What Happens When my Child/Teen is Admitted into Acute Psychiatric Care? (Part 2 of 3)

Admitting your child to acute psychiatric hospitalization can be traumatic for both of you. Part of the difficulty is due to the fact that there is so much mystery and unknown surrounding the experience. My son has had at least 10 hospitalizations in his life to date, two of my other children have had one hospitalization, and we have experience with multiple facilities. I wanted to share some of our experiences and answer some of the questions I'm most asked.

In VA (where we currently live) every hospitalization will come out of the emergency room after a medical exam where the doctor decides hospitalization is necessary. As I mentioned in my previous post about what to expect during an ER visit, I shared that this process can be painfully long as you wait for a bed to open up in a (hopefully) nearby facility. My oldest son has been hospitalized in the facility closest to us many times, but my other two children both had to go to different cities as they were too young for that particular hospital. Be prepared to have your child in a facility that is not local to you.

The Admission Process:

Usually your loved one will be transferred to the psychiatric hospital or behavioral health facility in an ambulance. I have always followed behind to get them settled. Once you arrive, you will go through a lot of paperwork and your child will be asked again if they have thoughts of hurting themselves or others, and if so, if they have created a plan. By this point in the process both of us are  always tired, and these questions and the stack of paperwork can be wearying. Many times the admission process happens in the middle of the night due to the long hours already spent in the ER. It's easy to feel overwhelmed, doubt yourself when you realize they are now calm (which is very common at this point in the process) and you just want to sleep and/or eat.

Your child will have to remove any article of clothing that could be a potential threat- such as shoelaces, belts, hoodie draw strings, sometimes even body piercings. I have learned to take along a bag if I suspect hospitalization will be the result of our ER visit- and include sweatpants, pajamas, a book or two, cotton shirts, socks, underwear. Every facility is different, but most will allow some personal items including a blanket or pillow, sketch books, stuffed animal, clothing, even family photos. I have learned having things from home can be very comforting to him while he's there. The nurse will take the items from you to ensure you haven't unknowingly (or, sadly, some parents knowingly) brought anything restricted by the facility. If we don't arrive with a bag, I bring items back the next day.

Inside the Ward:

You may be allowed to go into the ward/unit (these words can be used interchangeably) to see where they will be staying and sleeping, or, you may not. Don't be alarmed if you aren't given the opportunity to see the rooms- it is often for the safety and privacy of the other patients. Every room we've experienced share similar traits: sparse, often just a bed (or two) and night stand and desk. The bathroom mirrors are unbreakable and often there is very little wall color or decor. The first time I saw this, my son wasn't yet four and it was a shock to me, but as I've become a veteran to the process, I understand the practicality and safety, and can appreciate the intentional design of a non-stimulating environment. Often our children are so overwhelmed by their emotions, hormones, misfiring neurons, that the lack of clutter and visual stimuli can be very calming, even as it looks bleak to us.
There is usually a 'day room' with TV, nurses' desk, tables, chairs, and couches. Patients can gather to talk, play games, do schoolwork, make simple crafts, or watch TV. There may be a cafeteria. We are incredibly spoiled in this area as the hospital Samuel has stayed most in has one where I can visit and buy lunch or dinner for myself that is actually quite tasty. It helps both of us to have that time together and I'm grateful for it.

Your child will be in what's called a locked unit.  It was jarring to me to have all of the doors of the halls and units locked, and initially it can feel a bit like prison, especially when you hear the slam of the door and the lock engage behind you while you walk away from your child. Remind yourself that this is for everyone's safety. Most units are co-ed and often they will have a same sex roommate. They will be assigned a case worker and during their stay they will be evaluated by the doctor, given meds by a nurse, (if needed) and sometimes they'll spend time with a caseworker whose job is to create a skeleton treatment plan for post-discharge.

Leaving your child to go home can be very difficult. You may feel all sorts of emotions; from relief to sadness, grief, shame, guilt, anger. Don't try to analyze your emotions at that moment; let them be what they are. Your child will likely have many emotions too- and it can make it exponentially difficult to leave if they are angry at you for admitting them, or if they are scared or anxious.
Try to keep the knowledge that they are safe in the front of your thoughts. Both of you need to try and get some rest.

You will be given a specific pin number to use when you call to speak to your loved one. This is again, for privacy. You'll be told about visiting hours and any additional information about the facility to allow you to visit, communicate, or check in on your child. You may be called in for a visit with the case worker during their stay, or you may have emails and phone calls. The lack of communication can feel very strange when you don't realize this is the norm. The real work will come outside of the facility. This time is to reset, ensure safety, and work to get outside resource and support in place.

What I Wish I'd Known:

• If you don't have a diagnosis already, you aren't likely to get one- even if they write down information/symptoms/and potential diagnoses on the discharge paperwork. 
• If you do have a diagnosis before the hospitalization, you may see something completely different on the paperwork. Don't put much stock in this. There will be no testing, no critical observation and no deep dive into their struggles during their stay in effort to diagnose.
• Acute hospitalization is used for stabilization and safety. Often there isn't much more. Your child may be offered some therapy- both alone and with a group; however, many times these sessions are not required. It's possible your child could stay and not once have any level of therapy.

I was devastated with my son's first hospitalization and having to leave him behind, but I was hoping for answers. At the time of admission, we'd had a couple of hellish years without any explanation and I was desperate to kick start whatever meds, therapy, or help that might save us. Imagine my shock and disappointment when he was discharged and the nurse told me they hadn't seen any of the behaviors I'd reported. This is also a huge possibility. You may have left behind a raging, emotional, anxious, insomniac and return only to be told they've been calm, sleeping well and respectful. The structure of the ward can be very relieving to kids who have been stuck in an emotional meltdown, and while it's hard not to be validated by the staff's direct observation of the symptoms, know that this time away has been a rest for their brain.

There is so much more I could write, but this is incredibly long as it is. We'll come back to this topic again and cover more, but for now, this helps to give a good generalized look at what to expect. Information is power and can help both of you to combat anxiety should you find yourself in this situation. That's my goal: help demystify the process and give you more control.

