always a wrinkle: the problem with State Budgets

The wide spectrum of developments when your child has a mental illness.

Plus side -wonderful weekend with Ben. Family game of Boggle as we hunkered down in the rainstorm. Ben beat us all, soundly.  His brain when balanced: amazing.

Minus side - Monday surprise: suddenly, the group home where Ben has been living for over five years has announced that Ben will have to leave soon; after all, they are "transitional housing".  No matter that the other residents have been there even longer than Ben.  Also, despite requests, his agency caseworkers have not moved at all in those five years toward getting him on a waiting list for another program.  So now everyone will have to move on this. 

If Ben were to live here at home while in transition (not a good move anyway, as I am a much better mother when I am not a policeman/caseworker too), it would mess up his benefits (meager as they are).  This is what can happen when the State decides it has to make budget cuts that make absolutely no sense in the long run for those with mental illness who are STABLE.  At last. Weigh the cost of supervised housing/stability to homelessness/repeated hospital stays. Should be a preventive care no-brainer.

Grrr.

Good news for the memoir, though! some interest!
Ben Behind His Voices: One Family's Journey through Schizophrenia to a New 'Normal'

represented by Claire Gerus Agency

Ben's Poetry, age 21

Seven years ago, before Ben's first hospitalization, he took a poetry class at a local community college.  I look at his class assignments now and wonder how I could ever have doubted the seriousness of his illness. Where is the line drawn between creativity and complete inner chaos?

A sample:

GOD

My wind grows weary

Monotony is thick

The rivers ain't clear

As I am stained by this thick...mud puddle

Whilst I bear my own radiance

Sinned they be by a typical DEMONstration

Of a casual world spoiled by love

And a casual battle and death from above

Preaching false ideas

Made right for hatred is doubt

And through this calamity I can hardly reach out...to you.

This short poem makes some sense, though many others did not.  But - the "DEMON" in capital letters? His own radiance buried underneath thick mud?  To whom could he not reach out? To God? To me? But I was there all along, and at that time he refused my love. What was I to do?