I see you. I know you.

July 23, 2016 ~ To the mom waiting for a table at the little restaurant we both chose for breakfast last week, I want you to know that I noticed. I saw your son, the same age as mine, with his disheveled hair, his mismatched clothing under his long black woman's cloak, his water bottle in one hand and his convenience store drink in the other.

I saw that look on his young face - a little confused, a little vacant, and suspected that he was, perhaps, listening to someone no one else could see, or was struggling to keep the anxiety from so many people and their happy Saturday breakfast chatter from overwhelming him.

I saw other people try not to stare; they were only trying to figure it out. But I knew.

I saw you follow him when he walked outside and back in for no apparent reason. Your eyes tracked him as he wandered to the bathroom, to the other side of the room, to the door. (Would a table never be available??)

I felt your own uncertainty - that bringing him to this active, noisy place might have been the wrong decision. I imagined your thoughts - please let it be ok.

In your face I read the strain from sleepless nights as you fight your own fears. I felt your sadness over the fact that the happy little boy you used to know has been taken away from you by an illness even the experts don't fully understand. I felt your disappointment over so many lost opportunities.

But I also saw your strength.

I saw that you had a peace about you - not really an acceptance of what mental illness has brought to you and your son (because acquiescence is too much to ask), but a determination to not let it crush you.

I saw you trying to have a normal Saturday morning, even though the life you now find yourself in is anything but normal.

And I wanted to give you a hug.

But I was a stranger and for some reason it is oh-so-hard to walk up to someone and say, "My son has a mental illness, too."

So I bought breakfast for you instead. It was the best I could do, and though it wasn't much, hopefully the angels whispered to you that you aren't alone. That someone near you was paying attention, sharing your journey, and sending the message that you are doing a very hard thing and obviously doing it with great love and wisdom and courage.

I know your life. I understand it. We both believe in what may seem impossible - that one day, treatments and medications will work better. That our doctors who try so hard will understand more, and have better tools to use to help us fight this battle. That our lives won't be one hospitalization after another. And that there will be less stigma, more hope, and a brighter future - for both our children.