Fighting Through Crazy

When I was in my late teens I watched the movie Schindler's List. It's a little over 3 hours long, but it took me almost 9 hours to get through it. I could only digest a chunk of it at a time because the overwhelming emotion and grief prohibited my ability to watch it straight through.
I had no personal understanding of the pain and suffering the Nazi's inflicted on others, I had no place to pull from to begin to comprehend the gravity of evil that devoured all but a remnant of a people hated solely for existing; and yet my soul broke as I watched the story unfold, and my heart ached to know the telling was of people's lives and not the dramatization of ones imagination.

I started a book last night called Crazy, by Pete Earley. I read the first page of the introduction and had to put it down. I couldn't catch my breath and my entire body went cold. It was a surreal feeling to read something written by another parent that I felt I could have penned myself. I've looked in books for years to find myself there, the sometimes hard to explain experiences and emotions I live as the mother of a child with mental illness. Our stories aren't the same- his son didn't have bipolar disorder until late in his college career- as is common we've come to learn- but his emotional trauma at watching his son suffer, and the ridiculous fight for health care was identical to mine. Usually, I'm a very fast reader. I devour books quickly and my ability to absorb what is being shared is fairly strong- but this book is forcing me to consume it in small bites. I'm both relieved and angry. I'm grateful for his candor, and and yet it sickens me that there are so many of us fighting like hell to get what our family members need only to be sent away, under serviced, dismissed, or forced to wait for something bad to happen before intervention occurs.

He titled his book Crazy not as a descriptive of his son, but as a statement of the 'search through America's mental health madness'. In a country where so much of our health care is reactive instead of preventative, it's no surprise that the mental health system is the same, but it never fails to shock and sicken me to be told to my face that 'there is nothing we can do until something bad happens'. I've sat in countless doctor's offices, ER examining rooms, at desks of program directors, counselors, psychiatrists, teachers, begging for help, support, something that would keep him and the rest of us safe- and give him a chance at the life he deserves. They have all told me the same thing that Pete Earley was told- until he does something big to hurt himself or others, there just isn't much that we can do. 
This is insanity. This is the life that those of us caring for people with mental illness have to navigate daily. I wish i could say that in my reading I'm finding respite and encouragement, but all I'm feeling is understanding, grief, and anger. It continues to fuel my fight for my son's life- and reminds me that I'm not alone, but it also disgusts me that so many of us feel as though we're fighting in vain to protect our children and allow their brains to be treated with as much dignity and compassion as they'd receive if they had a cancer diagnosis.
The truth is, we're lucky. I have fought long and hard to get my son the treatment he's needed and deserved and it's been a long, painful, expensive battle- but after residential treatment, where he was treated holistically, treated with love and compassion, and chose to dig in and participate, he's doing really well- better than he's ever done in his almost 17 years of life- but the fear lingers. He's manic right now. His sleeping schedule is off, and he isn't sleeping much at all. He's up most of the night, eating, watching videos, roaming through the house, playing his guitar, laughing loudly at funny things he finds on the internet- and I lie awake in bed a floor above him- grateful he's safe, relieved he's happy and here at home with me, but acutely aware of the fact that bipolar is a disease of sharp ups and downs- swallowing the anxiety that rises in my throat at the knowledge that we're at the start of autumn, the time of year he typically crashes into depression- depression that rots his good thoughts, causes him to either withdraw or fling painfully poisonous words my direction.
He's brilliant- as many people with mental illnesses are- and just like every other parent- I simply want him to have the best life he can; one where he's safe, healthy, doing something he does well and enjoys.

Depression that often results in holes in the wall, broken things, fits of rage, and days of sleeping. I prefer the mania to the depression, but even that doesn't mean health or stability. His brain is tired from the continual onslaught of thoughts and information rushing through it. He exhausts me with the flight of thoughts, and level of energy, but also makes me laugh with his crazy sharp wit and goofy antics.

I'm grateful I found the book nestled deep inside of a shelf in a used book store- it's a bizarre feeling to find myself in the pages, and I'm not sure I would have been able to read it just a few years back. I'm thankful other people are willing to pull back the curtain of their lives and expose places that most of us want to keep hidden- if only so that people like myself can nod in agreement whispering 'us too'. That's what drives me to keep sharing parts of our journey- the continual hope that someone else will find us here and link hands with ours as we fight to stand upright in violent waters.

If you have someone in your life who struggles with bipolar, or who loves someone with the disease- I recommend the book wholeheartedly. Together we must keep using our voices against the insanity of the system, determined to make some shred of sense out of the crazy making battle.