What Happens When My Child/Teen Goes to the ER for Psychiatric Care? (Post 1 of 3)

I am part of a private Facebook group for parents of children and teens who have bipolar or other mood disorders. Many caregivers post a frantic cry for support when their child goes into psychiatric hospitalization. I've also received emails, texts, and private messages from friends and friends of friends asking what to expect or looking for reassurance. I've decided to create a series of three blog posts covering some of the most asked questions and offering information to help educate and dispel some of the mystery.
The three posts will cover what to expect when your child/teen is in the emergency room, what acute/short term hospitalization looks like, and our experience with long term/residential treatment. Please share these posts with anyone who can use them!

What To Expect When Your Child or Teen Winds Up in the Emergency Room For Psychiatric Care:

You've found yourself at the ER with your child seeking psychiatric intervention. There are many ways this can happen: Your child is out of control, or has what the system calls "suicidal ideation", or is self harming, seems delusional; the list is endless. They may arrive by ambulance, in a police car, or under police escort, or simply in your personal vehicle. We have been to the ER many times and have arrived in my car, in my car with police escort, and in an ambulance.

Here is what you need to know:

First- don't forget to breathe. I'm very serious. I know that it's scary, and unknown, and heartbreaking to find yourself in this position, but you have to dig deep and stay calm. Your child needs you more than ever and you will need to be able to rationally answer questions, give accurate history, and most likely, spend a lot of time with your child just waiting. Staying calm might be the most difficult thing you do during this experience, especially if you came to the ER due to any violence or destructive behavior directed at you or your family. Anger is the natural response to that, and yet, for the well being of all of you, you must find a way to momentarily compartmentalize those emotions and be a calm presence for your child.

Be prepared to wait. And then wait some more. This can be an incredibly frustrating part of the process. Many hospitals have specific rooms for mental health patients, and will only utilize those rooms unless it is a life or death situation. With the continually growing mental health crisis in our country, this often means that when you arrive, the rooms are already occupied- leaving you and your child in the waiting room- many times for hours on end. Our longest stay was 27 hours from start to finish- but part of that was waiting on a bed to open up in an acute psychiatric hospital (more on that in the next post).

When you arrive and check in, you will register, give proof of insurance if you have it, then you will wait for triage. After triage (where a nurse asks you why you've come and checks your child's vitals) you will probably be sent  back to the waiting room. Your child may be called again for a blood draw, and if so, once again, you most likely will be sent back to the waiting room. Once called into a room you may notice it's different than other rooms in the ER. It may even be in an area that is closed off from the other rooms. Many rooms used for mental health patients have been prepped- often stripped of any extra instruments or objects that you'd see in other rooms to protect patients from potentially hurting themselves or others.

You can expect to see a nurse, a social worker or mental health worker, hospital registrar, and doctor at a minimum. Each time, your child will be asked if they are having thoughts of harming themselves, and if so, if there is a plan. This is tedious. It feels traumatic to have to answer that over and over, or watch your child have to repeatedly answer those questions. Just remind yourself it's part of protocol. There may be police presence. At our local hospital, there is an officer who sits outside of the mental health rooms. This is again, preventative and for protection, but I'll admit, it can make the process feel further stigmatized and removed from 'normal'.
Your child will be under a strict one on one instruction- meaning, they won't be allowed to be left alone. You will have to stay with them the entire time, and they will have to ask to use the restroom. If your child doesn't want you with them (which happens, and you will have to find a way to stand up under the weight of that pain somehow knowing they aren't well in that moment) then they will have a nurse with them constantly. If they are overly agitated or anxious, your child may be offered something to help calm them.

Prepare yourself to know there won't be a diagnosis in the ER. There will be no 'problem solved' or magic bullet. It can feel anticlimactic after the chaos that sent you there. It can be exhausting in every way, and you will likely experience a myriad of emotions. If you know some of this ahead of time, it can help you adjust your expectations so you don't wind up feeling discouraged.

Generally the goal is to create a plan going forward in order to discharge your child. This may be for your child to return home with instructions to follow up with a psychiatrist. Or, it may be that the next step is acute hospitalization at a mental health facility. In the state of VA where I live, you are no longer allowed to self-admit. You must have a medical clearance first- meaning you and your child may know that he/she wants and needs hospitalization, but you must still go through the red tape of the ER visit to justify it. If hospitalization is the next step, you will be waiting again. Hospitals are packed full and many times you are stuck waiting for a bed to open up at a facility. Often those facilities aren't local to you. The younger your child, the fewer options there are, which can mean a longer wait and possibly a facility that is a longer distance from your home. In our state if you are stuck in the ER waiting for more than 24 hours for a bed to become available, they usually admit your child to the hospital while you wait- putting you in limbo until there is space.
While this is frustrating, and shines a spotlight on the scale of psychiatric care needs, it is normal. Discouraging, yes. But sadly, normal. Most of the time a trip to the ER is a marathon, not a sprint. Try to relax if you can. I've told my son jokes, showed him vines on my phone, watched him try to sleep, played music, and calmed him when his anxiety from the wait overtook him.

The good stuff: Remember your child is in a safe place during the visit. That may be the only consolation for you in the moment, but don't discount it. Breathe it in deeply. If this is your first trip to the ER for this level of care, you are now in a good position to continue to advocate for your child in other arenas; school, counseling, testing, possibly ABA therapy or OT (for children with Autism or sensory issues), the option of getting an advocate or case worker; you have now reached a level of need that makes it obvious how desperately you need a support team. Take advantage of this reality and ask as many questions about available resources as you need to before you are discharged.

Finally: I know you feel utterly alone. You may feel as though you've failed somehow. This is a normal reaction, but it's not true. Many of us have been through this with our children- you don't know only because we aren't posting pics of them in the hospital bed on Facebook and Instagram the way parents of physically ill children often do. We're hidden in plain sight- but trust me; you are not alone. Also, you have no obligation to share information with anyone. You don't owe anyone an explanation, and you don't have to try and defend your choice (or, forced action if others were involved). As hard as it may be, find a way to stay calm and set boundaries. Privacy and space is rightfully yours and you are permitted to take all the time you need to decide what (if anything) you desire to share with anyone other than those intimately involved. You are going to get through this- and you, sweet parent or caregiver- are an amazing and loving person who is doing an incredibly difficult and compassionate thing. Much love!

