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!

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.

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.

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.

Speak now, or forever hold your peace

I've been going through Beth Moore's Breaking Free study with a couple of friends over the last few months. It's been a good place to examine myself; how I operate- in relationships, in my expectations, and life in general. It's been hard, and painful, and beautiful. (I highly recommend it!).  I'm in the beginning of week five, and the last couple of weeks have had us digging into our backgrounds to discover hard things passed down in our families as well as the really beautiful things. All of us carry both within our families of origin, and all of us will continue to pass on good and bad to the generations coming after us. The goal of the study is to discover, with intention, those things you desire to grab hold of and continue, and those things that have created difficulty, struggle, pain or dysfunction and in identifying those things- let them go.
Interestingly, I watched the video kicking off week five on Friday night. (start at 45:40 for the clip I'm referring to). The night that hate descended publically on my hometown of Charlottesville and made a blatant display of evil personified. The video addressed what Beth considers the most poisonous 'legacy' of many families: Racism. 

She does a great job of calling it out without mincing words, and without painting an ugly, insidious 'tradition' with sugared words to help us digest them. She calls it an abomination. A sickness based in fear and ignorance. She calls us to stand against it- with courage. Knowing for some, standing against the covert and overt racism in family relationships will cost something. She passionately argues that the ideology of being 'color blind' is a disservice, a farce, laughable. I'm with her all the way. She says when we are raised to believe that we are different because of skin color, then by default, it means someone has to be better. Yep. Amen. All things I am on board with. My only disappointment came when I realized she missed an opportunity to make another powerful, needed point. I would add this to her message:
Serving a creator God means we believe He has created all. All creatures, humans, plants, living things. Calling them good. As women, we frequently remind society that when we were created we were also deemed good, and also created in the image of God.
So... for my brain, for my logic, for my reasoning.. this seems a simple analogy. None of us look at the gorgeous blue butterflies flitting around our lawns and think "Man. Those blue butterflies are so much more important and valuable than the orange colored Monarchs. In fact, we should really try to get rid of those Monarch butterflies because they are in the way and annoying me by trying to get all of the nectar from these flowers! Dont they know they don't belong here?! We should make them go back to Mexico." We don't visit the animal shelter and tell the staff that all of the yellow dogs shouldn't be allowed to be adopted because they aren't as good as the other dogs; becoming incensed that the yellow lab is taking up space they could use for a chocolate lab and getting violent when told we are off our rocker for using such warped logic.

This is an overly-simplified analogy, stripping history and pain and wounding from the subject for a moment; but my point is this: Especially for those of us who love our creator God- why would we even consider the thought that skin color determines levels of value?! God is creative. Artistic. Intentional. We have no problem accepting that in the animal world, and with various plants and flowers- yet we stop short of offering the same effortless acceptance to the creatures called humans that He has created in.his.image. 
Beth Moore is correct. In many families of every color (especially here in the United States where our history is marred with horrific crimes against humanity based on skin color), there has been a passing down of racism at some level. It can be difficult to look at. She speaks of her grandmother who faithfully served others, loved her church, spent time in her bible every day and then spoke disparagingly about a group of people- made in the image of God. It's based in fear and ignorance and continues through generations with the subtle (or not so subtle) rhetoric of : if we are different- then someone has to be better. 
Pastor John Pavlovitz posted on his website this weekend calling those of us with white skin to speak up. To call out racism for what it is. To call out our white counterparts engaged in this disgusting display of fear and hate and brutality. To refuse to stay silent in our protected lives, and largely disconnected communities. His message is powerful and necessary- and I want to push it a step further.
I have heard many of my friends of color say that they are tired. They are no longer afraid- knowing God holds them. But they are tired of fighting. Of trying to speak out to deaf ears. Ears deafened by the noise of ignorance- never having faced ugliness directed at them or their families or communities based solely on skin color. Ears deafened by the rally of voices around them telling them that 'the American dream is available to all- if they would just work harder'; or 'black on black crime is worse than white on black crime.', or 'they need to get over it. I never owned any slaves and I don't understand what their problem is. I have tons of black friends.', or the more "accepted" statements such as; 'black people are so much better at sports than white people'; tossed out as though it is a compliment and should be received with gratitude. What about,  'well, he had been arrested before, so I'm not surprised'; and the ever-present: 'why do they have to say black lives matter?! Don't they know ALL lives matter?!'. Those continual sound bites.. perpetuated in our communities, churches, families, friendships, social media, television... they drown out the voices of the oppressed crying out to be heard.
They're tired of competing with the hum of words soothing the nagging worry in those of us with white skin who dare to consider that all of this is so horrifically, terribly wrong... and that maybe, somehow, we have played a part.


Yes, John Pavlovitz. We must speak. It's our turn. It's the responsibility of those of us with white skin to tell our friends and brothers and sisters with brown skin that 'we've got you'. You don't need to keep fighting. You can rest. We will fight FOR you. In love. In honor. And to tell our white brothers and sisters, no. No. We won't stand for this. It's evil.
To my white brothers- your voice carries the most weight. You have the 'in' to those who perpetuate this violence of word and deed. You have the highest probability of being heard by other white men- because you look like them. You have to be brave. Selfless. Honorable. Bold. To call out the coworker who makes a joke that turns your stomach. To challenge your child who makes a blanket statement about 'black people' that he picked up in the lunch room. To tell your family- No. That's not true. And it's hateful.
You have a huge responsibility to use your unearned place of privilege for good. Not to apologize for it, to feel guilty about it, or to try and deny it. No. To use it. For such a time as this.
To whom much is given, much is required. With great power comes great responsibility. Please. For the literal love of God and those created in His image. Use it wisely.

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.