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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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Surprising compassion
Surprising compassion
There are many, many moments when I am bereft of compassion towards My son. Today I experienced a rare moment of the opposite: understanding and empathy for my boy. (It helps that he had a super sweet moment of tenderness toward me last night. Just to give you an idea of the whiplash that is being his mom, about an hour before the tender moment he called me a fucking bitch. So, baby steps.)
My eldest son has been super motivated to earn a new Nintendo switch game. He knew clear ahead of time that cooperating with an evaluation would achieve that goal, and he even put $30 of his saved money toward it. He finished his lessons for the day in record time and with reasonable effort, we went on a mile walk, and had a pretty pleasant experience overall. He cooperated during his 3 hour appointment nearly the entire time… until the evaluator discovered a dead frog in his pocket. Now in his defense, the frog was alive when he put it in his pocket. And in my defense, I didn’t know he brought it inside! But she freaked out and started yelling, which set him off in a major way to where he was reacting— not choosing the next move. He sprayed hand sanitizer in her face and ran out of the office, prompting her to call me to come get him immediately.
Ordinary parenting techniques would say that he didn’t keep his end of the bargain, so I shouldn’t get him the reward. I was really, really torn. He started bawling on our way to the car: “I did my BEST and it wasn’t enough!”
His dejection hit me deep.
This kid is struggling with something so much bigger than he is. I called my husband, and together we arrived at the conclusion that typical if/then scenarios don’t really apply here. I fully believe that he did his level best, not just in the appointment but the night before and earlier today. And I wanted to reward his effort. Because if he loses hope, if he gives up trying… well, I don’t want to think about it.
So I abandoned what I would do with a kid like me and tried to parent the kid that I have in a way that will help him grow. I thank God for the empathy that surfaced today— and pray for more of that in the days to come.
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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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Inpatient
It’s so sudden, the shifting from “they” to “we.” I thought of inpatient psychiatric patients as other, worse off… and then I came to the end of myself.
My son has scared me before. He has done things that have caused me to fear for my safety, for his brother’s safety, his own safety… but always I felt like I was the best person to handle the situation. This week, that dam burst.
I became undeniably aware that I could no longer run interference. I needed help. So we called the psychiatrist. We went to the ER.
In our room, which was swiftly procured for us, we had constant observation behind the glass. He had a different colored gown for staff to easily identify his risks. There was increased security, with an armed patrol officer passing by every ten minutes.
The fear, the anxiety, and complete uncertainty overwhelmed me. And I was struck by the contrast of how I felt vs. my son’s delighted state of constant snacks and television. Over 6 hours in that room, and he enjoyed them all. I was in hell.
Once I learned they recommended inpatient services for him, my mind went into overdrive. Thank the Lord for our social worker, who found his placement, reassured me multiple times, and was an overall Godsend.
I didn’t break down until he left with the paramedics who had to transfer him via ambulance. He hesitated for a moment before going with them, and I knew shit was going to hit the fan for them once he realized this was not a fun trip. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to take deep breaths walking through the pediatric ER and out into the parking lot. You’re not supposed to go into the ER with a child and walk back to your car alone. It was uncanny, and it was so quiet. I didn’t know what to do with the quiet.
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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.