Family Infected

Every family develops dynamics over time- based on birth order, personalities, external stressors, etc. when one of the members of the family has a chronic illness, the dynamics can be skewed in ways that can become unhealthy in the long run in order to operate in the immediate. 

Samuel is doing better overall than he's ever done. We've had rough days, days that stir up latent anxieties simmering below the surface that come hurdling into our throats when his mood or behavior tastes familiar, and we recall older days when the behavior was so unpredictable that none of us felt truly safe in our own home. But as a whole, he's doing so well. I force myself to remember some of the darker days to contrast how well he's doing now- but the dynamics, the structure of the family, the codependent tendencies linger- and pushing back against what has been our norm for so many years is a daunting task. 

For many years, life in our home was survival in a war zone. He was imprisoned in his illness and the rest of us became collateral damage by default. My younger children learned to both revere and fear him- never sure which mood would surface and if they might become caught in the crossfire. When he wasn't stable- not properly diagnosed, nor properly medicated and treated- his behavior was often violent and aggressive. My son Asher was often the focus of his rage, and if he wasn't, then I was. Many many days I would tell the younger three to run to my room and lock themselves in while I worked to calm the volcano of mood explosions and keep all of us safe. That kind of chaos means that simple family things such as delineation of chores and help never happened. I would create chore charts with all of the hope of a fresh spring day, and within days, the volcano erupted again, and the workload fell to me as the younger ones sequestered themselves out of the reach of aggression. 

The result of living in the moment day to day for years on end means that I didn't have practice parenting over time- I didn't learn as I went- to delegate work load, dole out appropriate discipline, and create strong boundaries. I've come so very far- we all have- but I am acutely aware that my kids don't support the running of the household at the level I believe they should. With Samuel's stability, I've been able to enforce more structure and more boundaries- but as foreign as it is for them- it's equally strange to me. I'm not used to living a life that is planned out past today's activities- save for doctor appointments, therapies, and the occasional fun outing. I have become accustomed to making plans and having to cancel them, or asking for help around the house only to be left doing it alone as everyone hides in their rooms. I want to get better at this- I want my kids to get better at this- I know it's my job to prepare them for life outside of my home, and when I think of all they have left to learn, sometimes I feel the crushing weight of failure. I remind myself that comparison of our family dynamic to the perceived dynamics of others is not only ridiculous, but toxic, and that we have struggles and hurdles that other families don't have to take into account- and to remember how far we've come, how much better we're getting at operating in a more healthy way- but it nags at me. 

I wonder when Asher will need therapy for feeling as though I didn't protect him the way he needed me to, or when Tucker will finally express that he feels that Samuel gets the most attention, or when Ivy will get angry at me for being exhausted at times when she wants my energetic attention. The reality is that we all fail our kids somehow- often in ways we aren't aware of- needs they have that they are unable to express that aren't met and create wounds- life is like that for all of us... so I try and talk to them- to let them know I'm aware of these dynamics, and aware that I haven't done it all 'right', or even to their expectations- that I see their hurt and fear, and that I've shared the same hurt for them, to acknowledge that life with a chronically ill sibling feels so unfair- and that it can be confusing to both adore and fear the same person. My prayer is that those conversations will go down deep and work as an inoculation against bitterness or anger festering inside of their souls. I want to believe that the struggles we've endured will create strong character and incredible compassion- but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried at times.

I think that this is an issue for all families with a chronically ill family member. It changes everyone. It alters the fabric of life for everyone woven into the unit. I have no answers other than to encourage those of you in the same place we find ourselves to talk and talk and talk. To choose to call out the pain and injustice and hurt- and give it a place to sit- without judgment, fear, or defensiveness. It's hard, it sucks, it's easier in the moment to avoid those conversations; but somehow, I believe that the ache of the conversations today is far easier than a lifelong sentence of bitterness and a fractured family. If you find yourself here- know that you're not alone, you're not crazy, and doing the best you can is the best you can. <3 

Wanna Bet? Try me.

Last week was difficult for me.

I had a meeting with a board of people who work together to determine if Samuel needs certain kinds of support, how much of it he needs, and how much the county is willing to cover financially. Caring for kids with chronic illness is beyond expensive. Whether physical or mental; the appointments, therapies, medications, tests, caseworkers, hospital stays, specialists, blood draws, etc. all cost money. We have insurance, but the co-pays for all of this rack up quickly. One of the things I didn't know until the school system shared it with me was the assistance of the community services board and/or department of social services. I'd thought DSS was only in existence to work with families who had been flagged by child protective services- I had no idea that they did other things. Mothering a special needs child requires so much; there are countless things to tend to in order to create stability and ongoing health. When searching for support,"You don't know what you don't know", and for many years I've muddled through trying to find the place of support and help that would actually do something for us. But, how and where can you ask for help when you don't know what kind of help is available to you? That problem is one of the huge reasons I am so passionate about sharing our story. There is no need for families to have to reinvent the wheel over and over to get to the sweet spot of support and health and stability.

