I Am Not Adam Lanza's Mother

I don't know where to begin.

Twenty kids are dead.

Twenty kids were shot and killed.

At least forty parents have to bury their children.

Fifty-six families are destroyed.

Because a man took three guns into an elementary school and systematically shot them dead before taking his own life.

But we cannot talk about gun control.

Honestly, I don't want to talk about gun control. I know that conversation. I know all the twists and turns, and how it ends. So, lets talk about something productive for a change.

I struggle with anxiety and depression. While abnormal, my circumstances are not unusual. I have tried all of my adult life to deal with these mental patterns on my own, believing that, being self-aware enough to recognize them, I should have the mental and emotional capacity to self-correct.

Last year, about six months before my wedding (which I only mention because of the stress that planning a wedding entails), my grandmother, the last of my grandparents, and the one with whom I shared the closest intimacy, passed away. Last Christmas was the first Christmas I didn't get to share with her. Last Christmas was also a time where the majority of my attention was focused on watching my oldest friend succumb to the pain, both physical and psychological, of the last stages of her five year battle with cancer.

During my stay at my family home that holiday, my fiancé (now husband) watched with increasing concern as I repeatedly collapsed emotionally and mentally under the weight of the circumstances. He watched as I became ever more fragile and agitated. He held my hand and let me cry myself to sleep before he left to go back to his parents' house. And we discussed and agreed upon my need to seek the help of a mental health professional when we returned home.

I did. I reached out to every professional under my insurance, of whom there were very few. The soonest I could schedule an appointment was three months out. I scheduled it. My friend died. After I returned home following the funeral, I had at least one panic attack a day for two weeks straight. Finally, a friend told me that primary care physicians  sometimes prescribe anti-anxiety medications. I got an appointment immediately. My doctor listened with care and concern, and told me that, knowing the situation of the mental health system in the area, the best thing I could do for myself was to be admitted to the emergency room.

I went, feeling incredibly embarrassed to be treating this as an emergency. I wasn't dying, bleeding, or in any way physically harmed. I just needed someone to help me calm down, and arrange for long-term care to help me in the future. A very nice guy came in and did a psychological evaluation on me. He agreed that I was not a danger to myself or anyone else, but that I did need professional help. My options were to be hospitalized, which was excessive, to be released and left to navigate the system on my own, which I had already done to no effect, or to go to a city-run, voluntary respite center, where a licensed psychiatrist would treat me every morning, and help me arrange for future care once I left. Again, feeling as though this were a bit extreme, I agreed to the latter.

My first meeting with the psychiatrist was a bit distressing, to say the least. I told him my circumstances, and he responded by having me fill out a short "yes or no" questionnaire. Then, he told me I was bipolar, type two. Now, I have friends who are bipolar. I have friends who are bipolar, type two. I am not completely ignorant of the ways in which the mental health profession works, or the ways in which many mental health ailments manifest themselves. As such, I am aware of how difficult it can be to properly diagnose certain conditions.

He prescribed me a mild antidepressant and anti-anxiety medication, which I took no issue with on account of it being relevant to my symptoms. He also prescribed me an anti-psychotic, intended to subdue my "highs," which were, to my experience, nonexistent. This was a great struggle for me. According to the rules of the center, my engagement in treatment was voluntary, so I could certainly choose not to take the anti-psychotic if I chose. However, I was in a very vulnerable place, seeking help from professionals because I didn't trust my own judgment, and my tendency is to trust medical advice. I discussed the doctor's evaluation with my fiancé, who became immediately alarmed, and cautioned me against taking the second medication. I was still unsure, and deliberated, reading and re-reading the cautionary labels on the medication, conferring with the counselors and nurses on duty, and with my fiancé, until I finally decided not to take the medication.

My second meeting with the psychiatrist the next morning did not go well. When I informed him that I chose not to take the second medication, he became extremely defensive and angry. He likened my situation to having appendicitis and refusing surgery. He told me that this was not the relationship between a doctor and patient, and if I insisted on not taking the medication, he was done treating me. I packed my bags and went home.

Now having a month's worth of medication that was helping me, I returned to my efforts of finding a professional on my own. I got an appointment within a month, was treated with kindness and compassion, and with a reasonable amount of restraint as to medication, and am now doing very well.

I am not the first to decry the failures of our mental health system as an aspect of tragedies like Newtown, Portland, or Aurora. Anyone who is willing to carry out such acts cannot be of sound mind. Yet access to guns is far easier than access to mental health care, as I hope my experience shows.

Let me enumerate what should not have happened. I should not have had to wait months for an appointment when the matter was pressing. I should not have had to rely on the hearsay and experience of friends to know where to look for help. I should not have had to resort to going to my primary care physician when she had no expertise in the matter. I should not have had to go to the emergency room when I was in no immediate danger. I should not have had to go to a center designed for treating patients with much more severe problems, and with no real knowledge of mental health issues. The doctor that I saw should not have been the only doctor available. He should not have been at ease to diagnose me with a severe condition which generally requires years of treatment to ascertain. He should not have been in a position to place a higher value on expediency and his ego than on my health. These things should not have happened.

Furthermore, every step of this experience is a deterrent for people in need to seek help. Beginning, of course, with the first, most pressing concern: do you have health insurance? If so, does your insurance cover mental health care? Even with health insurance, could you afford to go to a primary care physician, the emergency room, a voluntary mental health facility (keeping in mind that I had to stay at least overnight, taking time off of work), and finally, another doctor's appointment, not to mention the price of medication?

Add to this the societal deterrent of the stigma against seeking mental health care in the first place, a stigma to which I, myself, fell victim, and it is not surprising we have so many in this country who are undiagnosed and untreated. It is also important to point out that my situation, while extremely painful for me, is relatively ideal. Acute symptoms compelled me to seek help immediately, and though for me and my fiancé, the situation was dire, nobody else was in danger from my mental state. I was also raised with an awareness for and an appreciation of the real need and place for mental health care. My now husband is a staunch advocate of seeking professional help, and without his support, I very well may have given up along the way. I am not Adam Lanza's mother. I am a relatively normal girl, who, for relatively normal reasons, has a relatively abnormal relationship with stress and anxiety. And, if someone like me has such an appallingly difficult time dealing with the mental health system in this country, I worry about those less fortunate.

The conversation about guns is rife with partisanship and incendiary rhetoric. Yet, even the staunchest advocates of gun rights will, most often, make allowances for keeping guns out of the hands of the mentally ill. However, this relatively bipartisan and universal allowance can hold no real weight if the mental health care system is not reformed. It needs funding. It needs oversight. It needs to be streamlined. It needs to be affordable. And, most immediately, and most importantly, it needs to be de-stigmatized.

I suffer from anxiety and depression. I say this with as much shame as I would say, "I suffer from near-sightedness." Both are abnormal, yet not unusual. Both can be debilitating if not diagnosed and treated. Both affect the way you perceive the world around you. Yet one is something we try to hide, and one is something people wear on their face.

I believe that the government has a responsibility to handle matters of national significance. I believe many things fall into this category, including the safety and security of our citizenry. If we cannot talk about gun control in response to horrifying acts like the one in Newtown (and it is disheartening, to say the least, that enough mass shootings occur in the U.S. that "acts like the one in Newtown" is an understandable categorization), then can we at least discuss the state of the mental health system?

My heart goes out to all of those who lost their sons and daughters. Here is hoping that some light may yet come from the ashes.