afflicted with any illness, setback, or trauma. Too often, however, it is out of our hands. But in the best of circumstances, we can hope our children rebound with courage, good health—and compassion.

  Perhaps one of the hardest things I have had to do as a parent is roll back my expectations for my children. Everyone I know has fantasies when their kids are tiny of a grown child walking across a stage in cap and gown to receive a diploma from a prestigious school, turning to face the audience, lifting the diploma in the air, and hailing, “This wouldn’t have been possible without my mom and dad!” You imagine tears of joy, your pride inflating like a helium balloon, until you virtually levitate off the gymnasium floor. Or how about the fantasy of your daughter—a future leader of America—in a beautiful long dress, shyly admiring an orchid corsage the handsome captain of the baseball team has just attached to her bodice before heading out to the prom? Dream on.

  Parents need a reality check: expectations backfire. I have learned that the more tightly bound you are to the expectations you have for your child, the greater the disappointment. Parenting is a great leveler. It humbles you in more ways than I can count.

  Two out of three parents I meet today tell me stories attesting to the circuitous and sometimes terrifying dilatory or unconventional ways in which their children “came of age.” As my mother reminded me when Will dropped out of high school, “They all get there by different means.” We are called to examine our motivation for wanting our children to adhere to the well-threaded path.

  I wanted my children to experience normal, average adolescence (whatever “normal” means) because I thought it would be easier on them—and on me. But of the four children I have had a hand in rearing, two of my own and two stepchildren, all four deviated significantly from “normal” at some point during adolescence. Perhaps it is a reflection of my parenting skills rather than the choices my children made (some good, some disastrous), but as a family we didn’t specialize in student-body presidents or varsity-letter athletes, science-prize winners or lead roles in the school play. For the most part, our kids struggled and stumbled, occasionally excelled, and somehow survived to become strong, capable, independent, and creative young people. Perhaps this is the new normal.

  I never imagined seeing any of my children saddled with a debilitating mental illness smack-dab in the middle of their teens. Likewise, I do not know a single parent who anticipated having to address a son or daughter’s substance abuse, sexual promiscuity, truancy, or licentious behavior. But, as our children are fond of saying, “shit happens.” Embrace it. Once more, I think my mother was right when she told me, “It’s how you cope…that measures your personal worth.”

  I was sorting through Will’s old high school papers recently when I came across a short assignment he wrote in the fall of 2000, at the beginning of his junior year, “before this whole mess began,” as he would say. His recipe for happiness? “My recipe for happiness is simply having good friends and people who care about me in my life.” It is safe to say that from the perspective of his “friends and people who care” about him, he succeeded, big time.

  9/20/00

  Chapter 2 Ethics Assignment; Mr. Adkins

  Will D.

  Recipe for Happiness

  Before writing this, I asked my brother what he tho
ught the recipe for happiness is. His response was, “Knowing that I’m the greatest man alive.” Obviously, he was joking, but when I thought about what he had said, (whether he realized it or not) he was right. The recipe for happiness is self-contentment. By this, I mean the peace of mind, which comes with being completely satisfied with one’s self and one’s situation. In order to be happy you must enjoy being the person you are, doing the things you do, living where you live, having the friends you have, etc.

  As far as I am concerned, I feel that I am way too young to decide what will ultimately make me happy. At this point, my recipe for happiness is simply having good friends and people who care about me in my life. Who is to say that won’t change as I grow older.

  Before a roaring fire in the giant meeting hall of the main lodge at Montana Academy, Will received his high school diploma in a blue satin cap and gown, in front of family, friends, teachers, and therapists. We snapped a lot of photos and bear-hugged his teachers, doctors, and the other parents.

  Three other kids graduated from the program that day, but only one, his friend Marla from San Francisco, also received her high school diploma. Even in this rarified and anomalous setting, it was a triumphant and gratifying moment. Will graduated with honors, having maintained a 3.8 grade-point average. Everyone wished him well. But our elation was short-lived.

  Our last meeting with Dennis Malinak at Montana Academy later that day was wildly unsettling. We were hoping to catch Dennis for a chunk of time that afternoon, between the graduation ceremony and a dinner organized for the kids at a roadside restaurant along nearby McGregor Lake. We were expecting something along the lines of an outtake interview, some advice and guidance we could take away to cap off Will’s ten-month stay…last words of wisdom before reentry.