Anyhow! I had the meeting with the board who I've been working with for the past 3 years. It consists of multiple representatives from several community entities: someone representing DSS, someone representing the juvenile justice system, one from the county school board, a school transition specialist, someone from parent services, the community services board, and sometimes a few others. I also have my caseworker and our in home therapist's supervisor with me. We meet on average, every three months, to discuss how he's doing, what, if anything needs to be changed, and what the plans are going forward. They were the support system that helped me get him into the residential center which has changed our lives. The meetings are always a bit nerve wracking- it's never fun to discuss difficulties and struggles with people who don't know you outside of this one dimension. However, I've become more comfortable with them over the years, and they truly do care about Samuel and our family. The meeting went as usual. The caseworker gave her update, I gave mine, the therapist's supervisor shared hers too. The board asks hard questions and then discusses what needs to be changed to best support us going forward. After suggesting we increase our weekly in home therapy for him, they turned the conversation to concerns for his future.
He will be 17 this year. Which is only one year away from 'adulthood', which is one year away from losing a lot of the support that is available to minors. The board was concerned about his ability to get/hold a job; live on his own, continue to take his meds properly... and on and on. I could feel my head swimming. I've been more aware recently that he is heading towards manhood, and I've wondered what it might look like for him, but as they talked around me about bringing in disabled adult services, and trying to get him job training so that he could have the best shot in spite of his disability, I was numb. Every time they spoke the word disabled or disability, my heart stopped. I guess in reality, and on paper, he has a disability, and I'm more aware than anyone of how hard he works to live in a world where he doesn't quite fit and doesn't always understand- but I've never thought of him as a disabled person. His dreams for his future aren't always realistic, but I've always chalked that up to the dreams of all kids- sometimes seemingly far fetched, but usually settling into something more realistic as they grow and mature.
 I signed the paper to get a referral for the department for disabled adults, and walked out of the building to the parking lot with my caseworker. We talked a bit and she asked about Tucker too. (She's also the caseworker for him). He's going to middle school next year and I had my meeting with the school earlier this week to go over his special education plan to get it ready for the transition. I've been concerned that it's going to be difficult for him - his autism creates anxieties and quirks that can be incompatible with the highly transitional style of middle school classes. I've put multiple things into place for him that will help support him as he transitions; from working in a small group that will focus on what to expect, to getting him a private tour and access to meeting his teachers alone without the swarm of other kids on orientation night, to signing him up for a summer program at the new school that is solely focused on preparing kids like himself for the change. But as I stood there in the lot, my caseworker told me she was very concerned about his transition and just knew he was going to have a difficult time.

It was more than I could handle. During the conversation I'd held it together, and she wasn't saying anything I hadn't already thought on my own- but as I got into my truck and headed home, it nagged at me. Over the next few days it really bothered me greatly. I've given my life to try and stabilize and provide the best chance for my kids to lead as normal of a life as possible- and while I'm hyper aware that they have issues that can bring challenges, I've also always encouraged them in their talents and skills reminding them of all of the geniuses, world changers, artists, out of the box thinkers who are different. Being reminded by a group of people of how incredibly challenging my kids' lives will be- statistically- was heart breaking. I sat in that low spot for a couple of days, and then one morning, a friend texted me the video I've posted. It was exactly what I needed to pull me out of the discouragement loop. I've read articles and cases about people who have lived wonderful lives- against all odds- due to the encouragement, hope, and affirmation of one person; a parent, teacher, pastor, friend. One person who didn't give up on them and reminded them of their greatness.
It's true that on paper we don't look so great statistically - in terms of having 'normal, successful' lives. But in my reality, I've been kicking statistic's ass for years, and have no plans to stop anytime soon. Call us the underdogs, overlook our abilities, be concerned for our futures- then watch as we blow through the low expectations every.single.time. I'm more than happy to be the test study for this group of board members as a representation of what tenacity, hope, and effort can do; and maybe in a future meeting with a single mother afraid about her kid's ability to have a good life- they'll tell her that he has just as good of a chance as anyone else; because they've seen the odds defied before.

