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Ordinary Time
The church has a season called “Ordinary Time.” It’s not Lent or Easter, not Advent or Christmas, and much of the year is spent here.
I’m in this kind of season with my son right now. We had 5 years of crisis mode: unsafe situations, navigating suspensions (for a 2nd/3rd grader, mind you), and just plain surviving.
Then, at the end of 2020, we found relief.
His second inpatient visit offered the life-giving diagnosis of Bipolar I, and he transferred to a specialized school that has support for him. He now has meds that help him. Family members who didn’t believe in mental illness in children now see the actual results of proper treatment and are supportive in new ways.
At the end of 2020, when others were enduring a new crisis mode of their own with the pandemic, our “ordinary time” began.
My therapist, on one of our telehealth calls, noted that I had spent so long in crisis mode, I needed to re-learn how to exist in a different season; one where you didn’t get daily calls from the school to pick up your son, and where he didn’t share suicidal ideations on a weekly basis.
It’s a year and a half later, and I think I’m still learning. I’m still terrified that we will be thrown into an unsafe situation once again. We have different struggles than other families– like how missing one evening dose could through him into a tailspin that lasts for two weeks. But, our baseline is so much lower. Despite how painful it is to reflect on our times of crisis, I try to do that so I can remember how far we’ve come. How far he’s come. My ordinary time might look different than someone else’s, but I’m grateful for it.
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Darker Days
There are these darker days.
Days when I wonder what it would be like to ship him off to boarding school.
When I wonder if I could ever give him up for adoption.
When I think that I am wholly, truly, totally at the end of myself. That it’s my existence or his. That I don’t know how to do this and survive and help him survive.
This sounds extreme, I know. But the endless strain… the grief of seeing your child hurt your other child and having to be the protector many times a day… The anxiety of wondering who he will hurt or if he will hurt himself… The pain of believing there is a kid inside of there who truly wants to love and be loved, but there are so many layers of destruction and malice on top of that you can’t be totally sure.
These are my darker days.
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What is it like to be a mom to a kid with mental illness?
It fucking sucks.
You think you’re going to fulfill your dreams as a woman and mother, raising this Godly man who will be strong and sensitive and socially aware. You believe you’re going to instill in him a spirit of generosity and hospitality. You hope he will be kind and thoughtful and smart and all the things.
Then he hurts you.
Then he hurts his brother.
Then he says he wishes he didn’t exist.
All your beautiful dreams, your admirable hopes have dissipated. Day after day, month after month, you think maybe now you’ve turned the corner— you’ve crossed the threshold into the promised land. But day after day you are disappointed and wondering how you got here.
You see your friends with these kids who make messes, poke their siblings, lie about stealing an Oreo, and they say, “parenting is hard!”
And you want to scream.
You want to shake them and tell them, there’s parenting, and then there’s parenting a kid with mental illness.
Your struggle is not my struggle.
If you can’t relate to my experience, that’s ok. But please affirm what I’ve endured instead of trying to offer platitudes of “parenting is hard.” It’s incredibly disheartening.
If you can relate, well, this is for you.Where are you, mother with the bipolar elementary kid?
Where are you, parent of another suicidal treasure?
This world is messed up and tragic and brutal. I don’t know how to do any of it, but life keeps coming and I keep showing up in messy and weird ways. I am heartbroken at the grief my boys feel, at the adult emotions that fill their childhood. In many way I feel that I’ve failed them… I’ve made so so many mistakes. But I do love them deeply, and I hope to goodness they always remember that.