Frustrated family member

Dear frustrated,

Some people may be beyond hope.  There are some people who actually find pleasure in harming people even murdering them, so they may be beyond hope.  But they are in a tiny minority.

  There are others who, despite treatment, keep repeating destructive behaviors like substance abuse, criminal activity or even child abuse.  It sounds like your cousin is one of them.  So we could look at his behavior, awful as it is, and say this is just a bad guy.  Family and society has done everything they could for him so now let's just put him away in some institution and protect both him and us.  And that would not be an irrational argument.  Of course, the mechanics of implementing this might be a problem in a democracy, but the position has some validity.

But there might be some other ways of looking at your cousin.  We could look at failed institutions and failed mental health treatment.  And that would certainly also be a valid argument and one that I would endorse.  Our understanding of the human mind/brain has come a long way in the last hundred years and we have moved at warp speed over the last couple of decades.  But still we are very far from knowing how to effectively treat many relapsing forms of mental illness.

Of course, none of this takes your cousin off the hook for his behavior and I strongly believe that, with very few exceptions, people should be responsible for what they've done.

So is your cousin hopeless?  He might be, but we can only answer that in hindsight.  But, we do know this -- in addition to his behavior, we know that he sought treatment several times.  So I would make this assumption that he is a tortured soul who does not wish to suffer but has no idea how to diminish his suffering.  Most people who abuse drugs do so in a misguided effort to diminish suffering, same thing when they illegally try to get money -- all misguided efforts to diminish suffering.

But the real issue here that may underlie your question about whether he is beyond hope may be about whether you can help him.  And perhaps the more important question is whether you want to help him. 

If your answer is that you don't want to help him, I don't think anyone would fault you for that.  And if that was your decision, I would hope that you could find some peace with it. But keep in mind if you do this out of anger, you might carry resentment.  So if you decide to give up, please just let go and hope for the best for this man.

But if you decide you're not ready to give up and would like to try again, you and your aunts have to do something other than what you have been doing because you know that doesn't work.  So here is a rule of thumb when dealing with substance abusers or other chronic relapsing psychological disorders: do what you can to help them get better but don't do anything to help keep them sick.  Giving them money, making excuses for them even bailing them out of jail are ways of enabling them to continue with the same behavior.

It is important that your cousin know that the only thing you and your aunts are willing to do is support is getting help.  Perhaps you are willing to help him find a facility or even drive him there but that's all.  As much as I think dialogue helps resolve conflict, this man's conflict is within himself and long discussions would be fruitless.

Now, like it or not, this terrible disease of substance abuse affects friends and families and loved ones of the abuser and it has affected you.  So whatever decision you make, it will be difficult as it involves saying no to someone in your family.  There are structured programs like Al-Anon for families and friends of substance abusers that can often be helpful.  But whether you choose a program like this or not, you and your aunts will benefit from the support of people who understand.

In Al-Anon they often say "detach with love."  Of course, that's easy to say and difficult to do.  Your cousin is a troubled person who may or may not survive his illness.  But if you are able to set these firm boundaries, you might feel safe enough to find some compassion for him.

Sometimes the extent of your power is your fervent wish for someone to suffer less.  And right now, I wish that for you, your aunts and your cousin.

Dan will be joined by two guests today, both are mental health professionals. The chat will be about the mental health of people who are deaf or hard of hearing. Larry Brick  is hard of hearing and Louise Montoya grew up with two parents who were deaf. Post your questions now!

 

A new question is in your Philly.com Q&A Forum:

forgiving myself
Q: My daughter died three years ago of mesothelioma at age 38. She had suffered from depression, panic and anxiety from a very young age.

When she was two, I had a depression and didnt respond to her for months. I was not a hugging, loving mother similar to my own mother. And, like my own mother, I did all that I could to be a good mother. But, now I know, I could have done so much more for my daughter;s self esteem and confidence. I did everything I could to help her through her hard times. It is just now that I know all that I could have done. I cannot forgive myself.
Warwick, NY

Like everyone reading this post, I wish I had the power of forgiveness.  I wish somehow I could take away your almost unfathomable pain.  I wish neither you, your mother or daughter had this horrible disorder known as depression which saps life and closes hearts.  I wish that gene had died out in your family many generations ago. 

And most of all, I wish you had more time with your daughter.

 You conclude your letter by saying you cannot forgive yourself, but I would ask you if you are willing to forgive yourself. It's a difficult question and a painful one, but requires a thoughtful honest answer.  Many people who have lost loved ones tell me they are not willing to let go of the resentment they feel towards themselves.  But it's not the resentment they are clutching; it is the memories of their loved one.  They tell me they are afraid that if their pain and guilt diminishes, so might their memories.