(Please watch the video- it's incredible- whether you can relate to 'special needs' or not, it's inspiring)

I'm Wide Awake

Fear has been my enemy since I was a little girl. I have many vivid memories of lying in bed at night hiding my head under the covers terrified an angel was going to show up and try to talk to me. I was irrationally afraid that our house would catch fire and we wouldn't all make it out alive. I would run up the stairs as fast I could, completely convinced that a monster was breathing down my neck and would take me down.
As I got older, the fears became steeped in possibilities that were less fantasy and grounded in more realistic humanity. I was scared I'd get into a car accident, or that one of my loved ones would suddenly die. The swirling anxiety was my continual companion; hovering on my shoulder and whispering paralyzing nonsense into my ear.

So many chapters of my life have been written in a narrative I would have deleted and left on the cutting room floor.. yet some of the ugliest portions of the script have been the ones that have burned away the irrationality that suffocated me for decades. At this moment, I've found myself afraid of very little. Discovering my strength has been an intoxicating process, and I've revealed in seeing just how much I can do.
But fear is a tenacious enemy. One that works hard to linger.. cloaking itself in the disguise of lies long believed, ones that are so familiar they seem to be truth. I have hundreds of inspirational sayings, quotes, scriptures floating inside of my brain- ones that call to action, command me to reach towards my best self while leaving fear behind without the nourishment of my oxygen, my attention, my belief. Yet I find myself indulging it. Returning to the destructive momentary comfort of entertaining the lie/fear monster I've been married to.

The current wrestling is over my future. My destiny. My best life, my hopes and dreams... taking punches from the thing that is ever ready to remind me that I couldn't possibly get to where my soul knows I belong. That I don't have what it takes, that I'll try and fail. That the dreams that have swam miles inside of my brain, carving serpentine grooves into the grey matter are the unrealistic visions of a delusional dreamer.
I've worked to address the roadblock that has detoured my progress for so long and discovered the most amazing irony. This insidious poison of fear is actually afraid of.. me. My power. The ability I have to not only dream, but to chase my vision down and capture the very thing my heart and brain know to be who I am.
Marianne Williamson's powerful statement has been playing on a loop for me recently- forcing me to come to the realization that the very thing I've been afraid of is the power that was given to me.
Uncle Ben from Spiderman sums it up in one sobering sentence: With great power comes great responsibility. That responsibility is what frightens me. Can I handle it? Will I be able to write, speak up, stand up for those who have no voice in such a way that is dignified, impactful, and sustainable? I'm weary from the struggle. I think that's one of the goals of fear- to wear you out and prevent you from doing exactly what the world needs you to do. So I've decided that if I'm going to be tired of the struggle, weary from the effort, I'd much rather be tired and content- settling into my bed each night knowing I'm stewarding the power assigned to me with great honor. The revelation has been convicting, however as a great man named Jesus once said.. you will know the truth and the truth will set you free. 
We all have power simmering inside, waiting to be given permission to explode into the scenes prepared for us. I can no longer sleep with the enemy, the restlessness has grown too loud to ignore, and I'm ready to chose to live wide awake.

Full quote below: (note: This quote has been attributed to Nelson Mandela for a long time, and as much as I adore him and had believed it came from one of his speeches, research has shown that it originated with Marianne Williamson, and I wanted to give credit where it's due).

Our Greatest Fear —Marianne Williamson
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other
people won't feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of
God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.
—Marianne Williamson

Time Marches On

One of my dearest friends called me at 7 this morning. I don't often talk on the phone, so when I saw I'd missed her call, I knew I had to call back and the chances were 50/50 it was bad news or something wildly exciting. I took a deep breath and pressed the button. She answered and I heard the tears choking her voice. I knew.

