Connecting Through Mental Illness ~ Part Two

"This is only my body, Mom, not me. I am standing next to you and I am fine."

Photo by Jackson David on Unsplash

Back at rehab, the last door to the visiting room slammed behind me, and I glanced around the room. The last time I saw Bobby, he had been sleeping, and I chose to let him sleep. This time, I spotted him in the middle of the room, pacing with his head down, holding his Bible close, and talking to himself. His hair was still shoulder-length and unwashed. His clothes still hung on his thin frame, and he was barefoot.

Instantly, I felt a lump in my throat and wanted to cry. I swallowed it and soothed my emotions, saying, "You can do this, Terry. You have to do this. He needs to know how much he is loved. Breathe deeply now and step forward. Your heart will take care of the rest."

Everyone in the room seemed to fade into the walls, and I heard no voices except my own,

"Bobby, honey?"

He turned my way, and he didn't recognize me at first. It's like seeing a family member in a place you would never expect them to be, and for a split second, it's as if you're looking at them for the first time. But then our eyes met, and we made the connection.

"MOM! What are you doing here?" His eyes began to water.

"I came to see you, honey!"

As he came closer, he wrapped one arm around my back, the other clutching the Bible. Then, instinctively, he put his forehead on my shoulder and started to cry.

"Mom! Mom, I've missed you so much…why have you come?"

His ear was close to my lips, and I whispered, "To spend some time with you, sweetheart." He was crying hard now, and his body began to shake.

I quietly said, "Let's sit down."

It took a few minutes for him to calm down, and as I held and soothed him, I asked Spirit to please let me feel my strength to bring this child some peace. To keep me focused and let the tears flow later.

Bobby then looked up at me, eyes deep brown, dilated and red, and so sad.

"Mom, I have to ask you something?" He quietly said.

He tightened his hand on the Bible. "Was I a good boy when I was little?"

"Of course, you were a perfect child and adorable!"

His face became serious again. Then, he continued,

"It says in the Bible that the bad will go to Hell, and I'm afraid I'm going there. I hear God's voice telling me that's where I'm going! I don't want to go there, Mom!"

His lips began to quiver, and a few tears rolled down his cheek.

I could hear myself inside say, "Be strong! Be focused!"

I moved my hands to cup his face. "Look at me, Bobby, and listen very carefully."

"God did not tell you you were going to Hell. It is a God of only love! You hear voices from this disease and from not taking your medicine. It is not God!"

I waited for the words to sink in.

"Listen to me…I did not give birth to you, right?"

He shook his head yes.

"But I've raised you and your brother since you were two years old. In my heart, you are and always will be my child. You and your brother are no different from the younger boys." I stopped for a moment and cocked my head to one side, and said, "Let's say that these voices were true, which they are not, but let's just say you were to go to Hell. Well then, I would go with you."

His eyes lit up.

"I would go with you, protect you, and we would find a way out together. I would never leave you! Do you understand that?"

Again, he moved his head up and down.

"Now, if I carry this much love for you, can you only imagine how much love God carries for you?"

Looking into his eyes to ensure our connection was clear, I continued, "It says in the Bible that God is all love, Bobby, and God…being ALL love would never send you or anyone else to Hell. Love doesn't do that!"

I let it sink in for a few moments, then said, "Honey, have I ever lied to you?"

His eyes became softer as a tear floated on the bottom rim, and he said quietly, "No."

"Then you can believe that what I'm saying is the truth. Okay?"

His words broke a little, and he answered, "Okay," and again laid his head on my shoulder.

"Another thing, hon. If the words in this Bible are scaring you, you do not understand its message. It is not to scare you but to guide you in life. Please stop reading it if that is not what it does for you. Tell me, when did you last laugh and enjoy the sunshine?

No answer.

"Give your mind a rest, child. Watch a funny movie or read something light, okay?"

Still no answer.

I could feel his body relax as I spoke. My voice had always done this for the boys. They didn't listen to my words as much as they would feel soothed by the sound of my voice.

After a few minutes, a bell sounded, and then an announcement came on over the intercom stating visiting time was over and to please start exiting through the main door.

Bobby's body jerked as if falling in a dream, and I quietly told him it was time for me to go.

Whispering, he asked me not to.

I responded, "Hon, please remember that I love you and will always love you, no matter what."

The moment was broken when two security guards came over and gently said that visiting time was over. So, we stood, and as my son put his arms around me for the last time, I could feel his chest shake; he didn't want to let go, and I was afraid for him.

"Bobby, it's time to go," And whispered again. "I love you."

He quietly responded, "I love you, Mom."

He held tight, and then he looked at me. When our eyes met, there was an unspoken bond. Call it a communion, a familiarity, or an understanding. But the connection was there and deeply felt.

The guard gently took Bobby's arm, and I could feel him stiffen.

"Go, hon," I said softly.

Bobby looked deeply into my eyes again and then looked down as he allowed the guards to walk him to his cell.

I didn't move until I could no longer see him.

The feeling of peace was fading with him, only to be replaced with heart weakness. The bubble I could swallow and hide in some sacred place throughout our visit slowly returned. Patients and visitors were gone except for a couple of guards standing around, talking and looking my way.