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.

Should......The Other "S" Word

 Last week my oldest child turned 16.

There was no party, no used car bedecked with a flouncy red bow sitting in the driveway, no begging for a new video game, paint ball with friends, or plans for homecoming. There was only me, my three younger kids, a birthday teen several hours away, and deafening silence.

I couldn't post on FB. I always post photos and sweet comments about each child's personality on their special day, but I couldn't do it. I don't often struggle with the comparison factor that drives people to quit social media to avoid the steady diet of carefully edited words and photos- but last week? I could barely touch the blue F icon on my phone to open the endless stream of daily fodder and initiate the familiar scrolling that has become part of my mindless routine.

Last week was hard. Hellish. Ugly. I'd had a phone call earlier in the week from a no-nonsense nurse at the facility where he's living who delivered news to me that literally knocked me off of my feet. I fell to the ground in sobs, aching, as her perfunctory words ravaged my heart. Supposedly he'd been in an altercation with another resident. It had become one person's word against the other. The few details I was given stole all of the breath from my body. As I struggled to draw enough oxygen into my lungs between loud sobs under the still, starry, autumn evening, she asked if I had any questions. I know her job sucked. I know hearing my hurt was difficult, and I'm quite sure she wanted nothing more than to complete the task she'd been given and hang up the phone. But it stung. I managed to laugh sarcastically through tears and tell her that I had none. "I can tell you're teary, so I'm going to let you go now. Have a nice night". <click>
 I must've looked like a character out of biblical times- wailing in the dirt, my forehead pressed into the cold ground as I rolled over into the fetal position. I'd been burning leaves before she called, and was covered in soot and ash- a fitting backdrop for the rending of my heart and spirit in lieu of my clothing.

I was broken. My precious son, who'd been making such progress, seemed to have had a big setback. I was reeling. He called moments after the nurse escaped my crying, and once he realized I was upset, made sure to tell me the incident 'never happened'. I tried to maintain hope. To entertain the possibility that the story I'd just been given by the nurse was flawed. But our difficult history, and the long list of circumstances where he'd been dishonest, or manipulative, or sneaky, washed over any ember of hope I was carrying and left only grief, loneliness, and hurt in its wake.
I tried to reassure him I was processing. But I knew my words were hollow and fell flat. I hadn't had time to process what I'd just heard, much less get myself to the place where I could encourage him in the mess. He changed the subject to his birthday- secure in the knowledge that he was telling the truth- but I couldn't follow him in the happiness; and I broke some more. His 16th birthday. A big one. The last big one before 'adulthood' in the eyes of the law. A birthday we should be celebrating, enjoying, anticipating... and I only felt robbed. Shortchanged. Angry. Alone.

The short version of the story is that he was telling the truth. It never happened. The longer version had me barely breathing through grief for days, carrying hurt and sadness around that I had no idea what to do with.
I called him on his birthday. Too broken and weary to sing loudly- which I would usually do. Guilted and shamed for my inability to rally myself in the moment for a milestone event the world tells us we should celebrate.

 A grocery store sheet cake in a conference room on Sunday in place of his much loved homemade coconut cake. A few simple gifts which he was excited about, lots of hugs, and then games in the cafeteria for a couple of hours. Enjoying ourselves, sharing some laughs and smiles, and time together- but hovering over us was the weighty cloud of our circumstance. One I'm grateful for and angry about at the same time. A circumstance few people in my life can begin to comprehend- and one I work hard to not think about much. I ached as I watched him- the small child almost gone, being replaced by a tall, muscled man who talks with his large hands, charms with his stunning blue eyes, and entertains with a keen sense of humor.

My life has become very small again. I move in and out of this space in relationship to the level of stress and grief present in my life. There are times I'm carefree and have the ability to engage with a larger group of the people I love, and who love me, and then there are times I retreat. Unable to talk or expend the energy to engage. There is nothing left in me after work, kids, life.. to give anything else to anyone.

One of the hardest parts of raising a child with a chronic illness- whether physical, mental, emotional... is the grief that is never resolved. There is no closure for anyone. There are victories and progress and surprising strides made- and then, like the 16th birthday that came and went without fanfare- there are those times where the stark reality of this life is laid bare against the vibrant, technicolor idealized life I anticipated; and I feel punched in the stomach, sent stumbling backwards, trying to steady myself again.

My counselor said what I already know. The grief comes because there are still places in me where I hold on to my idea of what 'should have been'. This is nothing new to me, and often, I'm able to embrace the difficult, painful, beautiful, rich life we have- in spite of its opposition to the life I dreamed I'd have. But sometimes, I get angry. I want to punch someone or something for denying us the 'normalcy' I long for: The mundane, typical, frustrating teenage angst so many parents wrestle with. I want to apologize to him- beg him to understand how the mental illness, the autism- none of it is his fault. Instead, I keep walking forward. Screwing up royally, falling short over and over, frustrated at myself for not being further along, then reminding myself of how far we've come. My counselor reminded me quietly through my tears last week- none of us are really living the life we thought we 'should' have. It's different for everyone, but the truth is that we don't get to leave the confines of this planet at the end of our lives without having experienced pain and disappointment. While that doesn't offer much solace to a broken mother's heart, it gives me pause. It's my choice. I can succumb to grief and shatter into a devastated shell of a woman, or I can grieve and be gentle with myself. Patient in the process. Real about the hurt and disappointment, and guarded in how I spend my time... protective of my heart and state of mind.

Should have been will kill us if we let it. Suffocating the beauty found in the what truly is. I've not yet come back to the place of joy and energy I enjoy inhabiting- but I know it will come. I've learned to not try and force it anymore. To recognize that the pain is a tool, a teacher, a refiner. Nothing is wasted, and I've no doubt this most recent dance with grief will do the work it's meant to do. In the meantime, I've pulled inward to preserve my emotional energy. If you've wondered where I've been- now you know, it's not you.. it's me. And I promise I'll rise once again, <3

Labeled

Healing and growing take work- often painful, gritty, I'd-rather-run-away than face this stuff kind of work. But, as with most anything of value, it's always worth it.