Her last beloved dog, her sweet baby, the one I'd just held on Saturday night... had passed away.
Ashleigh and I have been friends since high school. We have lots of history and she's become part of the fabric of my family. She's never wanted children of her own, she's always had dogs, and her love of animals became her career. She left the corporate world she'd entered after college to start her own business; dog training and pet sitting. In a few short years she'd built a wonderful reputation and staff that has given her the life she's desired.
She had 3 sweet Boston Terriers. They were her world, and she's been the best dog mom. Over the last few years as they got older, the inevitable came. First one, then a year or so later the next and now, a year and a half after losing the second, she lost the last sweet pup- this Easter Sunday; three days before my friend's 40th birthday. For her, it's crushing. Her dogs have been her constant companions. She's known the time was getting short with Lila (the last dog to pass) because she'd been elderly and fragile over the last year or so, and she was 15. Logic told her that the end was near.
I listened to her cry and also find moments of laughter in our conversation. She told me she knew it was silly, but she was angry at God that he took her now... that He hadn't prepared her intuitively that it was coming. That she hated saying this because she felt dumb, but she hadn't lived in a house without a dog for 17 years and it felt weird. I cried with her, and assured her that it most certainly was not dumb and to stop beating herself up for her broken heart. To let it be as it was, and to feel all the ugly things that kept pushing themselves up into her throat. I told her I'd do whatever she needed; I'd invited her here for this coming weekend to take her to brunch in celebration of her 40th birthday, but let her know that I'd do anything. I'd go to her and sit with her and listen, if that's what she wanted, I'd have her come visit me and just be there for her as she talked, or not, if that's what would help; I'd take her to a beautiful brunch and not talk about it at all, if that would be best. I reminded her that she had no obligation to respond to my texts, but I'd be checking in. Told her if she couldn't find the emotional energy to respond for two weeks, it was ok- because I get it. Sadness, grief, depression....it can suck all emotional drive right out of you, taking with it the good intentions of calling, texting, meeting up, even reaching out. I've sat there for months; and thankfully, beautifully, I've had friends and family who continue to check in... even when I've been so tired and spent that I either couldn't respond, or couldn't offer much more than a "thank you. I promise I'm still here". She told me that the permission to just.. be.. meant the world to her. We exchanged "I love yous" and hung up.


As I was driving to work this morning, the Andra Day song Rise Up came on my play list. I was thinking of Ashleigh and her broken heart... the music faded into the background and my mind began playing scenes of my life like a movie... I could see my friend in her sweet country cottage, puttering around her house with tears sliding down her face. Lying down on the couch, or her high, antique bed with the family quilt, tissues in hand.. her heart aching and stomach churning.

The next scene was of another dear friend. She just got married to her love a little more than two weeks ago.

Lori was married before, and the good that came from that union was two amazing kids.. but not much else.  I've watched her come from despair and a broken heart that was numb and walled off, to a vibrant woman with a new home, new career, a beautiful blended family... and this weekend.. the addition of a precious, sweet, fluffy puff ball of a puppy. She's sent pictures of her kids snuggling the lovable fur baby- pink spotted belly peeking out from snow white fluff, puppy breath bathing their faces, and a wiggling tail that announces his excitement and love for his new family.



I posted on IG a couple of days ago about how sick I've been. I woke up on the day of Lori's wedding feeling like I might die. It hit me out of the blue and was horrible- I felt awful physically, and felt cheated out of feeling good and strong to be able to celebrate with her and dance and be fully present like I'd wanted to be on her special and important day. It's been more than two weeks and despite two urgent care visits, multiple medications, and time... I haven't kicked it. One of my IRL friends replied on my post that she "just wanted to hold me". Sweet, right? Most definitely, but, I was beyond humbled. This sweet friend is valiantly battling stage IV cancer.. and was showing up with compassion for my two week long illness frustration. When I responded that I was humbled by her response she replied 'nah, we both have our own full plates, I'm praying for you'.

My mind flashed to last night.. I was sitting on my counselor's couch.. talking through some of the junk I'm working on; free to be unedited, and swinging from laughing to crying, cursing, to listening to her responses. It truly is therapeutic for me, and I'm grateful for a therapist who helps me navigate some of life's landmines. It is a sharp contrast to the sessions I'd had with my ex husband... when nothing was authentic, and I would sit perched tensely on the edge of an overstuffed chair holding my breath and praying for a break through.

My brain shifted to scenes of my brother and his wife curled up on their couch.. watching their newborn son coo and squirm, and their toddler run matchbox trucks along their living room rug. My newest nephew is only a few weeks old, and holds the elixir of potential and life within the scent of his soft neck.

That vision flashed quickly in contrast to another precious friend who has been caring for her elderly mother for the last few years.. watching her go downhill in every way as my friend  resides in perpetual anxiety that she'll get a phone call from the assisted living home delivering news of a fall, or health emergency, or even of her mother's passing. My friend visits her mom several times a week... never knowing the mood she will encounter from her when she arrives- and bracing herself for the tiring, honoring, exhausting, dignity-giving tasks of bathing, grooming, listening, and spending time with her.

