I have an adult child with mental illness complicated by drug addiction. This 23-year-old son has cycled through multiple treatment programs, only to get sick again. He can be erratic — and dangerous.

But most weekends last fall, he came over to watch Sunday Night Football with me.

In the past five years, my son has been diagnosed with psychosis, drug-induced psychosis, substance-use disorder, bipolar disorder and schizoaffective disorder. No one knows for sure. At this point, his diagnosis only matters when our insurance company needs a code to pay for something.

Smart, caring psychiatrists prescribed medications that stiffened his joints and put him in bed before dinner. He quit taking them, preferring marijuana instead, even though every mental-health professional we’ve met warned that the drug would cause irreversible harm to his brain.

Once his symptoms presented, my son struggled to do school or keep friends or jobs. He said things that didn’t make sense, but he remained loving and connected to his dad and me. Then, on the drive home from his third involuntary hospitalization, he became convinced I was trying to kill him. It got so scary that I jumped out of the car on the side of the highway and ran.

I kept my distance until my son stabilized. Once he did, we spoke most days. We made plans for him to visit at Thanksgiving. But that fall, his mood darkened. His thoughts lost coherence. He grew angry and aggressive in ways I’d never seen. Then he threatened me — and several family members — over text.

Knowing your child’s brain is having a neurotransmitter mishap is cold comfort when he’s threatening to hurt you and your other children. And yet, family involvement is critical to recovery. The mentally ill, addicted, or dually diagnosed people we see scratching out lives on the street have likely lost contact with their families.

A month after I fled from the car, I was walking the dog when I noticed my favorite mid-century house had been demolished. I figured it would be replaced by another three-story mini mansion with ocean views. The next day, a neighbor explained that the owners were rebuilding to make the home fully accessible for their son, who was only a few years older than mine. This young man went to a party. He didn’t feel right on the drive home, so he pulled over. The next morning he woke in his car unable to move from the neck down. Doctors don’t know why — or how to reverse it. Now he needs constant care.

Parents reorganizing their lives around a paralyzed son made complete sense to me. It was obvious. Even admirable.

How to respond to my son has never felt that clear. Instead I’ve dreamt of giving him my moody, middle-aged brain and taking his malfunctioning one. I’ve guiltily envied people with illnesses everyone understands. No one secretly wonders whether parents caused their kid’s epilepsy, or whether supporting an adult child with leukemia makes their condition worse. These illnesses rarely trap families in years-long cycles of stability, relapse, and decline. Meanwhile on nights when my son was threatening violence and suicide and police couldn’t find him, I prayed, Please, God, grant him recovery or death.

My prayers were answered — with the help of an attorney.

Fifteen months ago we petitioned the court to have my son hospitalized for the fifth time. On Christmas Eve, I visited him in the psychiatric ward. Two days later, I drove him to his first day of outpatient treatment. He kept getting high, but he kept showing up, and he stayed on his medication.

Last spring, my son moved an hour away from his dad and me. He’s been clean for nine months. In August, he danced at his sister’s wedding. He’s back at school. He visits his 93-year-old grandmother.

No telling how long this will last. For our family, life works best lived day by day. This current restoration feels like a miracle. And still, my husband and I won’t give our son our house key. Not yet.

When you have a mentally ill or addicted adult child often your best hope is keeping them — and everyone else —safe long enough for them to accept their illness and accept treatment. Of course many don’t, or can’t. Parents like me remain vigilant. We watch for signs.

Whenever I can, I try to relax and just be my son’s mom.

Coley Gallagher is an Orlando native who lives in New Smyrna Beach.

https://www.orlandosentinel.com/2026/02/07/commentary-you-love-the-child-you-get/