Living With Crazy AND Drugs

Living With Concurrent Disorders

If you find the title or the graphic offensive, I encourage you to read the sensitized version. 

Living With Crazy and Drugs: A Wild Ride Through a Psychotic Circus

Ah, the tangled web we weave when mental health disorders and illicit substances collide! It’s like trying to juggle flaming swords while riding a unicycle on a tightrope strung across a chasm filled with molten lava. Balancing is impossible, and the heat coming from below is cooking you anyway.

Welcome to the big top, my friends. Step right up, because we’re about to explore the carnival of chaos that families live with when they love someone who dances the macabre waltz between crazy and drugs.

The Sensational Picture and Title

First things first: If you feel a bit uncomfortable with the image of our clown friend, let me say that he doesn't hold a candle to looking into the face of someone you love who is suffering from a psychotic episode.  You also may not like the term "crazy". We use it for a specific reason here, which you will read shortly. However, the word resonates for many families - like many lived experience groups, some words give us power as we self-identify with them. We've also earned the right to use every single syllable in certain words because they describe at a gut level what we live with. So, let’s cut through the wordplay and get down to brass tacks. Buckle up, because this rollercoaster ride doesn’t come with safety belts.

Language Matters

Before we plunge into the abyss, we need to talk a bit more about the language in the title. Here's that learning in the last paragraph that needs to be explained. Words matter. They’re like little time bombs, ticking away in our minds.

Choose them poorly, and you’ll blow up someone’s self-esteem faster than a microwave popcorn bag left unattended. So, dear reader, even though I got you here via by using stigmatizing words, part of our lesson is having that discussion about inclusive language. We’ll tread lightly on this verbal tightrope for the rest of this article.

However, to be clear, there’s no self-serving seriousness beyond this point. Most families navigating the tumultuous terrain of madness and substance use have shed their solemn manner long ago. Frankly, it often feels like the only way we survive is by riding on the edge of madness ourselves. Dark humor serves as our armor, so brace yourself. Things get a bit quirky past this point.

The Math of Madness & Drugs:

Now, imagine you’re somewhere over the rainbow, like in Kansas—blue skies, sunflowers, and tornadoes. Life’s simple, right? But then, your beloved family member sprouts a second head: one part mental illness, one part toxic/illicit substance addiction. Suddenly, you’re not in Kansas anymore. Forget double trouble; this equation is more like 2 × 1000 = Apocalypse Now.

Do you think I’m exaggerating? Let’s break it down:

1. Mental Health Disorders: Picture a spectrum. On one end, you’ve got anxiety and depression— some have said it's only the emotional equivalent of a drizzly day or too much coffee. However, most of us can get through one bad day. Sadly, people who suffer from these two conditions often experience them for years or decades.
   
   Can you imagine every single day for years and years? Not fun, right? Depression and anxiety disorders are nothing to sneeze at. They can be incredibly debilitating.
   
   However, keep walking that tightrope. Suddenly, you’re balancing bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and personality disorder that make Dr. Jekyll look like a well-adjusted neighbour. And yes, we’re still juggling. What if you had some bits of all of these together in one person? Mental health is rarely just one thing. It often comes with a host of titles conferred on people as we try and come to terms with behaviour that we don’t understand. Depression, anxiety, schizophrenia or more are just a few of the words we use, but unless you’ve experienced them in someone you love, it’s impossible to understand. Nevertheless, we’re going to try with some real stories in a minute. But first, let’s look at the second part of concurrent disorders.
   
   
2. Let's Add-In Illicit Substances: Ah, the siren call of drugs. It’s like a carnival barker whispering, “Step right up, folks! Let’s up your insanity game tenfold. Self-medicating? Sounds great except it's nothing but a ticket to a psychoactive circus!” Ever wondered why people compare mental health challenges to a circus? It’s because there is so much going on, and none of it seems to be coordinated. It looks messy and uncontrolled from the perspective of the audience.
   
   Anyway, back to our proverbial family member who is now tightrope-walking with a baggie of white powder in one hand and hallucinations and delusions in the other. The crowd gasps. You pray the net below is sturdy. Ops – There is no net. Nope, it’s freefall all the way.