A couple of weeks ago, Samuel and I returned to the doctor's office where he had done the ADOS assessment for autism. We were there for the results and to go over the full report from the clinician's observations of how he completed tasks, how we answered one bazillion questions about his development, behaviors, understanding, and communication, and his medical history.
She handed both of us copies of the full report which spanned four pages. We flipped through the papers and scanned the medical description of what has been plaguing him and our family for the better part of 13 years. Her conclusion was Autism Spectrum Disorder (high functioning), and Bipolar I.

The black ink that bore his diagnoses swam in front of my eyes as tears formed. I wasn't so much upset, as relieved. He's had both of these diagnoses before- however- never both at the same time. He was given the diagnosis of bipolar when he was just three years old. It was shocking to me then. It seemed too big of a struggle to lay on shoulders so small, yet, the behavior and moods we'd experienced fit well within the perimeters of the disorder. But, when he was given that label all those years ago, it wasn't enough to explain everything we were dealing with. I knew in my gut there was more to it, but his young age made it difficult to tease out what was going on.
At that age, he'd been hospitalized for the first time. When we were discharged, he left with BP as the main diagnosis, and we were thrust onto the path of psychiatric care. What followed was years of running into dead ends. Psychiatric care is overwhelmed by the demand and not enough providers; psychiatric care for children is even harder to find, and children under the age of 8 are often refused service by doctors. It's not considered 'good practice' to diagnose children with such a heavy label, and for the next 5 years, we were given a myriad of other diagnoses instead- all of which essentially were symptomatic of bipolar. Right when he turned 9, we saw an incredible doctor at UVA. She was highly sought after and we quickly understood why.

Her ability to draw out what she needed from her patients, compile information given to her, and her uncanny skill in understanding family and behavioral dynamics, allows her to dig through unnecessary detail and identify the underlying issues. She diagnosed him with autism. I was relieved. I stopped taking him to the less than helpful psychiatrists. Instead, we stayed with Dr. Anderson (developmental pediatrician), traveling several hours one way for appointments regularly, and she helped us with med management, recommended therapies, and education about autism. I'm embarrassed to admit that because I was keenly aware of how autism was more 'glamorized' (for a lack of a better word) than the 'run of the mill' mental illness, it was easy to latch onto the autism diagnosis and forge ahead. Autism had risen into the collective awareness of our communities, and explaining to outsiders that questionable behavior stemmed from autistic struggles was more easily understood and accepted than sharing the painfully stigmatized information about mental illness. Dr. Anderson was incredible for us. She found a combination of medications that helped immensely- though our lives were anything but 'normal'. Still..... I knew there was more.

To get this combination of diagnoses; explanations of why and how his brain works the way it does, and education on what to expect, how to respond, and the types of support we need was ... a huge relief. The two together answer so many questions. They make life hard. For him, and for the rest of us. The two disorders buck up against one another and can exacerbate many of the symptoms he wrestles with. It's a sobering diagnosis- one that will require him to be diligent for life in taking his medications, eating well, resting and sleeping enough, exercising, and intentional social interaction balanced by intentional solitude. It's a lot for anyone- and certainly for a kid who is weeks away from his 16th birthday- and yet, there is relief. Comfort. Words given to years of hardship and confusing moods and responses. A real, tangible explanation as to why this has been so hard and so traumatic for all of us. Validation that he's not a bad kid, I'm not a failing mother, and our effort to push back the weight of this hardship has been nothing short of heroic.
He's one of the strongest people I know. He's had to live through being my first child- and my early years' lack of understanding about the brain and mental health and illness. He's had to endure my anger, fear, grief and inadequacies as I suffocated under the weight of scathing judgment heaped into my lap by doctors when he was young, and some extended family (who are no longer involved in our lives).

We've grown so much together. I have learned to trust my intuition. I never stopped seeking, begging for help, researching, trying everything I possibly could with the knowledge I had- but I also took on the burden of judgment from others who had no idea what life looked like for us. I allowed ugly words spoken in ignorance take root in my heart and spirit and regrettably, I mothered all of my children from that place of wounding for too many years.

We are survivors. He's done incredible work in the program he's been with for the past 4 months. He's talked, journaled, asked questions, read, participated in specialized therapies, gotten upset, angry, sad; he's engaged in vulnerable conversations with me that are hard to digest, yet powerful in their sharing. He's not a statistic. He's not crazy, or broken, or out of reach. He's a mighty powerhouse of talent, intelligence, ability, compassion, and maturity that comes with walking through the darker places of life.
I'm so proud of my son. We are the faces of people living with special needs and mental illness. We are warriors fighting a broken system, a challenging chronic health problem, and navigating a world that sees mental illnesses as excuses, or humanly inferior, or frightening. Neither of us would have chosen this for him. But it was chosen for us. And both of us are passionate about sharing our experience with the world- to offer hope, understanding, education, and connection.
I'm grateful for his tenacity. And I'm honored by his willingness to pull back places he struggles and share those vulnerabilities with me and others. He's something else- that kid of mine. And I have no doubt that he's going to change the world.

Rerouting

I've started this post several times- not exactly sure how to peel off parts of myself that I often long to hold tight, yet understanding that my heart for change in this world often means allowing discomfort to lead me to share things too many keep hidden.

My oldest son has been in Hampton for almost two months now. He's at a residential treatment center to address the struggles that have plagued us for well over a decade.

I used to read a blog by a mother whose daughter had bipolar disorder. Her daughter lived almost exclusively at a residential treatment facility and will remain there long term. I remember my feelings of confusion, sadness and admittedly; judgment. I couldn't understand how a mother could 'give up' on her child in such a way and leave the raising of her to others.
Life has a funny way of bringing us face to face with our own bias. Our criticism of things we can't possibly understand often sizzles in the fires of similar circumstances later on in our journey.

The truth is that this has been the best thing that has happened to our family in terms of support and treatment. He was ready to go and did so with a positive attitude. I have told him over and over that his willingness to not only go to the program, but to engage in it wholeheartedly, has been a gift to me. I couldn't be more proud of his courage and hard work. Driving away from the building in silence for the several hour trip home, I was grieved over the stark reality of our lives, but filled with gratitude for the support.

