Safe, Wanted, and Loved: A Family Memoir of Mental Illness, Heartbreak, and Hope

by Patrick Dylan

  As comforting as it was to hear her sound lucid, I couldn’t relax. First, I was apprehensive about the next down cycle; by this point, I knew it was coming. And second, she hadn’t taken her pills that day. She was due for her nighttime dose, but I had no idea how to broach the subject.

  “Pat,” she said abruptly, rotating to face me, “I know I need to take my medication. I’ll take it, okay, just give me a little more time?”

  I sat looking at her, startled by the question. It was hard to believe she was seeing the situation from my perspective, let alone that she had remembered the pills. “Yeah,” I said, “okay.”

  We sat talking for a while, the three of us. Most of the time, Luke and Mia reminisced about events from their childhood. Someone listening to the conversation wouldn’t have noticed anything odd. The room grew darker and darker.

  After about forty-five minutes, Mia stood up. “I gotta check my email,” she said. “I’ll be in the study.”

  “Okay,” I said, standing up with her, “I’ll get your medication together.” Mia didn’t respond; she spun around and walked away. I turned to Luke, eyebrows raised in question.

  “Don’t worry, bro,” he said. “She agreed to take it.”

  “Right, but does she even remember that?”

  Five minutes later, I had her medication in a paper cup and was standing at the door of the study, a glass of water in my other hand. Mia was scrolling through her messages on the computer.

  “Here you go, babe,” I said. “Time to take your medication.”

  “I’ll take it, just not now.”

  “I think it’s time to take it,” I replied firmly. It was already past the designated hour for her evening dose.

  “No, it isn’t time to take it,” she said slowly, treating me like a child. “I’ll tell you when it is time to take it.”

  “Mia, I—”

  “Jesus Christ, Pat!” she cried. “Not now, I said!”

  I backed away, unsure what to do. Retreating to the kitchen, I put the medication on the counter. Then I thought better of it, remembering what Alex had said. Hustling back to our bedroom, I unlocked the safe and stashed the cup inside. Then I texted Dr. Rojas:

  Mia refusing to take the medication

  He responded immediately:

  She has to take it

  No choice

  I sat on our bed, staring down at his text. I began weighing the options. I could try again, hoping that Mia would change her mind. I could reason with her or try to bribe her. Neither of those seemed promising. Luke and I could hold her down and force her to take the medication, but how do you force someone to swallow a handful of pills? My heart was pounding; the seconds crept by.

  After about twenty minutes, I walked slowly back to the study. Gathering my courage, I stepped into the doorway. Mia looked up from the computer screen. “It’s a quarter to ten, Mia,” I said, “and it’s time to take your medication.”

  “God, you’re something,” she sneered. “You want to keep me medicated so that you can control the kids, is that it?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Drug me up, Pat?” she cried. “Keep me under your control!”

  I stood staring at her.

  “How do I know what’s in those drugs?” she yelled. “You could be giving me anything! You and your mind-controlling medication. Why don’t you take it, Pat? Why don’t you take it!”

  I took a deep breath but maintained my poise. “Mia, the medication is for you. I’m not trying to control you; I’m trying to help you. Now, I am going to get your medication, and when I come back, you are going to take it.”

  I returned quickly to our room. I could hardly open the safe, my hands were shaking so badly. I was scared; I didn’t know what we were going to do if we couldn’t convince her to take the medication. Grabbing the cupful of medicine, I hurried back to the kitchen for a glass of water.

  As I was standing at the sink, I heard the haunting sound of the lanai door clanging. Suddenly, Luke was shouting, “No! No, you don’t!”

  I ran to the window and saw that he had thrown open the back slider and tackled Mia, who had been trying to escape again. He was now carrying her forcefully back into the house.

  I seized the medication, ran down the hallway, and lunged into the back room to find Luke restraining Mia on the floor. He was sitting on her legs and had her arms pinned to the carpet with his hands. They could have been little kids again, wrestling playfully. But they weren’t; they were grown adults engaged in battle.

  Luke seemed calm, like he had the situation under control. Although he was a thin guy, he still weighed considerably more than his petite sister. Mia was writhing, trying frantically to break free. She looked wild again, like she had in the crisis center—a rabid animal caught in a cage. She was screaming, “You think you can take me, Luke? You think you can fucking take me!”

  Then she whipped her head around and caught sight of me, holding the medication. “Think he’s going to protect you, Pat?” she leered at me, baring her teeth. “He can’t fucking protect you! I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS, PAT!”

  Time froze; I was watching the horror movie again. Mia was the most gentle and caring individual I had ever met, but in that moment, if it weren’t for Luke, she would have assaulted me.

  I found the strength to say, “Mia, you have a choice.” My voice was restrained, but the adrenaline was pumping violently through my body. “You can take your medication now, or I will call 911. If I call 911, they will take you back to the crisis center.”

  I wasn’t sure how the thought of resorting to 911 had popped into my head, but instinctively I knew it was the right decision. Luke and I had no way of forcing Mia to take the medication; if she wouldn’t take it, the treatment center was the only alternative.

  “Do you understand your options?”

