The sound of the handcuffs being slapped on his wrist were deafening to a mother’s ears. Seeing the tears forming at the rim of his eyes as he tried so hard to not let them spill over made a mother’s heart break. Knowing the thoughts going on in his head of the two small children he has had to leave behind are more than a mother/grandmother can stand.
As I looked at that scared and sad young man who was my baby boy, I thought back to the beautiful baby boy he was. This was the baby who came out of the womb with every thick hair on his head in perfect place, as if he had parted and combed it right before being pulled out. His dad always had to have every hair on his head just that perfect, even as that perfectly coifed hair turned to a distinguished gray. This beautiful baby was his daddy’s duplicate mini me. This was the son who could do the things with his dad that his older special needs brother could not do. That brother had his own special relationship with their dad, but this was the baby, the one to hopefully carry on the Barrentine name that would have otherwise died with my husband. They had their own special bond that was tragically cut short when my husband suffered two strokes which left him unable to do a lot of the things they would have done together.
As I sat on those hard courtroom seats, silent in a different kind of grief, I thought of the dad who probably would have handled all this crap better than I seemed to have handled it. I missed him more that day than I had allowed myself to want to admit. It has been nine years since my husband was called home by our Father God. As much as he is missed, I’m glad he isn’t here to have to watch our son go through this.
I have had to make decisions I can only pray were the right ones, and decisions I hope my husband would have been proud of me for making. I have a good network of friends and family for support, but the grief, fears, sadness and feelings of helplessness I felt more that day than ever before, are my alone to carry. I know I’m not totally alone in all of this as I have a Father God who is carrying me and my son through this.
It took me awhile to overcome the embarrassment I felt about having a child incarcerated. There has been so much condemnation and untruths spoken during all of this. But, I did find out who my true friends were. There were the ones who love me anyway, take me out to try to get my mind off things, let me talk about my son, and don’t judge. Those are my angels, my rope to normalcy. Those are God sent friends.
This is a story I never would have imagined I would be able to write about. I have written about the traumatic birth of my oldest son, the loss of my husband, and surviving a bully boss. I never would have imagined I would write about my youngest son going to prison. This has rocked me to the core. The strength I was always told I had seems to be crumbling. I have to drag myself from the depth of despair and stand to face each day, praying for my strength to return long enough to get me through the day.
I made a promise to my son that I would be there to keep a close eye on those two babies, to protect them as much as possible from their mentally unstable mother, to be there to remind them of how much their daddy loves them. I’ve been forced to break that promise, as my mentally ill daughter-in-law won’t let me see the children.
I haven’t written anything in quite some time. So much has been going on for what seems like forever. I just couldn’t get the thoughts to come together in my head. There were many things I wanted to write about, but whatever space was reserved for creativity has been taken up by the squatters who have moved into my brain, uninvited
My son was guilty, but not because he is a bad person. He made a stupid mistake out of fear. We knew there would be consequences for his actions and we hired a highly recommended and respected attorney to represent him. I feel he was offered a good plea deal and my son took it. Watching this play out in a courtroom was scary, and just hearing my son plead guilty ripped my heart out. I dropped my head to my knees to keep from screaming. Even that was not as bad as the sound of those handcuffs snapping around my son’s wrists. I’m sure it was not that loud, but to a momma’s ears it was deafening. I thank God for the bailiff that didn’t make him place his hands behind his back, for the way he didn’t try to make a statement or crudely slap on the handcuffs with a much louder, not necessary sound. That simple action saved this momma a little less grief, a little less fear. I like to think he had some decency that seems to have escaped most of his colleagues. Maybe he was raised to show compassion even though so many didn’t.
If you have never had to go through this, pray you never do. Once those handcuffs were snapped on, my son no longer belonged to me, at least for the time he had to serve. There was no last time hugs allowed, no last words to say. All you can do is watch as they escort him away. I stood there, not wanting to walk away from him until my cousin nudged me to leave. I knew from that moment on my world, his world, and his children’s world would never be the same. He was those babies best friend, the one they ran to when things went crazy, the only one who could calm the screaming, uncontrollable spells from an autistic child.
These poor children are now in the soul custody of an on the edge of insanity mother. Before you jump to condemn me and think this is just the result of a mother-in law/daughter-law dispute, I can assure you this is not the case. I used to work on a locked psychiatric ward at the VA Hospital. Granted the patients there were medicated, but I can still say I have never encountered someone as unstable as she is. I fear for their safety as she spirals more out of the rims of reality and more into the dark world of the mental illness she has refused to address or see about medication to curb the mania. I have pleaded with her to get help, but she refuses. There are many things she has done or demonstrated that made me fear for the safety of all of them. She has a history of bad behavior that led to destruction of property of those she felt had done her wrong. In her newly developed schizophrenia symptoms, she has become so far demented in her mental illness none of us are able to help her.
Because of the limited time the residents (what the inmates are referred to where he is) have for phone calls, days may go by before I hear from my son. Those are the days I fret the most. I don’t know if he is okay or not. The mind can really play games even when you don’t have underlying mental conditions to complicate matters. When a loved one is incarcerated, the whole family suffers. The family does not matter to the system. They temporarily own your loved one, and they have total control.
My grandchildren and I have a strong bond. I don’t condone the fighting that those children are subject to. It doesn’t happen when I’m there. Now that I have been forbidden from seeing the children, and there daddy is in prison, there is no one to be the calming presence these children desperately need. Right now, I am grieving for those babies. I need to see them, hug them, help them feel some normalcy in their anything but normal lives. I don’t give up when I’m set on accomplishing something.
My son’s plea deal included a much reduced sentence, and incarcerated in a community corrections facility. It’s still part of the state prison system, but this facility is geared toward rehabilitation to hopefully give the residents the tools and resources to make better decisions to avoid returning to prison.
My prayer for my son is he will learn whatever it is that God put him there to learn. I know they have counselors, so I pray he will open up to them and get help for his own mental issues brought on by the daily indignities he endured from his wife for at least the last three years. He once told me he felt he was developing mental issues because of her, and I pray he can find himself again and take back his life.
I’m trying to be there for him, just as I have always been. I’m also trying to hold myself together, praying my God will provide a way for me to see those babies. My son hasn’t seen them since he’s been in there because his wife has not completed the necessary paperwork to be allowed visitation. They need to see their daddy, and he desperately needs to see them.
When the only contact you have with your child is controlled by an unforgiving system, every phone call you receive from your incarcerated loved one, every visitation day you get to attend is as joyous as watching their first steps. I pray his first steps out that door will lead him to a life where better decisions are made. I pray he can recognize the chance of a better life depends on his choices.
As with my son’s incarceration being something you can’t help but be somewhat embarrassing, I don’t give up on my son, and I’ve learned to hold my head up, get counseling help when I feel I just can’t take much more. That in itself is a mental condition. I’ve tried to use this as a way to encourage people to put they’re embarrassment aside, take that first baby step and get help.
Mental illness is not something to be ashamed of. Refusing to get help is. Don’t be afraid to ask for help if you are suffering from an untreated mental illness. One person didn’t and a whole family is suffering. It doesn’t have to be that way.
I DIDN’T GIVE UP! 