Mental health treatment in our country is broken in every way. Millions of people languish under sub standard care, or none at all, and many more of us fight a losing battle to get the help needed for our loved ones. The disconnect between all of the players in his care has led to many misdiagnoses, a lack of support and understanding in the school environment, acute hospitalizations, dozens of medications, chaos at home, and years of hurt and distance in the family relationships. What this incredible facility is providing is a streamlined team of engaged and connected support members. He goes to school there- and his teachers are part of the team. He has a nurse, a caseworker, a counselor, an autism educator (to help him understand how he operates in the world), an art therapist, a doctor, and other support staff to encourage him and push him to be the best young man he can be. The entire team shares what they observe, recommendations and suggestions. It creates a holistic approach that addresses each part of him- mind, body and spirit.
The staff there love him, and, they love working with each other. Their passion for my son and his incredible gifts and abilities make my chest swell with pride. I am aware that many facilities don't have this incredibly wonderful attitude and atmosphere, and I'm ever grateful that our experience is proving positive.

This program is one of the longest in the country. Their success rate is sky high with patients leaving their treatment never again needing acute hospitalizations or bumping up against the law. Their expectation is that this level of treatment is the last stop on the tumultuous ride of health- and they pour everything they have into the patients there to ensure that it happens.

I go to visit and have counseling with him almost every week. The drive is hard and long- but it's a small price to pay for the healing it's bringing. His counselor is a seasoned autism expert and is adept at giving words to dynamics I have felt but couldn't address until identified. The work he is doing through his transparency and openness is bringing incredible change that is even evident on him physically. His eyes are sharp and clear- his growing, muscled body is stilled in peace and self acceptance. His voice is steady, and his ability to articulate his emotions, frustrations and needs is blowing me away. While he works there- we work at home. Undoing dynamics long etched into the structure of our family. I am digging deep into the places of fear, codependency, feelings of failure and defeat and pulling out roots of poisonous paradigms that have no place in a healthy family.

It's disappointing as a mother to come to the place where treatment of this level is necessary- the team-centric support we are getting as a family unit is what I've longed for for many years- however, it's simply not available here outside of residential care. Had he been angry with me for taking him, I may have suffocated under the weight of grief and guilt- thankfully, his eagerness to get better and feel better and do better and be the healthy man he is, has inoculated me against that wounding- and I'm left free to revel in the incredible changes our family is experiencing.

I don't know how long he will be there. While he's doing better than I dared to dream, this isn't a story of unicorns and rainbows. It's hard work for all of us. It's been almost two months now, and we all have a long way to go. It could be up to a year before he comes home again to stay. But I trust the process. I trust God. And, I'm learning to finally trust my ability. The program requires all of us to be ready for him to come home- we get day passes with him to take him out, then move on to overnight passes, then weekend passes. Easing us all back into life where we can try out the new dynamics and process through the changes with the support of the team as we learn. The education for all of us, the family counseling to address years of misunderstanding, the love and care of his team, and the positive attitude of my incredible young man have lifted my heart and soul into hope again. I can see his future now- and feel like I did when he was a chubby, wide-eyed newborn- his future is bright and the sky is the limit.

Invincible

I love Kelly Clarkson's song Invincible.
You should listen to it. It's my anthem these days. I spent so many years unsure of myself, feeling like a failure, afraid, and anxious and wounded.
When you're in a codependent relationship you spend all of your time preoccupied with making sure everyone else is ok. The inherent problem in that is you can never keep anyone in a place of wellness for any sustainable length of time, and in looking outward, you will always lose yourself.

I've written some about the challenges I've had with my kids and the difficulties I've faced with raising kids on the autism spectrum, but the painful part is that Samuel wasn't diagnosed until he was 8.  For 8 years of hardship, tantrums, chaos, I believed I was a failure. I had extended family tell me it was my fault, and I was being punished for something. I had strangers and doctors tell me to put him in time out more, or spank him more, and I spent years in shame and anger because I thought that my child's struggles were directly related to my inability to be a good mother. Years went by and I began to really believe I was a failure and there was no hope. I was unhappy as a mother, as a wife, and as a woman. I look back at pictures and can't believe how dead I looked. If you look at me now- at 38 compared to how I looked at 30, there is no comparison. I had resigned to a life of hurt, and guilt and shame, and disappointment. When you're a codependent you feel responsible for everything that happens. And so each event that happened to us felt like a cause and effect tightrope. I wasn't good enough or strong enough, or consistent enough, or smart enough or skinny enough to prevent all of the horrible things that were happening, and so I died inside some more. When I had to learn to stand on my own because of divorce, I began to realize I'm none of those things. I began to take responsibility for my part in my struggles, but no one else's behavior. I began to learn each of us have a reality that is based in our perception and it's not my job to make everyone like or understand me. It's only my job to take care of myself which will allow me to be the best mother I can be. Now I understand that none of the struggles my kids have suffered with are because of me. I'm sad I wasn't able to see my worth clearly enough then to love my children better, but when you know better, you do better, and so now I am. The amazing thing is that though we still have issues, and conflict and frustrations and struggles, I no longer internalize it as a deficit on my part. And because of that, my kids are doing better than they've ever done. I can see clearly the positive changes in them that are directly related to my rebirth into health. I am alive, and for the first time since childhood, I really enjoy myself again. I'm carving out my place in writing and editing to provide for my family and headed into living the dream I wanted for myself but had run from in defeat. I've learned I'm not weak or a failure. I will fail for sure, but I am strong and resilient and will always get back up. I no longer fear hurt and pain because I've proven to myself I can be knocked out but not taken out. I could kiss Kelly Clarkson for the words in this song- I know reading song lyrics can be tedious, so I encourage you to go listen to it and celebrate the strength of you! Even better if you belt it out at the top of your lungs!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQpGaAwlrkA

You know I was broke down, I had hit the ground
I was crying out, I couldn't make no sound
No one hears the silent tears collecting
You know I had lost hope, I was all alone
Never been so long till you came along
Teacher, I feel the dots connecting

Beat down on me, beat down like a waterfall
Cause I can take on so much more than I had ever dreamed
So beat down on me, beat down like a waterfall
Cause baby, I am ready to be free