  Mia looked up at me and spat. “I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU’RE GOING DOWN, PAT!! YOU’RE GOING DOWN!!” She intensified her fight, but Luke didn’t look fazed.

  I pulled out my phone. “Stop struggling now, Mia, and take the medication, or I call 911.”

  She was arching her back, pushing madly against Luke’s weight. She wasn’t about to surrender.

  I dialed 911. It was the first time I had ever called the number. Within ten seconds, a woman answered. “This is 911, what is your emergency?”

  “My wife is psychotic and won’t take her medication,” I stammered. The woman asked a few more questions. Within two minutes, we heard sirens approaching from a distance. Suddenly, someone began pounding at the front door.

  I ran through the house and, passing through the kitchen, saw red lights reflected in our foyer. Two firefighters were standing on our porch, knocking loudly and peering through the windows.

  I unbolted the door, throwing it open. “Sir, we are here for a domestic disturbance,” cried one of them; she was dressed in full uniform. She was shouting because the sirens were deafening. A fire truck was parked in our driveway behind her, the lights flashing brightly.

  “Yes, come in!” I responded. “It’s my wife. She’s psychotic and won’t take her medication!”

  “Where is she now, sir?” the woman asked. They had shut the door, blocking out some of the noise.

  “She’s in the back room. My brother-in-law is holding her down,” I answered, without thinking about how strange it sounded.

  The firefighter started walking that way. I began following her, but the other one stopped me. “Sir, I’ll need to ask you a few questions.” He had sympathetic eyes but a formal demeanor. Glancing behind him, I saw a police car join the fire truck in our driveway.

  Things were happening quickly. The fireman had a clipboard and was peppering me with questions. They had to do with Mia, but he was also grilling me, wanting to know if I had been drinking or if there were any drugs in the house. Without grasping
his intent, I started talking about Seroquel, Zyprexa, and Ativan.

  In the midst of this, the other firefighter brought Mia out of the back room. Luke was nowhere to be seen. I was still answering questions as Mia was escorted past.

  “Babe?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

  “Sir, please!” snapped the firefighter. “Do not interact with your wife.”

  She led Mia to our front porch and was met by two police officers. They made Mia sit and began interrogating her, too.

  After another couple of minutes, the fireman turned his clipboard around and asked me to sign the form he had completed. I glanced at some kind of report, but it was hard to focus in the confusion. Scribbling my signature across the bottom, I turned to the front door, but the fireman put his hand to my chest.

  “Sir, you need to remain inside,” he commanded. “We will handle the situation from here.” He joined the others gathered around Mia.

  I stared out dejectedly at the unfolding scene. Mia was crying, her eyes red and puffy. She was as scared as she had ever been. Uniformed officers surrounded her, with sirens blasting and lights pulsating in the background.

  I couldn’t hear what they were asking, but I knew her face by heart; I could read her lips in response. She kept answering, “I don’t know why he called you. I don’t know.” Tears began streaming down my face, too.

  The policemen kept asking her questions, but Mia couldn’t understand what was happening. I watched her say, gulping between sobs, “He must have thought it was something bad, but it wasn’t. It was only Kaopectate because I had an upset stomach.” She was crying harder now, pleading with them. “It was only Kaopectate.”

  I had never seen Mia take Kaopectate, but watching her talk about it was torture. All I wanted was to rush out and comfort her, but the situation was out of my control. The officers were standing Mia up, putting her against the wall, and pulling out handcuffs. It was too much; I leapt for the door. As soon as I opened it, the fireman yelled, “Stay in your house, sir! Stay in your house!”

  In disbelief, I watched as they cuffed Mia’s hands behind her back while she wept uncontrollably. Having pledged my life to this woman, I was now helpless as they forced her into the police car. Even worse: I had called in her persecutors.

  A crowd of neighbors gathered on the road, observing in silence. Some stood on our lawn, trying for a closer view.

  Suddenly, the fireman was standing in front of me again. “Sir, your wife will be involuntarily committed to the Gulfshore Treatment Center. The police are taking her there now.”

  Then, as quickly as it had started, the scene ended. The police car pulled out and disappeared around the corner; the fire truck followed immediately behind. Silence and shadows fell across the neighborhood. The gawkers scattered, returning to their homes once the show was over.

  But the image of my handcuffed wife remained etched across my vision as I gazed miserably out at the driveway. Not only did I feel that I had failed Mia, but an immense calm was flooding my exhausted body. The house was serene again, and my feeling of relief was mixed with a colossal sense of guilt.

  Luke’s voice finally broke my trance. “That was some crazy-ass shit.”

  Turning from the foyer, I found him sitting on the couch in the living room. He didn’t look nearly as weary as I felt. I went to the refrigerator, took out two beers, and joined him.

  The house was deadly quiet. I handed him a bottle. “Yeah, I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  Luke nodded.

  We sat in silence, slowly draining our beers. I had to face the truth: Mia was not improving. Her illness was becoming increasingly volatile and more violent.

  I took a deep breath, holding the air in my lungs and closing my eyes. Was it possible that Mia had a long-term and serious mental illness, one that had altered her personality forever? I had to consider that possibility.

