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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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Sliding Scales
My therapist charges for her services on a sliding scale, meaning her prices adjust depending on her clients’ income. It was an amazing gift to be able to receive mental health care during a time when I was our only source of income and my husband was a student.
I sometimes look at the age-old greeting, “how are you?” with the same kind of scale. If the person genuinely wants to know, I have to ask myself, do they know where we’ve been in the last week? Month? Year? If the analogy of a baseline income = our baseline “okay,” then our scale has shifted considerably from 2020 to 2021. We have new treatment, a new diagnosis, more people on our team, and most significantly, appropriate medication that keeps our son stable, able to sleep, and functional in relationships. It’s a place I could hardly imagine, and when I compare it to last year, I’d give it a 10 for sure.
Then there’s that awful thing where you start to recognize the baseline for other families. That my 10, which I want to celebrate and enjoy, is really a 3 for a “typical” kid. Sometimes I get too confident or used to our new normal, and I think we can go to a park with someone else or do something out of routine. Life is better! Why shouldn’t we try to live a little?
And then I’m rudely awakened. I’m living on a sliding scale, where our normal is nowhere near the norm. We still need to adjust our routines, how and when we venture out in public as a family, because it is almost certainly going to present challenges.
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Ugly Christmas Card
We usually send out cards each year at Christmas, and I always enjoy giving some lighthearted summary of the year. As our family has grown, so have the updates. Everybody gets a photo and a couple of sentences sharing what tv shows have captivated them, or what sport is the latest obsession, or where we’ve moved.
This year, I didn’t have it in me.
2020 brought on the first year of the blank back side to our card, and it makes me sad.
I always want to be truthful. Portraying your life as if it is picture-perfect only contributes to the massive amounts of depression that others can experience when stuck in the comparison trap. In my face-to-face relationships, I am brutally honest about what our experiences have been relating to job loss, mental health issues, and parenting.
But there’s something about it not only pertaining to me, but to my son– and our family– that gives me pause about putting it in writing for all to see. I would rather he make the decision to share this information with our community, instead of making that call for him.
As this is anonymous, I’ll share my *unedited* Christmas card here:
2020 was a year that began with promise and hope. I started my new job that was a great fit for my skills– arguably the best position I’ve ever had. Bae got a promotion in February where he gets to work on a team that affirms and challenges him, which is a huge departure from his last work environment. The year was our oyster.
We all know what happened in March, and the months that followed. 10 very long weeks of working from home full time plus supervising distance learning with two kids who have IEPs is not for the faint of heart. And believe me, we became faint of heart.
In the midst of our weariness– and in the span of 5 months– we experienced two psychiatric hospitalizations, one Bipolar 1 diagnosis, an ADHD & Autism diagnosis, moving to a new house, and a new school for each of the boys. I would be happy to share more about any and all of these events over a phone call or Houseparty session. It’s a lot to talk about, and even more stunning to think of how we survived such a season.
In it all was the grace of God. I felt that presence through friends and family who supported me, loving texts and notes, meals sent digitally, and many prayers on our behalf. Thank you. It’s no small miracle, but here we are, ushering out the year very differently than when we welcomed it.
I plan to approach 2021 with a very different attitude. This time, I will keep the expectations low. But I will also try and leave room for hope to make her way into all areas of our lives. We just might make it through with some beauty in the process.
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However you celebrate (or don’t) this time of year, I’m sending hopes for encouragement and rest for you today. May you live as authentically as you can bear.
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I Didn’t Ask for This
I didn’t ask for this.
Yes, I wanted to be a mother.
Yes, I wanted to nurture another human and share my love and wisdom.
I did NOT ask for trauma that stems from my own offspring. I did not ask for the deep fracture of my own family that stems from our love of one another and our experience of deep wounds from a mentally ill family member.
When you dream of your life, you imagine struggles like your kids sneaking out to go drinking at parties, or kids who break their legs climbing trees against your wishes. You never imagine your own child wrapping a string around your other son’s neck as a matter of course, sending you over the edge and doubting everything you’ve ever known.
This is how we end up at the hospital.
This is how we end up back at home, with no plan, no consequence effective enough, no conversation lasting.
I do believe that my voice matters. But right now, I don’t believe anything I have to say matters to him.
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The In-Between
Some days, I wonder if we will survive. Not in a hyperbolic, dramatic kind of way, but an is-someone-truly-going-to-get-hurt kind of way. Those days are nearly unbearable, except I have to bear them. I grieve and I pray and I try to be empathetic to one son while protecting and comforting the other who has been on the receiving end of abuse from his sibling.
Then, there are days when I wonder if it was as bad as my memory would have me believe. These days, we interact as many other families do, with squabbles and laughter, genuine connection and arguments, but all in a way that is do-able. I cherish and treasure these days, which are much fewer than I would like.
And then there are days like today. We’re not in crisis here, no one is screaming or manic at 2am or cursing and running away… but we’re not in the good place, either. And I am anxious just wondering which way we are going to go. I struggle to embrace or enjoy that we aren’t in the awful place, because what if that’s where we are in a few hours? And what if I get my hopes up for a good day and they’re dashed? How can I mother my boys if I’m devastated by grief once again?
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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.