Now I am invincible
No, I ain't a scared little girl no more
Yeah, I am invincible
What was I running for
I was hiding from the world
I was so afraid, I felt so unsure
Now I am invincible
Another perfect storm

Now I am a warrior, a shooting star
Know I got this far, had a broken heart
No one hears the silent tears collecting
Cause it's being weak, but strong in the truth I found
I have courage now, gonna shout it out
Teacher, I feel the dots connecting

Beat down on me, beat down like a waterfall
Cause I can take on so much more than I had ever dreamed
So beat down on me, beat down like a waterfall
Cause baby, I am ready to be free

Now I am invincible
No, I ain't a scared little girl no more
Yeah, I am invincible
What was I running for
I was hiding from the world
I was so afraid, I felt so unsure
Now I am invincible
Another perfect storm

I was running from an empty threat
Of emptiness
I was running from an empty threat
That didn't exist
I was running from an empty threat
Of abandonment
I was running from an empty threat
That didn't exist

Now I am invincible
No, I ain't a scared little girl no more
Yeah, I am invincible
What was I running for
I was hiding from the world
I was so afraid, I felt so unsure
Now I am invincible
Another perfect storm

The quest to belonging

I've started many posts over the last couple of weeks... and I just haven't been able to finish out my thoughts.
But, I did manage to write an article for Catapult magazine and it went up this morning- I would love for you to go and read me there!

https://www.catapultmagazine.com/belonging/article/a-different-kind-of-mom


The topic they were looking for was about belonging.  I wrote about my journey into finding where I belong as a mother.
The quest to belong is one we all take, and eventually, if we can settle into our own paths, we find where we fit.  Come read about my journey into belonging.

Take Me or Leave Me

I've been going to counseling for a few months now.
In light of all the trauma we've been through over the last year and a half, I knew that counseling would be a necessity, and finally have a bit of time once a week to make it a priority.

I have a love/hate relationship with counseling. When done well, it's an amazing tool to excavate those places in your life that need digging out, restructuring, rejection or assimilation into our daily lives.  Having a good counselor who leads you through the terraced gardens of your heart and can help you begin to identify weeds from healthy plants is a gift.  There are also some counselors who talk about themselves too much or get fixated on a detail that might not be important to you, or who have their own filters and judgement from personal experience that prevents them from looking into your struggle objectively.

I have a good counselor.  We have many shared experiences, but she is objective, soft spoken, and firm. She helps me navigate what seeps up to the surface that needs to be skimmed off, revealing soft healthy flesh underneath. She encourages me to be vulnerable and makes space for that in every way. I often leave feeling depleted, but also renewed at the same time.  Similar to giving birth. New life coming forth out of pain.

One place I'm identifying as a struggle for me is my irrational need to please people.  I don't see myself as a people pleaser on the outside... but my actions have led me to the truth that I work hard to be all things to all people.  And.... I have taken this so far that I have avoided identifying myself or classifying myself so that I wouldn't make anyone feel left out or somehow alienate others.  When I was in college, I hid, behind dance clothes, and messy buns in my hair.  I loved fashion, but was afraid to own that love because I was afraid other girls would think I was being shallow.  I was jealous of the sorority girls in their slick, black pants and boots, but I was too afraid to be one of them, because I knew that girls who weren't in sororities sometimes felt left out... and I didn't want to be in the group that seemed exclusive.

When I got engaged, I kept it low key then too.  I was afraid if I was bubbly, and passionate, and giggly, that others might think that I was immature, flaky and overly emotional.... and that would mean our relationship wouldn't last (ironic, isn't it?) When I became a mother, I didn't want to be identified as just a mom.  I was scared to slip into the hidden recesses of being alone, or only spending time with other mothers, and so I began writing to give me an outlet outside of mothering.  As my children were born, and the boys started being given autism diagnoses, I didn't share that very often because I felt that since my boys were verbal, if I took on the identity of being a mother to boys with autism,  I would somehow invalidate the struggle of having non-verbal children; and I didn't want others to think I was using the label as an excuse for less than desirable behavior.

As I've moved more naturally into my role as a mother, and have shed some of that insecurity, I still see how I struggle to say no.  I have four kids on my own, and am having to find ways to provide, but I get scared to say no, or create boundaries, or put myself and my kids first because I am afraid I might offend someone.  Obviously, I can see logically that this is way off balance.  I DO have to take a new identity now- whether I want to or not.  My new identity as a single mother will make some uncomfortable- others who might not agree with my choices.  And yet?  I have to provide for these children. I have to learn self-care.  I have to learn how to identify and work towards meeting my own needs, and not feel badly about doing it.  I can't be all things to all people, because the people who get let down are those I care the most about.  I can't do all things well, and need to focus on doing a few things excellently.  I can't do it all.  I can't.  And now my job is to begin to explore what is so timid, broken, insecure in me that says I need the continual perceived approval of others in order to live happily. The reality is, trying to please everyone doesn't breed peace, it breeds resentment... because I know at a soul-knowing level, that I can't do it, and so I get angry at myself for pretending that I can.

It's time to make space for my identity. To claim who I know I am.  To not be afraid to wear the clothing that I want- even if I believe it might look too flashy to other women.  To not be afraid to claim that my boys do in fact have autism, even though you may never guess if you catch us on a good day.  To be a mom- even though sometimes that doesn't feel like a special enough title.  To say no to people I care about sometimes so that I can take care of me and the children more efficiently.  To write my heart even though many may disagree.  To claim my truth though it makes others squirm.  I believe that while not everyone needs to like me, agree with me, love me or support me, I will be able to love others better as I begin to learn to fully love me. I have to examine the judgement in my own heart that then believes I'm being judged in the same way. I have to learn to love all of me in order to more purely love all of you.  This might seem simple, but this is huge for me. I have spent a lot of time denying me in order to please others.  I am being pushed into a place of incredible authenticity and it's painful and freeing and strange.  I'm thankful I'm beginning to put words to this awful habit of mine, and am praying that I can start to shed some of the protective layers of people pleasing in order to uncover the authentic me.

forward crawl

i think i've mentioned before that i have children with special needs.