  But then I remembered her moment of clarity days before, when we had finally connected through the haze of her disease. The old Mia was still inside, and I knew that if I gave up hope, she might be lost forever.

  I imagined her in the back seat of that cop car, barreling across town with the sirens blaring. Soon, she would be imprisoned again in the crisis center, the one place that she most reviled—alone, scared, and confused.

  I would not lose faith; I would not stop fighting.

  Taking another swig from my bottle, I steadied myself for the next phase of the war.

  14.

  The Advocate

  School of Fish

  “Euphoria”

  0:28–1:19

  It was sad leaving Texas, but Mia and I were excited to return to Harvard. We had been selected to serve as proctors, meaning that we would live in one of the dormitories in Harvard Yard and be responsible for twenty-five first-year students.

  We lived in Mower A entryway for two years, working closely with fifty overachieving teenagers during that time. And we found that when you open your life to that many people and their families, emergencies often occur. We experienced our share of injuries and hospital visits.

  But we also learned that mental health problems were the most common afflictions, and some of the most difficult to manage. Given the pressures of Harvard, many of our students struggled with anxiety and depression. These were serious issues and, if not dealt with appropriately, could lead to more complicated situations. Fortunately, we had several resources across campus where we could turn for support.

  Even still, the threat of suicide was real. In our short time proctoring, we supported several students coming to terms with the desperate struggles of parents, siblings, or friends. For someone without much experience, the grim consequences of untreated mental illness were eye-opening.

  But we never faced a situation where someone became psychotic. The closest we came was through a special relationship with one of our students, David. He was quiet and could be introverted, but his reserved personality hid incredible fortitude. Growing up, his family had been torn apart by mental illness.

  When David was little, his mother began suffering extreme psychosis, including delusions and other thought disorders. His father did everything he could to help, but she slid further and further out of reach. David recounted several stories that were difficult to imagine, and I admired his ability to overcome such a traumatic childhood. But he lived in fear that either he or a sibling might succumb to mental illness over time.

  One night, he appeared at our door visibly shaken. His brother, who was at a different college, had gone missing and hadn’t been seen in over twenty-four hours. David was convinced that his brother had begun his own slide into madness. The authorities had already been notified, and there was nothing we could do but wait.

  At the time, it wasn’t possible for me to empathize; I had no understanding of psychosis.

  In the end, his brother was found and returned safely. But it was tough on David; he kept fearing that a similar fate might be lurking for him in the future. We did our best to reassure him, but words felt insufficient.

  “I can’t believe what that kid has been through,” I said to Mia after he left.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Mental illness is tough. There’s so much about the brain that we don’t understand.”

  “Psychosis? That’s scary. Can you picture hearing voices or thinking people are after you?”

  “No, I can’t,” admitted Mia. “It’s impossible to imagine.”

  ***

  Luke was still nursing his beer, but I was already up and pacing. I had pulled out my phone and was frantically texting.

  “Yo, who are you texting?” he asked. “The family can wait.”

  “I’m texting Dr. Martinez. That guy runs the crisis center. Maybe he can update me on Mia.”

  After she had changed psychiatrists, I had sent Dr. Martinez a handwritten no
te thanking him for his support. It was a sincere gesture of gratitude; I didn’t think we would ever see him again. But now, I was hoping it might buy some goodwill.

  Within five minutes, I received a response:

  Oh no, Pat, I’m sorry to hear that

  I will contact the center and update you as soon as possible

  It was late on a Friday night; again, I was shocked by his quick reply. I messaged back details of the past three weeks, including Dr. Rojas’s plan for switching from Seroquel to Zyprexa.

  Knowing that Dr. Martinez was involved in the situation eased my mind, but I remained anxious. Luke kept me talking to pass the time. Within a half hour, Dr. Martinez texted again:

  Mia is checked in and settled

  Medications have been given

  By all accounts she is fine, so don’t worry

  I knew he was sugarcoating it for me, but I felt better. At least Mia had finally taken her pills. I remained concerned that she wouldn’t want to see me for days, but she was safe. And I was relieved she was in a place that would ensure she took her prescriptions on a regular basis, which was paramount.

  The next morning, I wanted to check on Mia without bothering Dr. Martinez again, so I called the crisis center, leaving a message for the medical team.

  About twenty minutes later, my phone rang. “Mr. Dylan, this is Dr. Foster,” said a voice. “I am the psychiatrist on duty this morning. Your wife is safe and being cared for. She is still suffering from psychosis, and her mood swings have been dramatic. I gave her Abilify to stabilize things.”

  “What?” I asked, startled. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said I gave her Abilify. It’s a mood-stabilizing drug. We use it to—”

  “No. No, that’s not in her protocol.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “We have her on a strict protocol. Dr. Martinez knows the details.”

  “Mr. Dylan, Dr. Martinez is not here. In my professional opinion, Mia needed Abilify to stabilize her moo—”

  “No, no.” I was becoming upset. “The last thing we need is to introduce new drugs into her system. We’ve had a problem with the Seroquel, potentially caused by her migraine medication, and we are moving her to Zyprexa.”