Jail Time 3

This is the third and final post of another series about my son, Parrish, and his schizoaffective disorder, alcohol and Ativan dependency.  It is also about me and how my son's illness affects me.

Scroll down to read from the beginning.

Tuesday morning I delivered Parrish to the bus station at 5:00.  Unbelievably, at 3:00 that afternoon, he was once more at my door.  This is the kind of thing you cannot make up.  Yes, he appeared to be impaired.  I should have called the police that moment, and for the sake if me, I don't know why I didn't.  Clearly I was not thinking like a sane person.  

He claimed Greyhound would not let him board the bus without a picture ID.  That was a bald faced lie.  He has ridden the bus numerous times without an ID.  I chose to ignore the lie and immediately went online to order a certified copy of his birth certificate and paid the steep fee for overnight delivery.  

I didn't know what else to do.  I was in a state of poorly controlled panic, desperate to remove Parrish from my space.  Unrealistic as it was, I thought I could take him to the DMV as soon as the document arrived and procure an ID for him.  Then, I thought I could put him on a bus and witness his departure. 

My judgement was clearly compromised, and I make no apology.  I, who have suffered an undiagnosed illness for months, was already anxious, confused and suffering short time memory loss.  I was having trouble just taking care of myself before Parrish arrived in Macon.

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist at 4:00, and since I can't drive, my assistant Sophie came to take me.  I told Parrish he had to go with us because I didn’t trust him in my house alone.  He bristled but didn't make a scene. 

Sophie and Parrish waited in the car while I was with my doctor.  When I left her office, the office manager told me Parrish had come into to the office, clearly impaired and reeking of beer, asking to meet my doctor.  She escorted him out the door.  

Parrish convinced Sophie to drive him to a convenience store "for a Coke."  When he returned to the car, he was stinking of beer.  

When we returned home, he became more impaired though I never saw him with alcohol.  He began to stagger and flail his arms, eyelids almost closed.  He was barely conscious and could not talk.  He became angry, but I didn't think his anger was directed at me.  When he began fisting his hands, I was uneasy, and a 7:00 PM I called 911. 

An ambulance arrived along with two police officers.  Parrish was charged with criminal trespass and resisting arrest.  The officers were convinced that he might hurt me, and they added "potential for domestic violence" saying that charge would assure a high bail.  

After the police took him away, I began searching for evidence of his drinking.  I was amazed to find an empty bottle of bourbon.  He drank every drop of the Lemoncello I brought home from Italy.  A full bottle of Scotch was half empty, and I found Ativan tablets that he obviously dropped when he was half conscious and reeling around.  I have no idea where he got them.  I found quart sized beer cans under the sink in his bathroom and hidden about the house.  He consumed all that alcohol when I thought I was watching him.  Like all alcoholics and drug addicts, he is a master of getting what he wants while flying under the radar. 

Parrish remains in jail, and he will be there until my brother and I go through the steps to have him committed to a state mental facility against his will.  I have not visited or called him.

My sense of relief cannot be measured.  Parrish has a roof over his head and food to eat and for now he is safe from himself.