When my son was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, that was it. I remember saying, “God, please, please, let the diagnosis not be schizophrenia.” So what I did with all the doctors was say, “Do not diagnose him schizophrenic, whatever you do, do not. It will be like putting the last nail in a coffin for him. Because he knows his grandmother, she’s still alive.” So that was very difficult.

I wanted to run as far away and fast. Run, just run. And I just felt like I wanted to gather Andy up in my arms and not let him go, and heal him, as a mother bear would. But I knew that I was powerless to do that and that we needed help, and I knew, being in the work I was in, what was out there for young people.

Our son was very ill, but we didn’t quite understand the illness. We were just beginning that journey, and finding support groups, and I didn’t want to join another organization, and be asked to do one more thing. And since my husband had been to El Salvador with a few of the Mennonites from [Cincinnati Mennonite Fellowship], he decided he wanted to come here. And so I said, “Fine, but I’m sitting in the back row. I’m not doing another thing.” And we came the first Sunday, and sat in the back row and all I did was cry. And I knew this is where I needed to be. I needed to be back in church in some fashion.

As we began sharing our experience with our son, the men would come and support my husband, and that was a new experience for us, to have men walk up and ask, not how the Bengals are doing, but how is your son? How are you doing? What can we do for you? What do you need? It was God calling.

I got a call from the insurance company at the office one day. This woman said, “Mrs. Herbold, we’ve determined that your son Andy no longer needs these meds.” I just laughed and said, “Uh, you got to be kidding. Who are you? Are you a medical person?” “No.” I said, “Listen, my son’s diagnosis is bipolar. That’s a lifelong disability. You don’t heal from bipolar disability or schizophrenia. It’s lifelong.” “Well, we’ve determined that…” I said, “NO. I will not accept this. You will not, you can not do this.” And, for some reason, they didn’t!

I’ve not been angry with God. I certainly have asked God why. Don’t tell me not to ask God why when it comes to my mother. I think, "What a waste. God, what is the purpose of her life? It being in psych hospitals, being abused, being beaten up, being raped, given all these different drugs?" I certainly didn’t visit her often, because I couldn’t! When you live with a schizophrenia, when you live with a schizophrenic as a young child, and that person is supposed to be your mother, it is extremely, utterly confusing...