i have three sons and one daughter, and my sons are all somewhere on the autism spectrum.
while there is a lot of information out there about autism, i've found that many people aren't quite sure what it means, and telling people that we have autism in our family often brings silence, or pity.
the autism spectrum is wide and filled with people with all kinds of struggle and abilities. i'm thankful that all three of my boys are fairly high functioning, and while they each have different struggles and difficulties, they also all have special abilities and strengths too.

managing their care and schooling and meds and doctor appointments and behavior and emotional fallout is.... hard. but while i recognize that it's hard... it's also normal for me.  samuel started with struggles by the time he was two years old, and so for almost all of my parenting journey, i have known extra hardship.  but some days, i just feel.... more overwhelmed than usual.  today i got a phone call from asher's pediatrician denying one of the medication refills i was requesting.  they told me they don't prescribe it.... which is fine... except that i can't get in to see the developmental pediatrician for a couple of months, and so he just goes off of this medication cold turkey?  it's so hard to try and juggle all of the kids needs and ensure that nothing falls through the cracks.  i had no idea they wouldn't prescribe this particular medication and that he needed a specialist (we've moved from military insurance to civilian in the last 7 months and i'm still learning the ropes)
all i could do was cry. there are so many places in the lives of my kids that i just can't fix. i can't make it better. and i get tired, and weary.

as a mother, the deep, throbbing, driving force is to protect my kids and take care of their needs. to help prevent pain when possible, and teach them life lessons.  in the wake of all we've experienced, and in the intensified struggle that comes with the autism diagnosis... i am brokenhearted to know that i cannot protect them from everything. i can't fix it all, and things happen that are beyond my control.
i know, intellectually, that this is a normal part of motherhood, but that nagging little monster that hangs out in dark alleys, or crouches at the foot of my bed swells up with phone calls like those and tells me how disastrous this is. how we will never be normal, they will never be well adjusted, and life will always be a giant struggle against pain and grief. that mama guilt monster that plagues so many of us feeds on situations like this and gleefully hands me the guilt whip to start whaling away at myself.  sadly, i all too often reach out to take that whip and sit in the self inflicted punishment for things that are far beyond my control.

i did sit in that space for a bit. i cried, and worried, and scanned the mental horizon to try and create a solution- but the reality is... i can't fix it.  this is yet another place where i have to just do the best i can and worry less about fixing it and more about just trying to stitch things back together to the best of my ability.  so, this evening, i'm throwing the whip back at the creepy, disgusting mama-guilt monster and telling it to get behind me.  i know that there are so many places where i could be doing more.. and yet... i'm here.  doing it. every single day. mothering these children while my own heart sags under the weight of grief and their hearts hang ripped and torn.  i am slowly moving towards wholeness... some days the progress feels nonexistent, but as i look behind us i am able to see that we are indeed moving up the mountain.

you matter

i went to the movies today.  it was a matinee in a small theater here in my small town. i got there a bit early, and was all alone for about 10 minutes while previews played.  then a mother and her teen daughter came in.  they were a bit loud and silly and they sat across the aisle and to my left.  the daughter seemed to be animated, but not overly so.

a few more people came in, found seats, scrolled through their phones,and chatted as they waited for the show to start.  the daughter was a little chatty, but while i thought she was a little loud, i wasn't offended in any way.  as the previews ended and the movie began, the two women who had sat in front of the girl and her mom made a show of getting up and moving- and sat behind me.

they were annoyed with the girl, and were frustrated that she was making noise during the movie.   instead of extending grace, they made it obvious to everyone that they were annoyed.
i was heartbroken.
i had noticed very quickly that the girl was a little different.  if i had to guess, i would place her on the autism spectrum.  her behavior was normal to me as i live with kids who are on the spectrum.  she wasn't overly loud, she wasn't always loud, and i wasn't annoyed with her at all- just aware of her.  i knew that when those women moved, that there must have been a reaction of some sort in the heart of the mother... who was being a great mom by bringing her daughter to the movies to spend time with her.  the girl was excited, and engaged with the story, and while she had to be shushed by her mother several times during the show, she was never offensive, or over the top in any way.  in fact, her innocence and gaiety was pleasing to me.  the entire time i was at the showing, i was distracted because i knew that the mother had noticed the actions of the other women.  i know from experience that my child's behavior in public might not always be "appropriate" and yet, it's also not always "appropriate" for me to share that with strangers surrounding us who are staring and judging.  i've learned after a decade with a special needs child, that ultimately the judgement of strangers matters little in my life story and well being, but sometimes it still stings.
as the movie ended, the girl jumped to her feet and clapped wildly.  she told her mother in a very loud whisper that "you stand and clap when you like the movie!"  i smiled at her excitement.  

i stood up and walked towards the two of them. i looked the mother in the eye and just said- 'you're doing a great job mama.'  i rubbed her arm and turned to walk away.  she had been a bit embarrassed and looked down, but i was thankful for the chance to speak to her, if only for a moment.

the reality is that all of us have struggles. some of us are good at hiding them, and others of us can't hide them. this sweet girl did nothing wrong..... and yet the women in front of her were more concerned with their own comfort than pausing to think that maybe the noise wasn't meant to be offensive.  i was glad i had been there to speak to the mother, not because i am anything wonderful, but because i know from experience how a word of encouragement can spare me from unnecessary pain.  i would encourage you to follow that voice that prompts you to smile at the mom who is pushing the cart with a screaming toddler, or to say hello to the elderly man in line behind you checking out with his sardines and toilet paper.  to bend over to pick up the piece of paper that the lady walking ahead of you dropped, or to make eye contact as you hold open the door for the family behind you.  small moments of connection like this make a world of difference... and as someone who has been scraped raw over the last couple of years, i have to tell you that those moments are healing salve to a tender heart.  you absolutely matter.

