Mad Random: Claiming Life out of Chaos

By Donna Miller

“Miller has written an affecting, candid account about raising an enigmatically disabled child. She offers critical commentary on the flaws of various medical and educational systems that she navigated yet also acknowledges how she had to modify her own behavior and expectations. She adds a healthy dose of humor, including Jack’s rather pithy perceptions and observations. While certainly not a comprehensive resource guide, Miller’s memoir offers insight and support to parents in similar situations.

An honest, heartbreaking, and ultimately uplifting account of parenting a child with severe emotional difficulties.”

From Kirkus Review of Books

Mad Random Claiming Life Out of Chaos chronicles one family’s struggle to final normalcy while raising a son with severe emotional disabilities. Brutally honest, yet laugh out loud funny, this book shines a light on the anxiety, heartbreak and rage experiences by thousands of families seeking acceptance for the difficult, quirky children. This wild, gritty book ultimately leads readers to the miracles of hope and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jan 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798765233641

Donna Miller

Donna Miller writes nonfiction and memoir, tackling issues confronting children and their families struggling with learning and emotional disabilities. Advocating for children affected by physical abuse and emotional neglect, and working to improve life outcomes for children living with mental health and behavioral issues, Donna has spent decades gaining the support of parents and policymakers committed to giving children the chance they deserve to thrive. Following a 12-year stint as the primary speechwriter for a popular New York State First Lady, Donna took her experience both in and outside of government to elevate the discussion about children and families in our challenging world. Championing policies that reflect the changing needs and social dynamics of an evolving society, Donna has dedicated her energies to crafting workable strategies for teachers and parents struggling to support what she calls “quirky” kids; work that became intensely personal as she moved through the journey from advocate to parent. A faculty member at various arts and educational institutions teaching non-fiction and memoir writing, Donna’s classes were always oversubscribed. She has served as an Executive Board Member for Wildwood School, a nationally recognized educational program for children with neurological disorders. Educational materials she developed for people living with brain injury have been distributed to thousands of schools and families. Recent work promoting the magic of memoir resulted in a ground breaking program for adults diagnosed with early stage Alzheimer’s disease who are determined to write their memories while they still have access to their life experiences. She has described this experience simply: “This class has changed my life by giving me the opportunity to witness the grace and courage of these extraordinary people facing the fate that robs them of their dignity and memory.” Donna is a popular and entertaining speaker.

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Copyright © 2022 Donna Miller.

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and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use

of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical

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intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you

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ISBN: 979-8-7652-3365-8 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-7652-3366-5 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-7652-3364-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022915834

Balboa Press rev. date:  01/23/2023

To Christopher

who still has my back

For Sam

who never stopped believing,

helping me up each time I stumble

EDITEDImage1.jpg

My son painted the original artwork featured on the cover

when he was a fifteen-year-old high school student. He entitled

it, "Self Portrait of Freud." When asked what he was trying to

express, he answered, "Just like Freud, you have to figure it out

for yourself." This painting hangs over my desk and is a daily

reminder to embrace the chaos of our mad random world.

—Donna Miller

Cover illustration by Sarah Kiehle

www.sarahkiehle.com

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1     Hostages

Chapter 2     Lost Boys

Chapter 3     What Love Abides

Chapter 4     Blast The Bridge

Chapter 5     Class Act

Chapter 6     Organic Applesauce And The Big Bang Theory Of Disability

Chapter 7     Changeling

Chapter 8     Running With Scissors

Chapter 9     Breaking The Code Of Disability

Chapter 10   When You Get To The Fork In The Road, Take It

Chapter 11   Stumbling Through The Labyrinth

Chapter 12   The Peril Of Hope

Chapter 13   Dick And Jane, Redux

Chapter 14   Penises

Chapter 15   My Head Is Turned Inside Out

Chapter 16   Mother Is To Teacher As Xylophone Is To School

Chapter 17   Wandering Down The Yellow Brick Road

Chapter 18   Call Me Brian

Chapter 19   Wallflower

Chapter 20   Raining Meatball Soup

Chapter 21   Enter Here And Abandon All Hope

Chapter 22   Suicide Is Painless

Chapter 23   Hearts In Armor

Chapter 24   Flying Low Over The Cuckoo’s Nest

Chapter 25   Chasing The Wind

Chapter 26   Moving Out

Chapter 27   Promises Broken

Chapter 28   Remember Love

Chapter 29   Does Anyone Know Where I Went?

Chapter 30   My Father, His Friend

Chapter 31   Reconnecting

Chapter 32   Who Knew He Could Parallel Park?

Chapter 33   Graduation

Chapter 34   Leaving Home Without A Key

Chapter 35   We Will Always Have Baltimore

Chapter 36   Saying Good-Bye

Chapter 37   Summing Up

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to the amazing women in my life who show up and

do the work of living each day with joy and purpose. Thank you.

The mental health and education professionals

who read and reread this book provided useful

advice and perspective that shines through.

…the best way out is always through.

