Thank you Sandy Hook Teachers!!

Tuesday night I began to get messages and comments left on my Facebook page from the teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown Connecticut.  They have received my Inspiration Angels that I sent a week after the tragedy.  They began telling me so many wonderful things.  I seriously had to sit back in my chair for a while and compose myself.  It was truly heartwarming to hear from one teacher that out of all of the donations given, MY Inspiration Angels have seemed to comfort them and bring smiles back on to the faces of those that have gone through something that you and I have only experienced in our worst nightmares.  I couldn’t have asked for a better compliment.  I am truly touched and humbled by the amazing responses.  You can see for yourself on my page at : https://www.facebook.com/pages/TBT-Creations-Thoughts-Become-Things/146252698756981?ref=hl

After receiving all of these awesome responses I feel it only necessary to now begin to donating a part of each sale from every Inspiration Angel necklace sold.  I am donating $3 per necklace sold and you can find out how to order from my Etsy Page :

http://www.etsy.com/shop/TBTCreations

This has been a MOST INSPIRING WEEK!  SPREAD THE WORD!!  Lets keep the cycle of giving alive!  

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Inspiration Angels are on there way to Sandy Hook Elementary School, Newtown Connecticut

I have created these necklaces for the purpose of those with heavy hearts and those that are going through rough times.  I think it fitting I send them to Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown Connecticut.

Being a parent of a 4 year old girl and a 10 year old boy myself, I can not imagine what they are going through right now.  I can not imagine getting the  phone call.  I can not imagine having to wait outside the school wondering if your child was alive or…  I can not imagine the dread and then sorrow one would feel getting the worst news ever possible.

I want the parents, teachers and staff of Sandy Hook Elementary to know that there ARE good people out there.  There ARE people that are sending them love and hope.  My Inspiration Angels are meant to give the wearer some hope.  They are meant to remind the wearer that there still is something to be grateful for.  During these times it will be tough to remember that.  There faith may be shaken, I understand.  Faith in humanity.  Faith in society.  Faith in government.  Faith in the good in the world.  Well I am here to show them one of the first signs that people not of there town or state DO care.  We are EVERYWHERE.  We are standing by Newtown Connecticut with are arms wide open.  With a tear running down our cheek letting them know to cry, to mourn and to remember those amazing children and teachers that lost there lives.  But remember them alive.  Remember the awesome times you shared a laugh with them.  The feelings you had when you witnessed them showing their love for someone else.  They were here on Earth to give us those memories.  We will not forget them.  Ever.

I am not only sending the Inspiration Angels to the school district but also to different churches in the community.  I am sending my entire supply.

And when they arrive to you Newtown remember to Spin those Wings and Remember your Blessings.  They will be watching and loving you from above.

“I am Adam Lanza’s Mother” It’s time to talk about mental illness. Written by Liza Long

Friday’s horrific national tragedy—the murder of 20 children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in New Town, Connecticut—has ignited a new discussion on violence in America. In kitchens and coffee shops across the country, we tearfully debate the many faces of violence in America: gun culture, media violence, lack of mental health services, overt and covert wars abroad, religion, politics and the way we raise our children. Liza Long, a writer based in Boise, says it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.

Three days before 20 year-old Adam Lanza killed his mother, then opened fire on a classroom full of Connecticut kindergartners, my 13-year old son Michael (name changed) missed his bus because he was wearing the wrong color pants.

“I can wear these pants,” he said, his tone increasingly belligerent, the black-hole pupils of his eyes swallowing the blue irises.

“They are navy blue,” I told him. “Your school’s dress code says black or khaki pants only.”

“They told me I could wear these,” he insisted. “You’re a stupid bitch. I can wear whatever pants I want to. This is America. I have rights!”

“You can’t wear whatever pants you want to,” I said, my tone affable, reasonable. “And you definitely cannot call me a stupid bitch. You’re grounded from electronics for the rest of the day. Now get in the car, and I will take you to school.”

I live with a son who is mentally ill. I love my son. But he terrifies me.

A few weeks ago, Michael pulled a knife and threatened to kill me and then himself after I asked him to return his overdue library books. His 7 and 9 year old siblings knew the safety plan—they ran to the car and locked the doors before I even asked them to. I managed to get the knife from Michael, then methodically collected all the sharp objects in the house into a single Tupperware container that now travels with me. Through it all, he continued to scream insults at me and threaten to kill or hurt me.