Stories From The Wild Side

Enough theory, my friend; let’s dive into the real-life stories. These are tales of survival, resilience, and the occasional faceplant into that chasm of molten lava we mentioned earlier. They’re all based on actual people and stories from families. The only thing we’ve changed are the names. Yeap, these stories are as real as they get, including violence, hallucinations, delusions, and more. :

• The Tightrope Tango: Meet Agatha. She is only twenty-four. Before her exit stage right into her bipolar/ schizophrenia disorder, she was the sweetest young lady. Now she pirouettes between manic episodes and smoking crack cocaine. One day, she’s convinced she’s the Queen of Mars; the next, she’s hiding in the pantry, whispering secrets to the canned peas. Her family? They’re the circus crew, frantically adjusting the safety net while praying for a miracle – sorry, I mentioned already that there is no safety net, however, we do pray and hope for miracles. Sadly, no miracles so far either.
  
  
• The Hall of Mirrors: Morty is only twenty-one. Even so, and bless his heart, he already has a PhD in conspiracy theories. He believes the moon landing was staged by Elvis and Bigfoot. His substance of choice? A little cannabis, a little fentanyl and psychedelic mushrooms, - organic, of course, when he can get them. Picture this: Morty staring into a funhouse mirror, seeing infinite versions of himself—each with wild hair, bloodshot eyes, and a tinfoil hat. The family? They’re lost in the maze, trying to find the exit.
  
  
• When the Lion Roars: Now, let’s get serious. Tim, the youngest son in the Smith family, battles severe schizophrenia. One day, the circus tent collapses. Tim’s mind becomes a storm of lightning bolts and shattered mirrors. He screams, flinging chairs and shouting at invisible demons. The family? They’re not spectators anymore; they’re targets. They dodge flying furniture, hearts pounding, desperate for a tranquillizer dart or a magic spell to calm the beast.
  
  They desperately wish for some sort of help or support. What they get is an appointment in four weeks for an adjustment of anti-psychotic medicine that Tim won’t take anyway. What’s really on the menu is a call to the police, who will take Tim to lock up overnight or the mental health ER, then release him tomorrow morning, so they can go through it all again – Groundhog Day, every day.
  
  
• There Are  Worst Things Than The Witching Hour: Meet Sam, who is 27 and has paranoid schizophrenia, a step up from the ho-hum regular variety. Sam also uses meth and fentanyl, because they calm the voices in his head.
  
  Sam lives with his single dad. We leave it to you to figure out why Mom’s not in this home anymore.
  
  Picture this: 2 AM—when sensible folks are tucked in bed, dreaming of unicorns and tax refunds. But not Sam. Oh no, Sam had other plans. He tiptoes down the hallway. Sam’s destination? His dad’s bedroom.
  
  So, there stood Sam, a shadowy figure at the foot of Dad’s bed. The moon peeked through the curtains as if saying, “Hey, kid, you’re about to mess up someone’s REM cycle.” And then, Dad stirred. His eyelids fluttered, revealing eyes that had only seen mortgage payments, burnt toast, and heartache recently. “Sam,” he mumbled, “what’s the emergency? Did the Wi-Fi crash again?”
  
  But Sam wasn’t here to discuss bandwidth woes. No, he leaned in, “Dad,” he whispered, “I need to cut off two of your fingers.” Dad blinked, wondering if he’d accidentally wandered into a David Lynch film. “Two fingers?” he croaked. “Son, I’m not auditioning for Saw 9: The Dad Edition.”
  
  “But hear me out,” Sam insisted. “It’s for your own good. You see, I have to do this. If I don’t, you will go to hell. I can’t have that, so your fingers have to go.”
  
  Dad sighed, rubbing his temples. “Sam, I appreciate your creativity, but—”
  
  “—but nothing!” Sam interrupted. “I have to do this right now!”
  
  And so, there they sat—Sam, the midnight surgeon, and Dad, contemplating a DIY fingerectomy. The moon winked, as if saying, “Well, this escalated quickly.”
  
  In the end, Dad compromised. “How about we settle for a pinky swear?” he suggested. “No actual amputations, but I promise to high-five you with gusto in the morning.”
  
