Descent

I've been working on my manuscript that I plan to self publish and also hope to one day publish traditionally- I thought I'd share a chunk today as it's fresh on my mind and heart and I thought you might appreciate reading a bit of it.
So... here you go!

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I wasn't allowed to stay with him. My not-quite-yet four year old son would be in the hospital without me for several days. Parents weren't allowed to stay outside of assigned visiting hours, and I would have to leave him in the care of strangers. We were four hours from home and my temporary bed would be at the Ronald McDonald House located a few blocks away. Heavy with the knowledge that I would be leaving him there, those two blocks felt more like a million miles. I had no way of absorbing that pain in the moment. I had to be strong for him, and reassure him that all of this was perfectly normal. He takes his cues from me, and I drew on every ounce of strength within me to present myself assured and calm.

After we'd arrived on the ward and been given the tour, a nurse led us back to the main area and I knew it was time for me to leave. He'd lagged a short distance behind us as we'd woven our way through the halls, his ruffled blond hair bouncing atop his head like a buoy in the ocean. Eyes wide with curiosity, he seemed to believe we were on a grand adventure. I avoided looking down at him to keep myself from feeling anything. I was numb; the overwhelming reality of my young son entering psychiatric care had washed over my senses like a sticky film. I'd nodded in recognition when she had shown me the room where patients gathered to watch movies and play board games, and as she led us through the rest of the wing, I'd scanned the halls for signs of comfort and reassurance that my oldest boy, the one who had thrust me into motherhood with gusto, would be safe and well cared for.

We circled back around to stop in front of the charge nurse's desk. I looked down into his bright questioning blue eyes to tell him I loved him and would be back in the morning. My smile felt borrowed from someone else and I knew he could sense my hesitation as he stared back at me. Breaking our unspoken communication, I bent down to pull him close, nuzzling my face into his neck and reassuring him he was okay and I loved him desperately. He was silent and stoic, tilting his had like a beloved family dog trying to comprehend words flung into the air. As I straightened, I was suffocated with feelings of failure laced with the thin thread of hope that maybe I had rescued him. Maybe this time real help would come. This time we'd find the elusive freedom. My heart split wide open under the pressing weight of guilt and shame. Tears threatened to slide down my face, and I refused to allow them access in that moment. Lies of inadequacy hovered around me like thick smoke, and the slash in my heart gave space for them to take up residency. Walking towards the heavy grey metal doors meant turning away from him. Turning from him felt horrifically symbolic and I rebelled against the wretched feeling. I felt as though all of the air had been sucked out of the room and the carpet seemed to stretch in front of me for miles. The rock in my chest grew heavier with each step I took; creating space between us that felt both visceral and emotional. I swallowed and tried focusing on the colorful childish paintings hanging on the walls. Reassuring myself we'd come to a place of help and treatment became my mantra, threading itself through my brain to keep thoughts of panic and desperation from landing. When I finally put my hands on the door, the steely cool of its surface bore testimony to the atmosphere; cold and sterile. Turning my face back to him, I was relieved and crushed to find him still watching me. His features were so baby-like, innocent and fresh. he understood I was leaving for the night, but thankfully, he didn't have the maturity to grasp the gravity of this dramatic initiation into psychiatric care at such a tender age. He stood rooted in the same spot, next to a faceless nurse wearing cheery, bright scrubs. He was so small. So young. How was I to leave him here without me to protect him from unseen dangers, from others who might not understand his behavior and words?! I was pierced again with the default statement I'd adopted as a mother at some point on my journey: I was a failure. I could see him struggling to fight back tears, and fresh grief washed over me knowing I couldn't run back to wrap my arms around him with protection, reassurance, and comfort. There was no comfort for us to be found in that moment, only the stark reality of reaching for support for our future to buffet me from complete wasting.

Waiting To Exhale

I keep waiting.

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

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

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

Earlier this week he hit the 6 week mark.

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

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

The Long Journey Home

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

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

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

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

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

Coming Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Living Outside the Chaos

I’m really quite good at managing chaos. I’ve had lots of practice, and have become a warrior of survival. I’m proud of this, and have learned not to fear much as the confidence in my ability to weather massive storms keeps me in peace.
But.

I’m not good at managing the manageable.

I’ve written about my oldest son and his battle with mental illness. He’s 15 now, and the ebb and flow of his sickness has lasted for more than 13 of those years. I have 3 other children, all younger than him. We have lived in the shadow of his illness for the entirety of their lives. 

Things are better now. While we still have situations that knock the wind out of me (as recently as earlier this week), the violent chaos that was normal in our home for more than a decade has waned. With his maturity has come some ability to push back against coping skills of aggression and destruction. I’ve come to a place of trusting my ability to parent him well, and rather than lean into the storm and exacerbate it with my own fear and anger, I’ve learned to utilize authority and boundaries in a healthier way. The last nine months has been the longest peaceful stretch of my parenting career. Even during this most recent drama, there has been no violence or aggression. 