There is something emotionally powerful that washes over me in the wake of monumental events; weddings, babies being born, deaths and funerals- the events of raw humanity that tear away the nonsense of every day life that bogs us down and breaks off our connectedness. The events that pause time, intertwine our souls, heralding the intrinsic connection we all share of joy, and grief, and pain. The longer I walk this earth, the longer I parent people who are growing into their own, the longer I watch friends celebrate, and hurt, and wander through relationship deserts... the clearer the reality of connectedness becomes. The shared experiences we all have of victorious overcoming and devastating losses. I've quoted Glennon Doyle (speaker and author) several times before- and her coined word comes to mind again this day- life is incredibly brutiful. A commingled experience of brutal and beautiful- for every one of us. As my emotions wax poetic today, my prayer is that each of us would find the peace and rest in the knowledge of this brutiful life, and that we continue to honor the connections woven into our own life's journey.

Waiting To Exhale

I keep waiting.

When you've lived in chaos for years and years, you learn to expect the moment when the proverbial 'other shoe will drop'. I hold my breath, wondering when it will fall, when the ease will shift and gusts of harsh winds will blow back into our lives... yet, the atmosphere remains calm.

It's amazing to me how humans can adjust to incredibly overwhelming circumstances; surviving through trauma and danger and stress that you'd expect to level a person. I've written recently about how I found myself submerged in depression last fall, and the heaviness and dark shadows that wouldn't lift. The sun has found its way back into my eyes and when I ruminate on what took me so deeply into the bleak desert, I recognize that while Samuel was away, there was space for me to fall apart. I'd held my breath for 14 years- bracing against all manner of aggression, wildly swinging moods, his sensory overload, the effort to keep everyone safe, and the ongoing fight for the services he needed. When he wasn't there, my brain was able to shut down at some level, preserving itself and refusing to operate at the intensity it had been forced to endure for so long. I'd had high hopes of all I would change and accomplish in his absence; creating the structure and routine in our lives that had been lacking due to the ever changing emotional atmosphere, spending more time being present with my other three kids who have lived under the cloud of mental illness and autism their entire lives, finding space for myself- with yoga and prayer and time in nature. I did some of these things, and we certainly made progress, but by the end of the summer I hit a wall and I couldn't have cared less about much of anything. I had nothing left. I'm an intensely feeling person, and found myself numb to most everything. It was foreign, and only increased the hopelessness.

Bringing him home was scary. He'd done so well in the highly structured environment of the treatment facility and I knew that after 9 months away, there would be many adjustments he'd have to make on a daily basis. His therapist had warned both of us that there was usually a honeymoon period of a couple of weeks and often times her patients would wind up back in the hospital for an acute stay within the first 6 weeks. When she'd said that, my stomach dropped. He's had 5 hospital stays since the age of three, and my naive hope had been that the residential treatment would have vaccinated us against the need to return to acute treatment; yet, I was grateful for the warning. I brought him home with the knowledge that he could completely fall apart in the reintegrating of his life.

Earlier this week he hit the 6 week mark.

The air I'd been hoarding inside my body has found its way out, and the exhale is intoxicating. I've realized that when I've been asked how he's doing, my response is beautiful. He's doing incredible. The work he put in while he was away; educating himself about his illness and autism, learning some of his triggers and how to cope with them or eliminate them, his ability to be self aware of his emotions and the response his body is having to stimuli, his powerfully articulate communication when he's felt hurt, or angry, or confused... it's nothing short of miraculous. Before he left he had been a wreck. He had never had the proper diagnoses- at least, not at the same time- and he wasn't getting the support and services he so desperately needed. He'd unraveled to the place of destruction, and our lives were spent barely surviving the daily trauma of improperly treated mental illness. I'd had the police at our home, he'd been admitted into the hospital after an ER visit that we'd made under police escort, he was failing the 9th grade despite his incredible brilliance, he'd been suspended three times in 5 short months of high school, and he was defiant and mean. I was desperate. Terrified for my child and the road we were headed down.
Residential treatment saved our lives.