  And that, my friends, is how Dad’s quirky parenting skills earned him a spot in the Single Dad's Concurrent Disorder Hall of Fame. Dad kept all ten fingers intact, but he never looked at nail clippers the same way again. Sleeping with one eye open became a real thing, even after Dad installed a deadbolt on his bedroom door. The trust was gone forever.
  
  And so, dear reader, the moral of our tale? When life hands you a midnight request for finger removal, you better be at the top of your game. Sometimes some creative communication works, but what if it doesn’t? Sometimes, “Not tonight, kiddo. But let’s discuss it over breakfast cereal.” Might work, however what if it doesn’t? Then things escalate into a world of hurt in a split second.
  
  There is no coming back from missing fingers or worse. Think for a second here. I’ll wait – what would worse look like? Yeap, now you are getting just a small piece of what families lives with.
  
  
• When the Lion Roars: A Tale of Meth and Madness
  
  
  Once upon a time, in a suburban cul-de-sac that smelled of freshly mowed lawns and hidden secrets, there lived the Thompsons. They were the quintessential Canadian family—white picket fence, Labrador retriever, and a minivan parked in the driveway. But beneath the facade, their lives were a kaleidoscope of chaos.
  
  Meet Tim, the prodigal son. Tim has been depressed for most of his teenage life. His days are defined by never coming out of his basement bedroom and hours upon hours of playing online games. You can see the galaxies of pain in Tim’s eyes, and his laughter echoes like shards of broken glass. Tim now dances with demons—His answer to his depression was finding Meth which has now become his wicked partner. The neighbours whispered, “When he’s not on drugs, he’s a good person, a nice boy!.” But oh, how those words now twist like rusty daggers.
  
  Act I: The Kitchen Table Confessions
  One chilly evening, the Thompsons gathered around their oak kitchen table. The fluorescent light flickered, casting shadows on Tim’s gaunt face. His mother, Mrs. Thompson, clutched her worry beads, casting fervent wishes into the universe for an answer to their family nightmare. His father, Mr. Thompson, stared at the coffee stain on the tablecloth, lost in regret.
  
  Tim’s confession spilled forth like a broken dam. “I see things, Mom. Shadows crawl up the walls, whispering secrets. The meth—it’s like a carnival mirror, distorting reality. I’m trapped in a horror house of my own making.”
  
  Mrs. Thompson’s trembling hands reached for her son’s. “We’ll get you help, Tim. We’ll find a way out of this maze.” Wishful thinking?
  
  Act II: The Violent Symphony
  But meth psychosis doesn’t play by the rules. It’s a symphony of shattered notes, and Tim was the conductor. One moonless night, the house trembled. Tim’s rage erupted—a tempest of fists, curses, and shattered porcelain. The walls absorbed his fury, bearing witness to a son who was both lion and lamb. Drywall, once pristine, now shows terrible battle scars
  
  Mr. Thompson, once a stoic accountant, now grappled with a wild beast. He wrestled Tim to the ground, tears streaming down his face. “You’re not alone, son,” he whispered. “We fight this together.”
  
  Act III: The Tightrope Walk
  The Thompsons tiptoed along the tightrope of hope. They dragged Tim to rehab—a sterile cocoon where broken souls moulted their addictions. Tim’s withdrawal was a symphony of screams, but they held him steady. The counsellors, like circus ringmasters, cracked their whips of tough love. Tough Love, a paragon of hope from an era long past. Somehow, the Thompsons were uneasy with the idea, but this recovery centre swore by its success.
  
  Three recovery centres later and $60,000 poorer, Tim and the Thompsons discovered connection theory. A far more human concept than tough love.
  
  Outpatient treatment, inpatient rehab—the Thompsons juggled options like flaming torches. Tim’s relapses were epic earthquakes, shaking their fragile equilibrium. But they clung to hope, even when hope wore a straitjacket.
  
  The Grand Finale: Redemption or Ruin?
  And so, the circus continued. Tim’s eyes lost their feverish glow, replaced by hollow resolve. He joined support groups, where fellow travellers shared their scars. They weren’t alone; they were a tribe of misfits, clinging to sanity.
  