If you are willing to forgive yourself, what do you think it would take?  Answer that question carefully, decide what you need to do and please do it.

Several years after my sister died, I wanted to know what different religious perspectives thought about where she is now.  Frankly, I don't recall most of them as they didn't seem to make much sense to me.  But I do remember what one Buddhist said.  He told me that he lost his brother several years earlier.  He said that when his brother was alive: "he was alive for me in 50 different ways.  And now, he is alive for me in 49 ways ". 

The pain of losing a child never goes away.  There are always sad memories and an ache inside your heart for where your child once was.  I am sure your love for your daughter endures.  When the day comes that you begin to release your grasp on your guilt, what can you do with all of that love you have for your daughter?  How can you honor her memory?

If someone calls you tomorrow and said they lost a child and felt consumed with regret about things they have done or didn't do with a child, how would you feel?  I don't know what kind of person you were before this terrible tragedy, but I would guess that given your history of depression you are a pretty sensitive person.  And I would also guess that you would feel great compassion and understanding for this person who called you.  You would encourage them forgive to themselves, you might remind them that they loved their child very much and did everything in their power to be good parents.  You might cry for them and with them and for yourself.

Gerda Weissman Klein survived the Nazi death camps and, along with her husband, created a foundation that teaches tolerance to children.  She once said that no pain should be wasted; that we can use our pain to help others.

When you lose a child, the grief can be crippling. And sometimes that grief turns into a clinical depression that needs to be treated.  But somehow, no matter what, the spirit emerges.  We might be battered and bruised and carry scars of our suffering, but for most life resumes.  And when you are ready, please know that the world is open to you and could benefit from your compassion. 

Her real name is Yu-Chen, but everyone calls her Yo-Yo.  I don't quite know what that means in Mandarin, but it seems like a perfect nickname for this 15-year-old girl with sparkling eyes, a perennial smile and all of the energy and enthusiasm you would expect from someone her age.  Born with a severe hearing impairment, she was one of my fellow winners of the Fervent Love of Life award in Taiwan.  Because of her hearing impairment, she didn't speak her first word till she was nearly 3 years old and despite powerful hearing aids and other interventions, still gets most of her information from reading lips.

As a child, she experienced many of the difficulties children with sensory impairment do.  She spent many hours with difficult and time consuming therapies that interfered with her development of peer relationships.  She also found school difficult until they were able to accommodate her differences.  And of course things got worse with adolescence as she was often ostracized by the other kids.

But despite, or because, of these difficulties, she was an extraordinarily sensitive and compassionate young lady.  When she was old enough, she volunteered a great deal of time being a mentor to autistic children.  After a typhoon, she spent days rescuing abandoned animals and has continued to do so for the last two years.  I found her energy and sensitivity to be magnetic and we became fast friends. The fact that we could not communicate directly with one another didn't seem to be that much of a problem.  She knew some English, but between her speech impediment and her accent, I couldn't understand more than a few words here and there, so all of our communication was either through her mother or my interpreter.

On the third day of my visit to Taiwan, her mother told me that Yo-Yo wanted to talk with me "about some feelings she had inside."  My first reaction was how honored I was by her apparent trust.  But I also wondered about how much pain she must have been in that she needed to talk to a psychologist who couldn't understand her language.  It turns out that both were true.  Later that afternoon we found a quiet place to talk and we were joined by Judy my 25 year old interpreter. 

Children born with disabilities often do pretty well in childhood but begin to have emotional difficulty when they get into high school. Many kids have told me that this is a time in their lives when they just want to be like the other kids and they feel angry about the unfairness of their disability and it is like they struggle anew with how to deal with it.  This was the case with Yo-Yo as she told me she wanted to be closer to some of the girls in high school, but she was afraid to open her heart for fear they would make fun of her.  She told me about her strong desire for more closeness with her friends and confusion about how to achieve that without being made fun of.  Add to these difficulties raging adolescent hormones which she said made her "feel funny inside".  We talked a great deal about my experience with disability when I felt a great deal of shame and feared rejection, and Judy talked about her own experiences of alienation and confusion when she was in high school.

The conversation was very open, honest and quite intimate.  Clearly this was the kind of conversation Yo-Yo wanted, but was never able to have. When we finished, we just sat quietly together looking at one another, holding hands or not.  Yo-yo then rested her hand on my thigh, and as she moved it, she discovered my catheter tube.  She looked down at my thigh and then looked in my eyes.  Then she removed her hand from my thigh and touched her hearing aid.  And then she touched her heart and reached over and touched mine.  And then we hugged.  No longer psychologist and patient, but fellow members of a club nobody volunteers for but one in which we all understand each other.