I left a broken, angry, ill equipped, improperly treated child with a devastating disease and 9 months later was given a young man who does what I ask him to, serves me even when not asked, is excelling in his new school even in honors classes, and whose laughter that had once died now echoes off of the walls. We've had minor bumps. He's a 16 year old boy after all! But we've navigated them in a way that still takes me by surprise. A couple of weeks after he'd gotten home I'd unknowingly said something one evening that hurt him. I hadn't been aware of it, and had gone to bed as usual. He woke me up before 6 the next morning and said he'd had a hard time sleeping and had to talk. He told me that I'd hurt his feelings, that he knew I hadn't meant to, but he needed me to know. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes in wonder... who is this young man?! We talked it through and had a normal day- free from violence, rage, anger, depression or cursing- old responses he'd had when upset or offended.
Life with him home feels so... normal. Average. Safe. We still work hard, and he has a therapist who comes to the house three times a week for three hours each time. Our lives are still vastly filled with work and school and the management of his illness and autism, but they're also so good. Watching him with his siblings and seeing the anxiety of not knowing what the day would hold for them in regard to his mood begin to fade is beautiful. I'm not living in a fantasy world where I believe that we'll never have another crisis or trauma related to his illness.. Bipolar 1 and Autism cohabiting inside of his brain is a bitch. There's no other way to say it. They work in tandem to exacerbate the symptoms of each disorder; But. I have hope now. I can see the potential for a life for him that isn't driven by chaos and being defined by his illness. I can see the weight lifting off of all of us as we learn to live and love as a family outside of continual trauma and drama. I can see peace in his eyes and his body- peace that has settled deep into his marrow, stilling him and grounding him and allowing him to receive our love. He helped create his own miracle. His incredible effort and positive attitude about getting better fueled the change in him and has been a gift to himself and his family.
I realize I may have a painful post in the future about some possible crisis we may experience- and that's ok, as I know that's how life unfolds for all of us, but for today, for now, the waiting is over, and I can finally breathe in the beauty, and then deliciously.... exhale.

The Long Journey Home

This has been an incredibly difficult year.
I found myself drowning in depression.... listless, restless, emotionally ragged, gaining weight, isolating, irritable. I'd pull out of it for several days or a couple of weeks, and reengage with life in a more 'normal' way before sliding back into the inky darkness that has been covering my mind.
It's not shocking that I would find myself here eventually. The level of trauma I've experienced has been so high and lasted for so many continual years that I'd expect anyone to find themselves breaking. I feel like I had a buffered zone for a long time because my hard wiring is one of hope and optimism. I can almost always find something good in most anything and I believe this has served me well in preventing a total emotional breakdown.

It's been said that depression is anger turned inward. This is resonating with me in a powerful way. I've been angry for a lot of years.
When my kids were younger, I would yell at them; throwing my fear and anger and lack of understanding and control about my world around in irritated tones, frustrated huffing, and a lot of resentment. It wasn't safe for me to direct those emotions to my (then) husband as I was subconsciously aware that it would cost me somehow, and my friends didn't live in our house, so my kids were the ones who heard my hurt... buying me temporary protection from depression but also carrying shame and guilt to my heart while inflicting pain and sadness onto theirs.
As they got older, my approach changed. I learned to accept that my family is different than the one I imagined years ago, and I threw myself into getting all of the support and help I could for them- determined to give each of them the best chance of happiness, health and success in this world. The anger was no longer outwardly evident as I'd stopped yelling, began truly enjoying time with them, and felt free from the rust of anger in my soul.

I've worked through a ton of emotional baggage and hangups over the last few years. Rebuilding my life authentically, learning who I am as a woman and mother on my own, surprising myself with how strong and resourceful I am, and enjoying my friendships in a way I wasn't free to when I was still married.

But now, the anger has begun to seep out.  Anger I haven't been aware of  has risen to the surface as a kind of heavy cream no longer able to sit at the bottom of my consciousness out of view. I've realized within the last few weeks just how very angry I am at the sheer level of effort, energy, consistency and sacrifice it takes to parent children with mental health issues. Not angry that I have to do it for them, angry that I have to do it alone. I began to recognize the massive weight of responsibility that sits on my shoulders- and I worry about something happening to me, leaving four kids without their touchstone.  I've been angry that they have to face mental health struggles at all- complicating their lives in ways that feels unfair and unjust. I've been angry that I've allowed myself to become the essential one in their lives because I didn't ask for help from their other parent, but also angry that the other parent doesn't ask how he can help not only relieve some of the pressure on me, but help to nurture them.
Ugly, dark, pulsating anger that no longer fits inside of my chest but is forcing its way out. Anger that has scared, embarassed and humiliated me. 