  The Thompsons? They became trapeze artists, swinging between despair and determination. Mrs. Thompson’s worry beads became worn out, and Mr. Thompson’s coffee-stained table bore witness to their battle.
  
  As for Tim, he’s still teeters on the edge. And so, my friends, remember this: When meth and madness tango, families become acrobats. They leap, they fall, and dance to the discordant tune of loving someone with concurrent disorders.
  
  
• Drug Lord and Hell's Angels
  
  One last story. It wouldn’t be right to leave without telling the worst of the worst.
  
  Shane's world was a kaleidoscope of fractured realities. At 25, his life was a warzone, the battle lines drawn within his own fractured mind. Borderline personality disorder painted his world in shades of rage and despair. Every perceived slight, every real or imagined betrayal, ignited a firestorm within him. Most of the time, Shane had no filters - neither in his words nor his behaviour. His perception of right and wrong did not exist. Anything that  Shane wanted, he took. Criminal behaviour was as natural to him as breathing.
  
  This fire had already landed him in jail more times than he cared to remember, leaving his parents, Martha and David, perpetually braced for the next meltdown. Police knocking on the door was a common event. Neighbours had become used to the flashing lights, armed police response, and hours of waiting for Shane to be taken into custody.
  
  Then there were the voices. A constant, cacophonous chorus in his head, fueled by a raging case of schizophrenia. They whispered of empires and power, weaving a delusional tapestry where Shane was the kingpin, ruling a vast drug underworld. In his mind, his Uncle Henry, was secretly the head of the Hell's Angels, a powerful figure lurking beneath all of Shane's decisions.
  
  The drugs, a desperate attempt to quiet the voices, only made everything worse. Methamphetamine, a cruel accelerant, cranked up the volume on the internal chaos. Fentanyl, a supposed soother, offered fleeting moments of numb oblivion before leaving him shaky and paranoid.
  
  Life with Shane was a terrifying tightrope walk for his parents. Every day was a gamble – would it be a day of explosive rage, hurling accusations and death threats? Or a day of sullen withdrawal, punctuated by the hollow echo of Shane's constant muttering? Mealtimes were a minefield, family gatherings a recipe for disaster. Their home, once a haven, was now a fortress, perpetually on high alert.
  
  Martha, a woman once vibrant with laughter lines, now carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. Sleep was a luxury she could rarely afford, every creak of the floorboards sending jolts of worry through her. David, though physically strong, felt emotionally battered. He yearned for the son he used to know, the bright spark that had shone in Shane's eyes before the darkness descended.
  
  Yet, beneath the anger and the delusions, a sliver of the old Shane remained. Sometimes, in the quiet moments between storms, a flicker of recognition would pass in his eyes. A shared joke, a past shared happy memory, a fleeting moment of connection – these were the life rafts they clung to, desperate for any sign that their son could be brought back from the abyss.
  
  Shane's story is one of heartbreak and resilience, a stark reminder of the devastating toll mental and substance illness can take on individuals and families. But within the tragedy, there was a flicker of hope. The unwavering love of his parents, a love that refused to be extinguished, was a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit, a beacon in the storm.

So, my fellow circus-goers, did you buckle your seatbelts for our short ride together? (who am I kidding? There are no seatbelts). Living and loving a family member with “crazy and drugs” (concurrent disorders) is like riding a rollercoaster through a tornado. Have you seen the movie, Twister? There is that scene, where the lady sees cows flying in the spiral heart of the tornado – sucks for the cows, but hey, at least the view is spectacular for a few short moments. Usually, the ride families experience goes on for decades or longer. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Thanks for joining me today in this short read. Hopefully, you now have a small sense of what families experience loving someone with substance and mental health disorders. I’m hoping when you now see someone on the streets who has obvious mental health challenges or you think might be fighting substance disorders, you’ll remember these stories. They are family, friends, neighbours. Someone loves them, someone cries for them every single night.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go rescue Agatha from the trapeze. She thinks she’s a flying squirrel this morning. I love squirrels. Wish me luck!

The Author: Ron Merk – Ron is a person with family lived experience. He advocates for people and families experiencing concurrent disorders.