Dan Gottlieb chats today on the concept of kindness. People are invited to talk about how it has helped their lives, how its absence has caused pain and what it is inside us all that prevents us from being kind. The chat starts at noon.

Several months ago I received an e-mail from Mr. Chou Chin-Haur founder of the Chou Ta-Kuan Cultural and Educational Foundation in Taiwan.  He told me I was selected as one of 12 people around the world to receive the "Fervent Love of Life award" and they would be honored to fly me and a companion to Taipei for eight days.  He then compared this award to the Nobel Prize for love in Taiwan. Of course I did some research about this organization and found that it was one of the largest and most respected in Taiwan and was established following the death of Mr. Chou's son from cancer when he was 10 years old.  From the time of this child's diagnosis when he was seven years old, he began writing poetry about hope, gratitude and love.  Even after he knew he was dying, he wrote poetry about love for the world.  His poems are so compelling, that high school children throughout Taiwan study them. 

All of this made me wonder about a culture that so deeply honored love and compassion that a whole foundation could be established to teach these virtues. 

  I arrived in Taipei, a city of 23 million people on a Monday morning at 5 a.m. to be greeted at the airport by Mr. Chou himself.  What struck me most on the way from the airport was that I didn't hear any horns blowing.  In this city as crowded as New York, people just seemed to accommodate one another.  I later learned that there is actually a law against blowing horns too often. 

  Because this foundation and this award is so prestigious and because "Letters to Sam" sold so well in Taiwan, many in the news media were anxious to interview me.  Of course some of the questions were about my experience with adversity and resilience, but all of the interviews ultimately focused on love and compassion.  The following day was a very large press conference with all of the recipients and many influential people in Taiwanese culture. It was during this press conference that I learned about my fellow awardees.  Each one of us endured great adversity and had devoted our lives to the greater good.  And every speaker talked about the healing power of love and devotion. 

Many times when I give a speech, I use the metaphor of a dilated heart as an experience we all have when we feel selfless love.  This is the kind of love we experience when we see our child for the first time or feel deep gratitude for a sunset, a lover or life itself.  I had just become aware of having these kinds of feelings when my interpreter told me that someone from a radio station wanted to interview me in the lobby.  

 I arrived to find a beautiful young woman with a warm smile waving to me from her wheelchair.  When we met, she told me that she first read Letters to Sam while she was in the hospital shortly after her father died.  Her eyes welled up with tears when she said that as she was reading the book, she felt as though it was her father talking to her through the pages.  She told me she wanted to meet the man who felt like her "living father".  With this, we both held each other and cried.  At the end of the interview, I found out that she was the same age as my daughter Debbie and I was the same age as her father.  Her name was Amily Wu and she has been in a wheelchair for five years as a result of an undiagnosed nerve disorder.  She told me of her anguish when she was first paralyzed and how her father comforted her.  And although he rarely hugged her, she felt the same kind of loving warmth when we embraced.  And as we chatted after the interview, she told me about a moment right before her father died when she took his hand and held it on her face, almost exactly what happened shortly before my father's death when he took my hand and kissed my thumb -- the only place I have sensation.

After Amily and I hugged goodbye, she took my hand and told me that I looked tired and should rest.  The voice of a loving daughter. I believe in love at first sight, but familial love? 

 The week was filled with many memorable events including visits to a homeless shelter where hundreds of men and women sang Amazing Grace as they waited in line with their rice bowls, an audience with the president of Taiwan where I was given the honor to address him directly and many others.  But it was at lunch the day before we left when the hosts brought in a famous calligrapher to paint a banner for each of us. When I was presented mine, I was told it said: "kindness". 

And although they characterized me that way, that was my experience of the people I met.  They were kind.  This is more basic more simple and in some ways more profound and even love or compassion -- simple kindness.   

Last summer, I had a talk with my grandson Sam about autism as I was curious about what he understood about the disorder.  After hearing his thoughts, I asked him if he felt different from the other kids and he said he did.  But when I asked him how he felt different, he thought about it for a while before he looked up at me and said: "pop, I think I am more kind."  And indeed, he is.  

 So here I return from a culture that celebrates kindness.  And now I will give it my calligraphy framed, spend more time with my grandson and devote more energy to practicing the lessons of kindness.  

 Tuesday's Web chat will be about kindness.  What our understanding of it is, how we have experienced it in our lives, and what it is that prevents us from being kinder to one another.