Yet, I’m struggling.

I’ve been dating a man for the last two years who has seen the dynamics of my family, who has seen the shocking aggression that can pour out of my beautiful first born, who has seen the fear in the faces of my other three, the sometimes unhealthy attachment that has been forged between me and my kids, and who has seen me cry and work and do everything I can to help my family. He’s bided his time, and occasionally he’s spoken up- asking questions and exposing what I already know: I am not good at managing the manageable. Over the last year there have been conversations that he’s initiated that have left me angry, sullen and sobbing. (Never his intention, and always a direct result of the wounds it picks at.) They say that the truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.
Last night was the second time we had a conversation where the things coming from his mouth seemed to be directly from the heart of God- piercing my soul, shredding my heart in the knowing, and rendering me silent as I knew it was sacred. My flesh wanted to rise up and scream in defense, but my soul knew it was everything I needed to face; and I was grateful to have someone willing to face it with me in love. Beauty doesn’t equal pain-free. Love doesn’t mean avoiding hard places. I ached. I sobbed. I heaved with grief and fear and disappointment.

The difficulty now is that while living in a constant state of chaos, I have never learned how to live in the normal. I did everything around the house while trying to keep my kids safe. I never had breathing space to teach them simple chores or provide a structured schedule. And now, I’m exhausted. My children rely on me to do everything. They don’t pick up after themselves, or only do so with my prodding and their attitudes. There isn’t much structure, and what is there, revolves entirely around me. It’s not healthy for any of us, and it’s not feasible for me to keep this up. But the reality is this: I have no idea how to do it. I didn’t start small, with toddlers who were pulling chairs up to the sink beside me to learn how to do dishes. I didn’t have homework time at the kitchen table in the evenings because many evenings were spent fighting darkness and aggression, and sending children into my room to stay out of the path of their brother. I don’t have a family-known set of rules, expectations and consequences because my oldest (who, by default, sets the example for the others) is not motivated by either reward or consequence. Parenting him has been a continual shifting of what might work for this day, this situation, this mood. It’s left the others wondering what the constants are… and, to my grief, they come up empty.

I look at our dynamics, the lack of maturity and skill in my children, and I feel despair. JJ spoke these things- things I’ve already known- things I would rather run from- and called me to action. Part of me wanted to launch myself across the table to shove him to the floor, and part of me wanted to run away and leave the work to someone else, and part of me was broken… but part of me was grateful. His delivery was kind and raw. He reminded me of my strength and ability and asked why I didn’t infuse this situation with those characteristics. I dropped my head into my hands and sobbed. I could barely speak and he had to ask me to repeat myself several times. I don’t know how to fix it. I know the way things are right now is not good for anyone. I know that you telling me I work too hard at home doing things the kids should be doing is true- but I’m telling you I’m afraid, lost, and honestly, I am not sure I believe in myself as much as you do.

I have allowed things spoken to me when I was younger to take deep root and affect my ability to parent the children God gave to me- with my personality, skill set, strength and energy. I can tell you that logically, I know I have been paired with these children for a reason. That they have things to teach me, and I them, but the strangling vines grown from words once thrown into my soul have siphoned off the nutrients meant for healthy growth. I hear Failure. Flaky. Impulsive. Flighty. Unable to finish anything. Easily Bored. Lazy.

My love language is words of affirmation, and I haven’t loved myself well as I’ve given head space to words of destruction instead.
 

So next week, I return to counseling. I’ve given years to stabilize my son, while waiting for the right time to seek stabilization for myself. I can no longer delay that process. His well being and the well being of the others depends on my health. I can see where the cracks are and need help processing the junk that is preventing me from doing what needs to be done. I need someone to help me pull out the vines and learn how to live in the space between chaotic events.
I’m nervous at the level of emotional energy this will take, but I’m ready to move into it and out of it in order to live well the life I’ve been given.

To all the girls I've loved before....

To all the women I love and have loved. To all of the women who have loved and still love me... I wasn't leading you on. I never meant to hurt you. I wasn't being fake in the moment, or tolerating your presence. I truly love you, and the heart connection you felt is real.
It's not you, it's me, and I can explain. 

I love people. I love women. I love hearing their stories, and standing in wonder at the trauma and hurt women suffer through and yet pull themselves up to march on.. maintaining a strong softness that often belies the intimate stories of disappointment they work at healing. I find it easy to connect with people. I often find myself listening to women pour out their hearts in the grocery store line, waiting outside kids' classrooms before conferences, and sitting on the beach during family vacations. I love to talk and to listen. I love sharing ideas and experiences. I have had multiple connections with women that lasted only for a weekend retreat, or three month bible study. Women with whom I feel deep chemistry with; a sisterhood and joint heart understanding. Women who, given different circumstances, would imprint themselves upon my daily life and bring new ideas and adventure. I have experienced the feeling of finding a soul sister only to know the timing was off, or the gift was meant for that moment only.

