My son, Ben, who lives with paranoid schizophrenia, is in the process of rebuilding his life. After years of feeling buried under symptoms, distracted by hospitalizations, rejected from opportunities, and feeling left behind by friends whose lives had followed more predictable paths unfettered by mental illness, he is also (dare I say it? Yes!) reclaiming his future. So far, so good. Living with Mental Illness. Steps toward Recovering Life. Reclaiming his future. How delicious. How marvelously hopeful. And it's a phrase I heard echoed this week at a breakfast briefing of the International Center for Clubhouse Development (ICCD) in New York City. I love this phrase, because it's not only full of hope, it is full of truth - for those who manage to find their way to a Clubhouse, embrace its community, and take advantage of its opportunities.

Sometimes you've  just got to say the word: suicide. Suicide is Preventable Monday is World Suicide Prevention Day and if having the conversation saves even one life, it's worth breaking through the fear of "rocking the boat." Rock away. Although dealing with my son Ben's schizophrenia has been no picnic, and at times I have feared for his life via accident or attack, we know we are lucky in that he has only spoken of suicide once, in the early onset phase of his illness 15 years ago.  He tells me now that he was only trying to get my attention. Mission accomplished.

Answer: a lot. At least, given the opportunity, respect and resources, we can learn. So can anyone who loves someone with a mental illness. Last week I had what I thought was a terrific idea: why not get a parent's perspective on the recent tragedy in Aurora, the public perception of schizophrenia, and the value of treatment for mental illness?  After all, family members live the experience of seeing a loved one's decline into mental illness, and (if we are informed, supported, and -let's face it - a little bit lucky) the benefits of proper treatment. Schizophrenia expert? Not just an M.D.

"Ben is so lucky to have you." I hear that a lot, from healthcare providers who often don't even know the families of those they treat and from PAMIs (People Affected by Mental Illness) who usually add one of three things: their family has given up on them  - and they grieve the loss their family has somehow made their recovery more difficult and they are glad to have broken free from them, or their family has been a major part of their desire to stabilize, and they are so grateful for the love and support. One of the most validating things I heard at the NAMI National Convention was this, from the producer of a photo collection called 99Faces Project: that a UCLA psychiatrist was quoted as saying that the most important common link among those in successful recovery was this: someone who loved them anyway, and walked alongside them on the journey. I plan to be that for my son, carefully balancing, as much as possible, the letting go with the support when needed. That is a tough balance to achieve, but the success is in the desire to do so. This is Ben's journey, not mine, but I do always want him to feel our love.

We still hear it sometimes: it's the family's fault. "They were too demanding during childhood." "That mother is so overprotective." "No wonder you have issues; your parents are cold and withdrawn" "If we can just get you away from your family dynamic, you will recover so much more quickly." You know, maybe sometimes that is true.

I can't complain. Really, our family usually lives in a place of gratitude these days.  Ben is doing well. He actually has a job, after eight hospitalizations and ten years unemployed, and has celebrated his one-year anniversary there.  He cares about school now, and made Dean's List once again at college. (Got a grade of 98 on his Final Essay on how his stasis was changed by reading Macbeth. Wow.) Yes, we can't complain.  This is miraculous, compared to where Ben could have been. Compared to where he would be, without treatment. When asked how Ben is doing, I usually respond, "Today is a good day." I look to the sky to see if the other shoe is falling, but these days we are okay most of the time, certain that Ben is taking his meds and therefore inching forward with his life. We are grateful and relieved. But - every so often - grief sets in, for what we have lost. For what Ben has lost. For what could have been, if schizophrenia had not become our reality.

I've had the privilege of meeting many wonderful people who happen to be diagnosed with mental illness and look forward to many more. There are many stages we go through with any life change, and mental illness is no exception. Families have stages of acceptance, certainly the Person Affected by Mental Illness (PAMI) does too. * When I talk with a PAMI who is at a stage of acceptance of his mental illness diagnosis, takes her own meds without supervision and is living a functional, productive life, I often ask if there were any particular turning points in their recovery process. In particular, I want to know: Was there a moment when it clicked? When you accepted your diagnosis as true? Not once - not once! - has anyone said, "My mother finally convinced me I have schizophrenia."

Getting a diagnosis of schizophrenia, or any mental illness, after years of confusion, judgment and blame is both devastating - and a relief. For Mental Health Awareness Day, here's how it felt for our family. Watch.

It's May: Mental Health Awareness Month - and I hope you had a great Mothers' Day on Sunday. Last week, I had the opportunity to present at the APA (American Psychiatric Association) 165th Annual Conference, about the value of a "therapeutic alliance" between caregivers (often families), healthcare providers, and PAMIs (Person Affected by Mental Illness -a word I use instead of "patient").  My co-presenter was Peter J.Weiden, MD, who advocates for the same respect, partnership and open communication. My "credentials", next to his "MD"? Randye Kaye, MRG (Mom who Refused to Give up). Yes, I have other letters that could go after my name - but those are the ones that really matter as I speak to audiences about our family journey.

"Katy Jones" is now a high school student. She might not have made it past the seventh grade, though. It took a watchful teacher and a caring school psychologist to take the action that Katy's family was afraid of: admitting Katy for help when the risk was that "people might think she's crazy."