One Day at a Time

My youngest daughter suffers from mental illness. This is akin to saying that I suffer from pollen allergies and asthma. My pollen allergies and asthma can be treated—and they are treated very, very effectively thanks to the medications that my allergist has prescribed for me. I pass through a year now with virtually no symptoms at all; during the spring my nose does not run, my eyes are not watery, and I do not sneeze. I breathe easily and freely; it is rare that I ever need to use my inhaler.

Mental illness is a chronic condition; like my allergies and asthma, there is no cure. But there are treatments. In the last month my daughter’s medication dosages have been adjusted; another medication was added. The results have been encouraging. Her reactions to life now are closer to those of a normal teenager. Not that teenage behavior is necessarily a wonderful thing, but it is much better than the insanity of out of control rage that result in property damage: smashed furniture, broken dishes, or holes kicked in the drywall. Over the last month we have seen anger—after all, teenagers do get mad on occasion—but outside of yelling or a slammed door, there has been no physical damage. She has not punched me, she has not broken windows.

Mostly, however, she has been remarkably pleasant—and almost normal. She remains incredibly immature, functioning on the emotional level of a thirteen year old rather than that of an eighteen year old. It remains unlikely that she will ever be able to drive a car; certainly at this point she has no license—not even a learner’s permit. The thought of her behind the wheel of a motor vehicle is terrifying.

Two additional changes have come in the past month. She has had a psychiatrist for several years now who has done wonders for her. But in addition to that, she has needed a psychologist or a therapist—someone to do counseling with her. This has been much more difficult to find than we would have expected. Most therapists have wanted to work with someone who has been traumatized in some way: rape, molestation, crime victim, post-traumatic stress, that sort of thing. Up until recently, we had not been able to find one that was equipped to deal with someone suffering from mental illness, specifically a mood disorder such as bi-polar.

Last month, however, we finally discovered a therapist for her, a psychologist, with whom she meets weekly. Thankfully, our daughter likes her. On top of the weekly visits, her psychologist hooked us up with a support group, a local chapter of the National Alliance on Mental Illness—NAMI—which offers support for the caretakers of the mentally ill, as well as a separate support group for those who are mentally ill. Initially our daughter was reluctant to go—the first week she panicked and wanted to leave within the first five minutes. But the following week, we tried again. One of the people there had a puppy and that was enough to get her to stay. From that week on, she was comfortable with the group. Now she loves it and it seems to be helping her.

Meanwhile, my wife and I have attended the support group for caretakers and it has been good for us, if for no other reason than to understand that we are not alone in going through what we’ve gone through. Many of the people in our group have it far worse than us, with loved ones who have been repeatedly hospitalized, who have, as a consequence of their mental illness, used illicit drugs and been incarcerated for various reasons. We were thankful to learn that our daughter is actually doing remarkably well: she does not smoke or use alcohol, we have no trouble getting her to take her medications, and she has avoided doing anything that would get her arrested. So far she has even avoided bad relationships—though she does have trouble making and keeping friends. She has no ability to tell whether someone is actually a nice person. If someone smiles at her and talks to her, they are best friend forever—for a week or so, before they hurt her or abandon her.

To give you an idea of how she thinks: when she was about five or so we went to Victoria Island in British Columbia, Canada and visited Butchart Gardens (very beautiful and well worth the visit if you get the chance). We were there with friends with whom my wife had attended college. Our three daughters and their three children gamboled about the place happily. But at some point we realized that our youngest was no longer with the group off. We eventually found her in the caretaker’s office.

“What happened?” my wife asked her.

“I got lost. But strangers found me and brought me here.”

“Strangers?”

“Yes, a man and a woman. But they were good strangers.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked them. I asked, are you good strangers—and they said yes.”

“Don’t you think bad strangers might tell you that, too?”

“No. They were good strangers.”

At eighteen, her attitude toward the people she meets remains the same: open and trusting, despite everything.

So we live one day at a time. Today, things are good.

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