Collages are small representation of women I love!!

I've been more than blessed with women who have loved me well. I've had good friends since as far back as I can remember and have been mostly protected from the wounding that comes from actions of a girl I considered a friend. I can recall the feelings of awe I had sitting on the front row of church holding my mom's slender, manicured fingers in my own childish hands. I watched my grandma snap peas and laugh over the pitcher of her too-sweet southern tea. I can still hear her raspy soprano melt into my grandpa's bass as they sang Bringing in the Sheaves inside the musty, brick church. I've stood in the mirrored paneled living room of my aunt's house and watched her and her sisters argue with great passion. I've giggled until my stomach hurt in the dark bedrooms of friends when I spent the night. I've crouched at the top of the stairs straining to make out the hushed, somber voices after a woman in our community had miscarried the baby she had longed for for so many years. I've cried on early morning walks when my sister friend told me she knew something was wrong with my son. Women have impacted every facet of my life and I have breathed it in with full, deep draws.

But as well as I have been loved, as intensely as I have been protected and cared for, I have struggled to be a good friend in return.

In my adult life, I have lived in a place of chaos and need. When I became a mother, I was thrust into a world of violence and fear and struggle I hadn't known existed. I went to doctor after doctor trying in vain to get my son help for his raging tantrums and violent behavior. I lived on a military base and was surrounded with women who loved me. I had a friend who lived down the street who would run to my house and take my baby for hours while I turned my attention to my screaming toddler. She would keep my second born safe along with her own growing family while I struggled to survive the terrifying life I had found myself in. For the years we were neighbors, she served my family in ways I've never been able to repay.
Years later when my marriage imploded, I was left with the immediate need for housing, as we had to leave the military base we had called home. I had no job, precious little savings, and no renting history to help me secure housing for my family. I was given the chance to rent a tiny bungalow owned by a woman and her husband I was connected to in my church. When the time came to move on from the cozy dwelling, I was offered the basement of another woman and her family. She only asked me to watch her lively toddler as she pursued her career. We settled in and began to live the reality of being a severed family on that beautiful property. When they moved on a year later, I was permitted to rent the entire house and I began to feel some semblance of normalcy. In the years since I was thrust into single motherhood, I have hustled in every way possible to provide for four kids. I have cleaned houses, mowed yards, babysat, used my photography skills, bartered, sold things I never dreamed I'd have to sell, written articles, applied for more than 60 jobs, worked multiple part time jobs at a time, and walked into the social services office to ask for help. I've been on welfare, cashed out CDs my grandmother had given me as a child and humbly been helped by my parents and various friends. I've spent nights lying awake in bed wondering how I was going to pay my rent, afford the kids medications, and watched several medical bills go into collections. I've prayed and cried, and experienced the miraculous when a check or package appeared unexpectedly just when I thought we would never make it.

I'm proud of how far I've come. I was given a wonderful job by a woman who has lived her own pain. She looked into my eyes and saw me as more than a liability. She saw who I could be, and took a risk in hiring me to assist her. Because of her belief in me, I've been able to work myself off of welfare, pay off the bills that were held captive by bill collectors, and now sleep soundly knowing I am able to take care of my family.

But while things are so much better than they've been, I still hustle. I work full time and part time - 7 days a week. I have four kids who all need specialists and three of them have some level of special education. My time is spent juggling work, and kids and doctor appointments, teacher conferences, my house and trying to hold it all together. There is no down time, rarely time for fun or evenings out or phone calls, and always a fire needing my attention. What that means is my friends still don't get my friendship in the way they deserve. Calls go unanswered, texts flash across my phone waiting for my response, and plans get cancelled. I know I've hurt women. I know I've let down my friends. I know there are women who think I lead them on and think only of myself. I know there are women who mistook my silence for ambivalence. I have seen hurt in the eyes of women who think that my scarcity in their lives is a reflection of my feelings towards them. To those women I want to say- it's not you. It's me.
I don't often share the struggle of my everyday life- not because I'm ashamed of it but because it's not necessary. I don't want pity, I don't like to linger in the hard places, and I would rather spend the precious little time I have with friends talking about other things. But I need you to hear me- if you have felt my love- please don't doubt it. Please don't take my silence personally. I used to talk to my mom almost daily, and now it's a good week if we manage one phone call. I am trying hard to figure out how to do it all, but the truth is, I can't. And what often falls is my active engagement with my relationships. I have days when my energy level soars, and the stars seem to align and I am able to reach out to let you know I think about you always, but there are also times where the chaos in my home reaches insane levels, and the only thing I manage to do is keep everyone safe. I desperately love and need the women in my life- and am so grateful for your presence, and I know that I haven't been the friend to you that you deserve. If I had it to give, I would in a heartbeat. I don't have answers and I don't know how to make it better in this moment, but I want you to know that I am not unaware. And while you may feel it, I don't take you for granted.