I breathed deeply and moved towards the door with my head and body straightened. As I stepped through and it shut, the echo made my shoulders jump. The distance to the second door seemed longer.

I felt weaker, tears started filling behind my eyes, and the next door seemed to bang harder as it shut. I felt my lower lip begin to quiver. Even though I was still walking tall, I could not feel my feet. With my eyes straight ahead, my breathing became shallow.

When the final door slammed shut, the noise of the door's lock felt like a gun fired, and as if the bullet grazed my left ear as it passed. I don't know how I was able to ask for my belongings or even walk to the car, but I made it. Once inside the car, I couldn't hold on any longer. Emotions overcame me. I felt tight spasms in my throat, and breathing became difficult. Then, I slowly allowed myself to calm down.

"Think about nothing but breathing. I told myself. Relax your throat, soften your heart. Calm down. Bobby will be okay. He knows you love him." As I mentally spoke to myself, I found my words soothing and rested my eyes.

A few weeks later, I had made plans to revisit Bobby but heard the rehab center had had enough with his outbursts and not taking his medication, so they threw him out the door, along with his Bible. He ran back and banged on the door, begging to let him back in. But they refused.

A week later, on a Sunday afternoon, as I settled in to watch the movie "Ghost." I got a phone call from a close friend whose son grew up with the boys. She told me that Bobby had run towards a moving trolley downtown, jumped in front of it, was dragged under, and had died. She also said that no one could get hold of his dad and needed a family member to verify his body.

I was surprised at how calm I was. I had anticipated this call for over a year, and it had finally come. I could hear my heart say, "No more fears, no more confusion, no more watching this beautiful, precious young man, child of my heart, go through torment one moment longer." He is now free!"

I took a long, deep breath and let peace flow slowly through me.

A friend who was with me at the time of the call came along. I drove, wholly focused and unemotional. I arrived at the trolley tracks. Yellow tape surrounded the trolley, where the scene happened, and was visible at a distance. People and police were everywhere.

When I reached the front of the crowd, an officer stopped me, telling me no one was allowed past the yellow tape. I told him I was Bobby's mother. He took my arm and brought me through to the other side.

I glanced over to the trolley where police officers stood guard as we walked. I could see Bobby's foot lying face down, the shoe still intact, but nothing more. I told myself he was no longer in that body, and I remained focused.

While waiting to talk with the person in charge, a policeman beside me said he was sorry about my son. He said he had a couple of teenagers, and one was having a difficult time with drugs, and it was tough.

I stared straight ahead, not taking my eyes off the trolley car, as if I were waiting for Bobby to step out from behind the trolley and whispered a "Thank you." to the officer. Tears rolled down my cheeks, but nothing else moved.

His father and twin brother arrived together. His father was uncontrollable and in no shape to identify Bobby's body. He kept running to the trolley; the police would catch him, return him to us, and ask him to stay until they had finished. He said he would and then run down again as soon as they let go of him.

After the third time, I calmly but firmly took his arms to face me. I looked straight into his father's pain-filled eyes and gently told him that was not the last photo he would want to see of his son, nor would Bobby have wanted that.

I could feel his arms relax. I handed him over to Bobby's brother and asked him to step away with his father for a moment. A young woman police officer then brought over two Polaroid photos of Bobby's face, which she had taken when they removed the trolley.

"Is this your son?" As she stated his full name?

As I looked, his eyes were closed as if he were sleeping. His face was intact. I could see the base of the neck had moved to one side, and the skin on his neck stretched tight to keep the two pieces from separating.

Inside, I heard a voice say, "This is only my body, Mom, not me. I am standing next to you and I am fine."

I answered without looking up, "Yes, this is Bobby."

She wrote his name on the back of the pictures, thanked me, and walked away.

I took a few moments to collect myself and breathe. I saw that his father was calmer, and one of our sons was consoling him. Our other son came over to let me know they would be following the ambulance to the mortuary. We hugged, and I left to go home.

Bobby died on November 23, 1997. He was 22 years old.

A new beginning. Taken on the shores of La Jolla, California. Courtesy of JP

When someone lives with a disease such as Bobby's and then passes the way he did, family members and close friends will say, "If only we could have, would have, should have done this or that or something to help, this might not have happened." I would see the heaviness of guilt and sadness in their eyes, mainly since we all lived in the same town and had a history together. So, when I spoke at the eulogy, I brought this up, stating that words of guilt are wasted energy and bring nothing but a heaviness that weakens the heart.

And then I said this:

"If sharing Bobby's story helps someone else—if it helps even one person or one family to seek help—then his life and suffering have not been in vain. Maybe then, this crazy, beautiful, unpredictable world can become a little more peaceful, a little more whole."🕊️

©2025 Terry Pottinger

Thought to ponder:
We don't know what we don't know and react the only way we know how at the time. Was there a time when guilt overwhelmed you from an experience and you found yourself saying, "If only I had…"? Isn't it time to forgive yourself and bring peace to the moments you reacted the only way you knew how?

Thank you for stopping by. If you feel anyone would benefit from this story, please pass it along.

Have a beautiful, thoughtful, peaceful rest of your day.🕊️