That conflict ended with three burly police officers and a paramedic wrestling my son onto a gurney for an expensive ambulance ride to the local emergency room. The mental hospital didn’t have any beds that day, and Michael calmed down nicely in the ER, so they sent us home with a prescription for Zyprexa and a follow-up visit with a local pediatric psychiatrist.

We still don’t know what’s wrong with Michael. Autism spectrum, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant or Intermittent Explosive Disorder have all been tossed around at various meetings with probation officers and social workers and counselors and teachers and school administrators. He’s been on a slew of antipsychotic and mood altering pharmaceuticals, a Russian novel of behavioral plans. Nothing seems to work.

At the start of seventh grade, Michael was accepted to an accelerated program for highly gifted math and science students. His IQ is off the charts. When he’s in a good mood, he will gladly bend your ear on subjects ranging from Greek mythology to the differences between Einsteinian and Newtonian physics to Doctor Who. He’s in a good mood most of the time. But when he’s not, watch out. And it’s impossible to predict what will set him off.

Several weeks into his new junior high school, Michael began exhibiting increasingly odd and threatening behaviors at school. We decided to transfer him to the district’s most restrictive behavioral program, a contained school environment where children who can’t function in normal classrooms can access their right to free public babysitting from 7:30-1:50 Monday through Friday until they turn 18.

The morning of the pants incident, Michael continued to argue with me on the drive. He would occasionally apologize and seem remorseful. Right before we turned into his school parking lot, he said, “Look, Mom, I’m really sorry. Can I have video games back today?”

“No way,” I told him. “You cannot act the way you acted this morning and think you can get your electronic privileges back that quickly.”

His face turned cold, and his eyes were full of calculated rage. “Then I’m going to kill myself,” he said. “I’m going to jump out of this car right now and kill myself.”

That was it. After the knife incident, I told him that if he ever said those words again, I would take him straight to the mental hospital, no ifs, ands, or buts. I did not respond, except to pull the car into the opposite lane, turning left instead of right.

“Where are you taking me?” he said, suddenly worried. “Where are we going?”

“You know where we are going,” I replied.

“No! You can’t do that to me! You’re sending me to hell! You’re sending me straight to hell!”

I pulled up in front of the hospital, frantically waiving for one of the clinicians who happened to be standing outside. “Call the police,” I said. “Hurry.”

Michael was in a full-blown fit by then, screaming and hitting. I hugged him close so he couldn’t escape from the car. He bit me several times and repeatedly jabbed his elbows into my rib cage. I’m still stronger than he is, but I won’t be for much longer.

The police came quickly and carried my son screaming and kicking into the bowels of the hospital. I started to shake, and tears filled my eyes as I filled out the paperwork—“Were there any difficulties with… at what age did your child… were there any problems with.. has your child ever experienced.. does your child have…”

At least we have health insurance now. I recently accepted a position with a local college, giving up my freelance career because when you have a kid like this, you need benefits. You’ll do anything for benefits. No individual insurance plan will cover this kind of thing.

For days, my son insisted that I was lying—that I made the whole thing up so that I could get rid of him. The first day, when I called to check up on him, he said, “I hate you. And I’m going to get my revenge as soon as I get out of here.”

By day three, he was my calm, sweet boy again, all apologies and promises to get better. I’ve heard those promises for years. I don’t believe them anymore.

On the intake form, under the question, “What are your expectations for treatment?” I wrote, “I need help.”

And I do. This problem is too big for me to handle on my own. Sometimes there are no good options. So you just pray for grace and trust that in hindsight, it will all make sense.

I am sharing this story because I am Adam Lanza’s mother. I am Dylan Klebold’s and Eric Harris’s mother. I am Jason Holmes’s mother. I am Jared Loughner’s mother. I am Seung-Hui Cho’s mother. And these boys—and their mothers—need help. In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.

According to Mother Jones, since 1982, 61 mass murders involving firearms have occurred throughout the country. Of these, 43 of the killers were white males, and only one was a woman. Mother Jones focused on whether the killers obtained their guns legally (most did). But this highly visible sign of mental illness should lead us to consider how many people in the U.S. live in fear, like I do.