– Robert Frost

CHAPTER ONE

Hostages

J umpy and uncomfortable at my desk, I consider a third tea run in under an hour. An empty page glows on the computer screen, mocking my resolve to meet my self-imposed word count before shutting down the machine. Most days, I try to exit the office before convincing myself that I am not a writer. If I don’t make it out in time, I’m likely to hit the want-ad pages, searching for retail sales positions and the promise of discounts on professional clothes I don’t wear to sit alone in a room to write. The rest of each afternoon’s productivity tends to rely on more caffeine, pitiful pleas with an absent muse, and smacking my head on the screen. Now I am moving my fingers over the keys in random patterns that fill up empty space with nonsense. I am done.

Rushing to the car, I can’t move fast enough to distance myself from any part of the day’s work that survived the delete button. The trip to the grocery store is uneventful, though I do buy ten cans of soup for ten dollars, knowing that no one at home eats canned soup.

My seventeen-year-old son, Jack, is pacing, hovering close to the front hallway as if he has been waiting for my arrival. At nearly six feet four inches tall, his presence in the tiny foyer throws a shadow across my five-foot frame. He is too close, too cheerful, and the hairs on my arms tickle, a personal antenna that senses his urgency.

How was your day? he asks with unexpected cheerfulness.

Fine, I say, struggling with the groceries and tripping over his cat’s outstretched body. Half the soup cans roll under the dining-room table.

Could you help me here? I crawl under the table to retrieve the unnecessary cream of mushroom soup, catching a glimpse of a recipe for green beans with fried onions. My family doesn’t eat that either.

Uh, I’m going to get some fresh air. Moving quickly through the kitchen, Jack stops at the junk drawer to retrieve the extra set of keys to my car. I have been holding these keys hostage ever since he received his third speeding ticket in as many months. He owes us hundreds of dollars for speeding fines, plus the cost of attorney’s fees for negotiating the plea bargain that helped him avoid a suspended driver’s license. I wonder again why we provided such an incentive for him to view the whole experience as no big deal—and then remember that his revised insurance premium would have rivaled the cost of a mortgage payment.

Not with my car, you aren’t, I say. After six weeks of suspended driving privileges, Jack knows he isn’t taking the car.

He can fix this. He needs to pay the fines and go back to school.

You’re a fucking idiot, he says, tension rising in his voice.

Usually this level of vulgarity follows something more onerous than the repetition of a rule he dislikes. A line of electricity travels down my left arm. Am I having a heart attack? No, it’s cataclysmic rage ignited by the horror of tonight and all the times he’s been abusive and rude.

I think I hate him.

I cannot feel neutral about my son. Where do I stand? Jack makes loving him impossible.

I do hate him. I drop the soup cans, and they roll under the table until they hit the cat. She spits at me, clawing at the air.

Give me the keys.

Starting toward him, I reach for his hand. One sweep of his long arm and the keys are far above my head. Jangling them out of my reach, he seems to expect me to do a trick for a treat. Reason returns in time for me to back off. His awareness of boundaries will prevent a physical battle. He is too big, and I am too frightened of being hurt.

Get out of my way, or I will hurt you. He seems to read my thoughts. Suddenly his father stands in the doorway, taking in the sights and sounds that greet him.

What’s going on? Sam is quiet, expectant.

Mom is an idiot. I’m leaving. Jack always speaks to his dad with more restraint. It irritates me. Tonight, I give in to a childish eruption.

That’s ‘fucking idiot’ to you.

Sam ignores my outburst.

Not with the car, you aren’t. You can’t take the car. Sam is clear, speaking with control I cannot muster.

Moving with speed reserved for high-priority escapes, Jack is out the door and into the waiting car. Sam repeats his warning: Don’t do it, Jack.

Already behind the wheel of my car, he adjusts the mirrors and seat to accommodate his long body. Sam and I watch as he races out of the driveway, leaving thin rubber traces at the top of the long hill.

Jack often threatens to take the car without permission. We devised a plan for this behavior: if he were to ever follow through and take the car, we would call the police to report a stolen vehicle. Jack knows that this will be the consequence of using my car without authorization, and so far the threat has worked.

Now he is gone, and neither one of us moves to make the call. Instead, Sam calls Jack’s cell phone to offer him the opportunity to return. The cell is off, and Sam’s calls go straight to voicemail.

Let’s look for him before we call the police, Sam suggests.

For just a moment I imagine Jack in jail, safe and gone. It is not a bad visual. Disconcerted by my thoughts, I push them aside, trying to concentrate on the current crisis.

We spend an hour trying to find him. I believe that he has lost control of the car, crashed into a guardrail, and tumbled dead into a ditch. My cell phone rings, and Jack’s number flashes across the screen.

Where are you?

I’m someplace you’ll never find me. I hid the car. Leave me alone. The connection drops.

I recap the news for Sam, and we turn the car towards home, calling the police before we get inside the door.

Our small-town police department sends an officer from the domestic violence unit. He arrives quietly, without flashing lights or sirens. The need to conceal my humiliation is almost as imperative as finding my son, so I am grateful for the discretion. The officer explains that because Jack is a minor and his parents are making the complaint, the policy dictates that they handle the theft as a domestic dispute. Even minors picked up on a felony warrant spend at least the night in jail, maybe more.