What exacerbates this is the shame that seems to be a sibling to anger and depression. It suffocates me further isolating me from the world. Shame because I know this season of depression has hurt people around me. I can see it. I taste the disappointment, hurt, confusion and rejection of those who I love and who love me.... and feel powerless to heal it. I've pulled deep into my cocoon - to preserve what little emotional energy I've had as I've navigated a year of residential treatment for my son and finally finding space to pursue support for my other kids.
Your texts and emails and voice mails go unanswered. Plans aren't made. I've worked to become invisible at some level- because the weight of my sadness has felt too heavy to carry into the space of others. The very few who sit on the inside of my circle have borne the brunt of my intense moodiness, me testing the waters, and anger misplaced. It's been an ugly fall and winter for some of those who care about me deeply.
I know I've been angry, and I've chalked it up to the grief cycle I've experienced in an ongoing loop for the past 14 years. But this is different. I melted down last night and the toxic hurt that poured out like acid left me sobbing on my bed in the fetal position. This morning, I felt the quiet whisper of God... when are you going to let me take it? Heal that hurt? Trust me to do it? The tears came again and the hot shame of the wretchedness I'd thrown around washed over me. As I drove, I pressed the gas pedal down hard and slipped into the cathartic world of a pounding bass line and fast driving.... but the thoughts swirled, and I began to see. The only way back to me, back to a place of health with my loved ones, a place where I once again have the energy to connect like I used to.. is to let the anger go. I can't stand up under its weight any longer, and I want to be free.
So today, I plan on buying some thrift store dishes, and will find a place to smash them one by one. Symbolically destroying the thoughts that have poisoned my mind. I've also committed to myself that I will be outside this evening, and build a fire again; returning to some of the routines that feed my soul. This evening however, I'll be writing each ugly thing that has burned me up on the inside onto slips of paper that I'll drop into the fire and let them be consumed on the outside.
The cycle of depression (for me at least) seems to be fueled by guilt, shame, and anger. I'm taking every bit of courage I have left to stand up against it and say.. no more.
If you love me and I've let you down- please know I know already. That's part of what has hurt me too. Knowing how my effort at survival has bruised others through my isolation. Please know that this is only one short chapter in my life. I hate it in so many ways, yet find the comforting irony in knowing that as a mental health advocate who'd never struggled with depression before.. this has been an incredibly rich education. Don't count me out yet... I'll rise again... each time as a freer, healthier me.

Coming Home

It's been a little more than 9 months; the same amount of time it took for him to grow nestled up underneath my ribs before making his dramatic entrance into the world.

 My first born has been away for 9 impossibly long/short months and today he comes home.
Much like the day I birthed him, today stretches out long before me- packed full with anticipation, anxiety over the unknown, excitement to see his face and finally hold him, and a celebration of the work both of us have done throughout these months to grow him to the place where it's healthy enough for him to join the 'outside' world.

Much like the first time, we'll both have to learn how to live together. The first time I brought him home, I sat him on the table in his car seat- he was blissfully unaware of the world around him- one that had been radically changed just one month prior when the twin towers fell under horrific attack. He slept peacefully; blind trust in my ability to protect and nurture him; and I stared at his chubby cheeks, crown of thick dark hair, and large hands curled at his face and wondered how I would ever be able to be the mom he deserved. As with every new mother who came before me and those who continue to come after, I had little more than my instinct and fierce love to lead me into raising him. When I try to picture the future now, I find that little has changed. 

We'll create a rhythm of life that's new to both of us, and the rest of the family. We'll rise and fall. I expect to hear the beauty of his laughter- the same boisterous delight that pours out of his belly and first took my breath away leaving tears of wonder on my cheeks. I anticipate tears- of confusion, anger, pain and sadness- from both him and myself- as we navigate our new normal- one he's been growing towards for the 40+ weeks he's been tucked away in the womb of therapy, healing, education and treatment.
The difference, between the homecoming 16 years ago and today, is that today I have the reassuring known history behind us of getting through. With the first child, every stage feels like a lifetime- one that lasts forever- and the beautiful seasons as well as the challenging ones seem as though they'll never end. Baby land, toddler hood, preschool days- they can bleed together into a monotony of sorts- the passing of time marked by met milestones, celebrated firsts, and the bittersweet taste of their growing independence. As time passes, each new stage brings joy and challenge.The difference now is that I understand none of the stages last forever; they inevitably shift as he grows and that continual changing is both frightening and freeing.
The first time I brought him home, I didn't yet know that the two of us would become an unstoppable force; stitched together into an abbreviated army that would fight valiantly for our freedom against what plagued him. I had no way of knowing how connected we would be because of pain and challenge and the grief that comes when the reality of his mental illness finds its way to manifest anew.

But this time, I know. The knowing of our strength doesn't alleviate my fear; he still sleeps peacefully, in blind trust that I will protect and nurture him. But I know more now. I know that my instinct and fierce love is enough. I know that I am completely inadequate to protect him from hurt and harm, and yet, somehow also completely equipped. I know that I will fail, and I know that love and the force of sheer will can beautifully and magically cancel out my shortcomings. I know that there are incredible victories on our horizon and there will also be jarring disappointments; but I also know that we will pass through all of them as we always have; working in tandem to wriggle ourselves into the sweet spot- where his piercingly blue eyes meet mine with determination, and we keep pressing on, because, we know.