When I asked my son’s social worker about my options, he said that the only thing I could do was to get Michael charged with a crime. “If he’s back in the system, they’ll create a paper trail,” he said. “That’s the only way you’re ever going to get anything done. No one will pay attention to you unless you’ve got charges.”

I don’t believe my son belongs in jail. The chaotic environment exacerbates Michael’s sensitivity to sensory stimuli and doesn’t deal with the underlying pathology. But it seems like the United States is using prison as the solution of choice for mentally ill people. According to Human Rights Watch, the number of mentally ill inmates in U.S. prisons quadrupled from 2000 to 2006, and it continues to rise—in fact, the rate of inmate mental illness is five times greater (56 percent) than in the non-incarcerated population.

With state-run treatment centers and hospitals shuttered, prison is now the last resort for the mentally ill—Rikers Island, the LA County Jail and Cook County Jail in Illinois housed the nation’s largest treatment centers in 2011.

No one wants to send a 13-year old genius who loves Harry Potter and his snuggle animal collection to jail. But our society, with its stigma on mental illness and its broken healthcare system, does not provide us with other options. Then another tortured soul shoots up a fast food restaurant. A mall. A kindergarten classroom. And we wring our hands and say, “Something must be done.”

I agree that something must be done. It’s time for a meaningful, nation-wide conversation about mental health. That’s the only way our nation can ever truly heal.

God help me. God help Michael. God help us all.

(Originally published at The Anarchist Soccer Mom.)

liza long is an author, musician, and erstwhile classicist. she is also a single mother of four bright, loved children, one of whom has special needs.
This article needs to read and shared by ALL and finally it needs to understood before it is too late……again.

My Thoughts on “Guns don’t kill people, Bad People kill people.”

In one year, guns murdered 35 in Australia, 39 in England, 60 in Spain, 194 in Germany, 200 in Canada & 9,484 in USA……”Guns don’t kill people, Bad people kill people”…..So what you’re saying is that there are THAT MANY MORE BAD PEOPLE IN THE U.S. THAN ANYWHERE ELSE IN THE WORLD or is because of the gun laws? It’s not a coincidence. Seriously, we don’t need to buy an ASSAULT RIFLE OVER THE COUNTER! It’s not called the “ULTIMATE PROTECTOR RIFLE”, it’s called an ASSAULT RIFLE. And now its being shown that Holmes FAILED a test to be able to own a weapon.

BAD PEOPLE + BAD LAWS = AURORA, COLORADO

We can not control how bad people THINK but we could stop them from LEGALLY RECEIVING deadly weapons…at least MILITARY TYPE WEAPONS WOULD BE NICE!

 

http://globalgrind.com/news/nra-aint-gonna-punk-me-russell-simmons-blogImage

Jessica Ghawi – Dodged Toronto, Distracted in Colorado, RIP

Nothing is hitting me harder about the shooting in Colorado than the story I just read. It was about one of the 12 dead. Her name was Jessica Ghawi. She was a huge fan of the Dark Knight series and couldn’t wait to see the opening. She was excited and happy and thankful for her life. Not just because we ALL should be but because she narrowly escaped the deadly mall shooting in Toronto recently. While on vacation she was at that same mall and in the food court before the shooting began. Then she got a feeling….a not-so “funny” feeling about the atmosphere in the food court and simply walked out right when her intuition told her to. Moments later the shooting began, one was dead and several others wounded….so what happen last night? Where was her intuition last night? Was it clouded with the nervous excitement of her final favorite Dark Knight film? I believe we will learn more about Jessica Ghawi due to her unbelievable journey. Below is what she wrote about her thoughts on the Toronto shooting she intuitively stepped away from. She had it figured out. Please read and be thankful for the loved ones that are still with us.

—- I was shown how fragile life was on Saturday. I saw the terror on bystanders’ faces. I saw the victims of a senseless crime. I saw lives change. I was reminded that we don’t know when or where our time on Earth will end. When or where we will breathe our last breath. For one man, it was in the middle of a busy food court on a Saturday evening.
I say all the time that every moment we have to live our life is a blessing. So often I have found myself taking it for granted. Every hug from a family member. Every laugh we share with friends. Even the times of solitude are all blessings. Every second of every day is a gift. After Saturday evening, I know I truly understand how blessed I am for each second I am given.—–

We WILL learn from this Jessica. Rest in Peace to all of the victims, you are now in a state of fearlessness and complete love.