Let’s try plan B first, he says. I’ll call his cell phone from your home phone. He won’t suspect anything is up. Dialing the number we give to him, Jack’s angry What? carries across the room when he answers the phone.

Jack, I’m a detective with the police. I’m with your parents. If you’re not home in fifteen minutes, I will find you. When I do, count on some jail time. Jack is back in twelve minutes, incensed and defiant. The officer confiscates his license and keys, telling Jack, You won’t need these. I want to talk to your parents. Leave us alone.

Watching my son climb the stairs to his bedroom, I think about getting a badge and gun for myself.

The police officer is in his early thirties, a little more than half my age. I want to explain why we couldn’t settle this family disciplinary issue without calling the police. It shouldn’t matter what this young officer thinks, but I am defensive about our worry and our rage, anxious to explain to him how hard we have tried to parent this child. Fatigue from the events of the past few hours settles around me in a quiet malaise. I just want to go to bed.

The officer is asking questions. Does your son take any medications? How about a counselor? Is he seeing anyone?

Sam supplies a shorthand version of the past seventeen years. Jack is largely drug resistant, although we’ve been through numerous drug trials. Nobody knows exactly what is wrong with him. He’s pretty bright, but that hasn’t seemed to help.

Nodding at each detail, the officer makes notes on a long clipboard. I notice his handwriting, small and precise, and remember that Jack hasn’t mastered any cursive writing besides signing his name. He prints slowly and reluctantly.

Nobody has ever been able to help him very much, Sam repeats, looking to me for confirmation.

I can’t articulate the nature of the cycle of violence, remorse, and depression that has come to define Jack’s life, nor the way it menaces ours with constant unpredictability.

Sam and I stand, and the officer takes his cue to wrap up the interview. He gives us a copy of the police report, explaining that we need to follow up with the domestic violence counselors.

The officer explains that because of our son’s emotional issues, we could ask the police to check on his welfare instead of reporting a felony—which would result in jail time and a criminal record. This way, you won’t be faced with a decision about filing charges unless he commits a serious crime.

The officer is handing us a way out of other evenings that could become entangled in the same blend of anger and fear. I want to assure him that it will never happen again: that we do not need this service. My hands are moving, making little circles, but I can’t put together a sentence. Odds are, we will call again. I am not even convinced we will make it through this night.

Before leaving, the officer stops in the doorway and turns to look at me, pulling his card out of his wallet. His name is John. You seem like nice people. We see too many of these boys. I know he has problems, but I sure hope it works out. He’s young. Sometimes things do get better. If I can help, call me or someone else at this number. He places the card on the hall table. Standing in the open doorway, John studies my face and hesitates before he adds, Don’t ever let him hurt you.

I’m careful. I’ll be okay. I am talking to myself, but he must hear something that satisfies him. He says goodbye, and leaves.

The second the front door closes, Jack materializes at the top of the stairs. If you hadn’t been here, I would have punched his face.

You would also be in jail, his dad promises.

Don’t you get it? I don’t care what happens to me. I don’t fucking care. The bedroom door slams shut, the sound echoing through the upstairs hallway. There is nothing left to fill the space but the look on Sam’s face. Lines recede into his cheeks and tighten up his eyes. I can hear the words he doesn’t speak; I don’t want to do this anymore sits right behind his eyes. Before I have a chance to say anything, he covers his face with his hands and closes the topic for the night. I notice the gleam of white cuffs at the bottoms of his wrists: he hasn’t changed clothes since coming home from work. No one has had any dinner.

Near bedtime, Jack begins the bully dance. Shattering the brief serenity instilled by the officer’s presence, he follows me around the house, outraged about a shirt I didn’t wash. He threatens to destroy my music player because he’s convinced that his father threw away a video game he cannot find. I have all the steps memorized. I can’t look at my son. I am afraid of what I’ll see in the face I once stared at for hours, loving the discovery of each nuance as he changed and grew.

Memories chase around in my mind. I reach for any assurance that might alleviate or offset my resentment of this evening’s drama. I locate a murky mental picture in a forgotten feel-good file, and I grab hold. It is an afternoon fifteen years ago. Jack climbs into my lap and puts both arms around my neck, seeking a hug. His beautiful toddler face is there. I can smell the shampoo in his freshly washed hair. We count toes together, each time coming up with a different number. No, I say, that’s not right. Let’s do it again. Laughing, we begin again and again.

The picture is lost as suddenly as it appeared; I can’t hold onto the lines of his jaw, the clear blue eyes, nor the smile that ignited my love affair with my son. The memory dissolves, another casualty of the toxic haze wrought by the violence and insecurity of our everyday lives.

How did this family arrive at this destructive night?

Sam heads up the stairs to bed, telling me to wake him if I need him. Another recollection provides a welcome respite. It is years ago, and Sam is laughing at me as I climb up onto a pool table in our local college-town bar. Pool cue behind my back, I make a