Heart pounding.
Hands are shaking.
Sweat rolling down my back.
I can do this.
It is not like the topic is foreign to me.
I am preparing to speak for approximately 20 minutes to a Human Services Committee in our State Capitol.
The lady next to me, someone I know, has offered to help me hand out speaking notes to the legislators. I have prepared myself as much as I can, my display is hidden and ready.
I walk to the podium.
Seems surreal. As I grasp the sides of the lectern to prevent an obvious display of my nerves, I began to speak. Rather than opening with my notes, I open with a heartfelt thank you. A thank you to the Family Voices organization in my state, a thank you to our Care Coordinator, a thank you to the facility, so many people and agencies to acknowledge. I hope I don’t leave any out.
I begin with my notes. An introduction as to whom I am. a parent. an advocate. someone who cares and has a vested interest in the process. I wonder fleetingly if this is exploitation of my son, my speaking here today. I hope not. If it is, it is.
I start with a brief history about David’s adoption. His first year. the first 2 years, birthdays. The first five years. the last five years until now.
I spend the bulk of my 20 minutes talking about the last year and his discharge from the facility he was in until January 27th of 2015. I talk about the threats against my life. The calls to 911.
I hear a sniffle. Almost a cry.
I wonder, am I being heard?
I try to keep my eyes on my notes, I know I should look up, but if I do, I will lose focus and break down. This is a life we are talking about.
Not mine.
His.
I speak about the stress. I talk about the thought of giving up custody. I talk about what I would like to see if I were king.
Before I close. I look up. I note the time. just under 20 minutes. Perfect.
I explain my number one fear for my son.
“My number one fear is that I will answer a knock on my door, to see law enforcement and have them tell me that my son was shot during an officer involved shooting.”
I ask a question of the committee. “Do you want to see what mental illness looks like?”
As I see them nod, I reach down and pull out my display.
a 12 x 20 poster print of my son. Glued to a larger poster board. It is obvious that they are affected. I know, briefly that I have reached these people.
I pass the poster to my helper. I thank her. She turns and shows the image to the audience.
You can feel the emotion in the room.
A little bit, I let down my guard. Nearly done. I ask if there are questions of the committee. and answer them as they come.
I turn to my seat. You can see the emotion that people are feeling. Very few dry eyes.
I think to myself “next time, bring a supply of tissues…”
I know that I will give this talk again.
I wish that it wasn’t necessary.
Will it impact my son?
I don’t know. I pray that it does.
Might it impact others?
I don’t know. I pray that it does.
As the meeting ended, I was asked to present to another group.
I am all about raising awareness so agree, scheduling contingent of course. They will reach out to me in the coming weeks.