There is no rescue

do you ever get to the place where you think that there is nothing left?  you have nothing else to give?  i feel that way often.
parenting 4 children is hard work.. and several of them have challenging issues beyond just kid stuff.  add to that the grief of their parents being apart, and you have the perfect storm for chaos, pain, frustration and struggle.

i adore my children.. but the reality is that it can be easy for me to look outside of our family into the surface level of other families and begin to think that we are missing out.  it's like looking through a window screen on a sunny day- you can see inside, but you can't make out the details... so i see in others what appears to be fun, functional, normal families, and then i look at my family through the macro lens of our lives and begin to think that we're all doomed, and i'm failing.

i know i'm just getting back into blogging again, and all of this has been heavy, and i promise- i don't always sit here- in fact, i am a perpetual pollyanna which is probably part of the reason i've been able to stay standing over the last year+ instead of rocking back and forth on my bed.

my kids are difficult.  we have patterns and behaviors in place that aren't so great.  we have codependencies and unhealthy leaning on one another that i know isn't the best for us.  but we've been through hell.  we've moved twice in the last year.  we gave away our family dog. the man in our house is gone.  we moved from a 4 bedroom 2000+ sq ft home to an 800 sq ft home with only 2 bedrooms.  then- we moved again. living with friends so gracious to us that they are sharing their home with love and grace.  the kids have changed schools.  we've changed churches.  we don't have much income. we got chickens this summer and the neighbor dog thought them tasty treats.  we've struggled.  we've ached. we've yelled, and cursed, and screamed and cried, and rolled around on the floor. and some nights i thought we might not make it.
grief is tiring.  it takes best intentions and wads them up into a wrinkly ball of trash and drops them on the floor. the desire i had yesterday to implement family chores can be decimated today by the sheer weight of the kids emotional neediness.  i'm tired. lonely.  hurting and frustrated.

it hit me a few weeks back that ... there is no rescue.  there is no sound of the cavalry in the distance racing to save me from the stress and struggle.  there are no winning lottery tickets being dropped at my door, no maid to clean the mess and no supernanny here to help me start the boot camp for better  behavior.  it's me. just me.  i don't mean to say that no one helps- that's not true.  we have people who love us and serve us.. but at the end of the day... i am parenting alone.  and that is an overwhelming reality.

i vacillate between believing that we will not only be ok, but be stronger as i lead us all through murky, rapid waters... and then thinking we will all surely drown in the deep with no chance of survival.  it is a bipolar existence precariously balanced between utter fear and soaring hope... and i am learning to breathe as i row the boat and work to keep it from capsizing.

the last couple of days have been really challenging.  we have highs and lows- like anyone i guess.  it feels more intensified in the ever present blanket of grief and pain, but i have hope that we will come through it.

stay with me. i promise i can be funny and witty.  but i'm also honest.  and this evening... this is where my heart is perching.

more than you ever wanted to know.. about ME!

i thought i'd share a little about me!
i don't know about you- but usually when i go to a blog, or when i'm reading a book, i like to scour the 'about me' section.  i like it when there are photos, and i love it when there is more than just a list of "mother, wife, writer, loves coffee'.  i like it when writers add something in the description that tells me a little more about who they are- what they enjoy doing- more than just drinking coffee and reading books.  i already assume that- we're writers.  what would life
 be without the black inkiness of coffee and the sustenance of other people's words?!

like anyone i suppose, there are many layers to me- but i'd love to share just a bit with you.
the obvious is that i'm a mother.  i have four children - my oldest, a son, is 11.  the next in line is also a son and he's almost 8.  third comes the last son, and he is 6.  my baby is a daughter and she is closing in on 5. i've moved out of baby land and into full-on kid world, and parenting life is simultaneously wonderful and the most difficult thing i ever do.  right now, i'm a single mother.  biggest shock of my life.  i've been married for 13 years, still am married, but in october of last year, a day changed my life forever.  due to a series of challenging events, my husband expunged information he had been hiding for our entire relationship.  news that i never dreamed was sitting below the surface.  news that continued to trickle out over the next almost 5 months as i withstood wave after wave of pain and grief.  we aren't living together.  i don't know what the future holds.  many things are unknown right now, but i am here, doing the work, being present.  learning to function in a role i never wanted or expected i'd be filling.  but i'm proud of myself.

my sons seem to have some struggles.  my oldest is diagnosed with asperger's syndrome (on the autism spectrum) as well as adhd.  my middle son looks like he is probably on the spectrum as well- we see a specialist next week- and my youngest son is absolutely adhd.  my daughter?  she's  just sassy and hyper.  i used to be judgemental about families with multiple children struggling with mental/behavioral/emotional difficulties.  i made assumptions about the parents that sting me now.  the reality is, nothing i've done has caused this.  and nothing i do can 'fix' it. my sons are amazing people, and they are also complicated, and challenging.  some days are pure chaos from the overwhelming sensory needs, social misunderstandings, and brain struggles.  i'll talk more on this as time goes by.

my husband was a marine- so for my entire marriage, i was a military wife.  i have friends scattered all over the world, and miss the marine corps with all of my heart.  it's a special family, and after 13 years, i'm sad that we're no longer a part of it. 

by myer's briggs standards, i'm an enfp.  look it up if you don't know what that means- it's good stuff.  basically that means that i think too much, i am sometimes loud, emotional, hyper, not so organized, creative, fun, moody... to list a few. 

i'm 35- and not afraid to admit that.  while it's going entirely too fast, i'm not embarrassed of my age, and not overly afraid of aging.  i'm proud of who i'm becoming- and that has taken time.  prayerfully in 10 more years, i'll be that much further along in my capability to love, and serve, and grow. 

while i'm not big on astrology, i am a gemini- the twins- meaning i have a 'double personality'- and, i have to admit- it fits.  i simultaneously love anne of green gables, and band of brothers.  i love healthy, green, organic food- and junk food too.  i like to read deep, educational books, and adore lots of reality tv. maybe all of that balances me out.  yeah, let's go with that.

i'm honest. i say things that sometimes make people squirm.  i ask hard questions. i love fiercely, have a quick temper (which makes me sad), and am learning how to really cry.  i like makeup and dresses, but love to hike and get dirty.  i can be flaky, but there's nothing i love more than a conversation that dives into the deep- emotionally, theologically, and topically.  i like to be with people, but i also love alone time. 

that's enough for now.  if you stay, you'll learn more.  my heart will begin to fill up the screen again.  i used to blog.  daily.  for about 4 years.  i loved interacting with my readers, and hope that i can build some of that again.  i aim to speak about hard things- my separation, God, parenting, mental illness, but i also hope to share silly things too. write to me- tell me who you are.  i love to meet new people.
much love my fellow storm dwellers!
-H