Doubts

As I went to wake my son up this morning, I noted that his bed was empty.  We had had a huge blowup last night, and at first I thought he had left early for school.  But something in my gut said no, he was here, and I needed to find him.  After a few minutes, I found him curled under the bed, covered with blankets and pillows, his wily hair peeping out.

I tried to wake him gently and at first he responded as angrily as he usually does, grunting and telling me to go away.  Today, for whatever reason, I didn't go away, and after another few minutes he began to cry.  Ten minutes later I persuaded him to come out from under the bed, and he, now bawling, pressed his face against my shirt as I held my grieving, depressed boy on his birthday.

He didn't want to go to school, and his mood quickly flipped from horribly depressed to horribly angry.  "I hate you!" he screamed at me.  "You're pathetic!  You can't even tell when your kid is upset!  You don't even care!" I ignored the words and waited for him to be ready for school.  The ride to school was full of angry words from him, ending with, "Thanks for ruining my birthday, Mom."

For whatever reason, those tears lit a fire under me.  When I got back home, I called to arrange for him to see a different, more competent psychiatrist.  I consulted for intensive in home therapy.  I called his school to insist on a 504 plan, since they denied him an IEP.  For once, I felt powerful again; I felt motivated to improve things for my child.

And we had a good birthday after school.  We got him presents for his hobbies.  He got a gift card and another present from his grandparents.  We all wished him a happy birthday and told him how much he was loved.  And he thanked everyone and smiled before returning to bed.

And a bit later, the doubts returned and I found myself wondering what I could have done to cause this problem.  How did I make it worse?  Did I cause this?  Logically I know he came to me with fetal alcohol effects and attachment disorder.  I know that if he is indeed battling bipolar disorder, it is genetic and I did nothing to cause that.  And yet I feel I failed him.

I hope one day he knows how very much I tried, and how very much I love him.  This disorder, or combination of, is truly bigger than us.

To My Dear Boy

To my dearest son,
Tomorrow you turn fifteen.  It is a birthday we will not be celebrating.  There is a heaviness in my heart that wants to break the decision I have made, feeling I am being cruel to you.  The feeling that a mother should always forgive her child's trespasses, even when they are abusive and ongoing.  Then your words fly up like daggers—hateful things like, "dummy!", "duh!", "you're a pathetic mom", "you're a loser", "I hate you!", "you're the reason our life sucks", and "you can't get a job because you're such a loser".  And I remember why I hurt and ache and must follow through with our family's decision.

I know your days in our house are limited.  You are not functional at home.  You sleep or scream when you are here.  You are failing all your classes in school.  You have broken the law several times.  You are no longer the child I knew.

I pray every night that someone, somewhere, will help me find a way to get you into a psychiatric hospital and on the medication you so desperately need.  If not, I know your time is ticking away before you will be in juvenile detention.  My heart, as a mother, breaks for you as I know you are mentally ill.  But I cannot allow you to continue to hurt everyone in the house, and physically endanger your family.

In my worst moments I am lost in a hell of our own making, of your making, that I willingly enter with you.  I don't know why but I can't let you dive in alone.  I can't let it be your problem.  I am your mother, and some part of me believes if I just argue hard enough I will win the fight.

In our best moments I laugh with you, hug you, remember how much I love you.  I'm not afraid of your explosions.  I want to be with you.  But those times have become so few and far between, I miss them terribly.

Tomorrow you are one year older, and I realize very heavily that you have only three years left in my care.  I miss you already, but I pray that we can work things out together before it is too late.  I pray that one day you will understand why your family has chosen not to celebrate with you, why we cannot manufacture a false joy for you tomorrow when our hearts are so heavy.  I hope that one day you will read this and know that your mother not only laughed with you, not only cried for you, but held you in her heart every moment you breathed a breath.
I love you,
Your mother

Mothers and Daughters

Two years ago, after not enough discussion, we moved cross country to live with my mother and father.  The intent was that we would have our own house, but it hasn't worked out that way.  For nearly two years, we have been living in my parents' condo.  To make matters worse, it has been difficult to find work; in fact, so difficult, my husband has moved to find work in another part of the country.

And so there is my mom.  She recently turned seventy, not that that really matters, because she hasn't changed from when she was sixty-nine.  She hates everything we do.  Sometimes I can feel hostility when I breathe, I swear.  Today she has been ill, and I talked her into staying in bed.  Apparently that meant I was supposed to prepare her meals, despite supervising my father and two children, and having tremendous back pain myself.  Because I didn't make her toast, she is bawling around the house carrying on about how she has to do everything herself.  My father had lost part of the grocery list and forgot to get the stuff my mother needed.  Again, she must do everything for herself.  Keep in mind the old man is brain damaged.  I took her to a convenience store and bought her noodles, which is what she wanted.  She wouldn't let me cook it for her, because she has to "do it all myself".  Well, okay.  Then she burned herself with them.  That was the last straw.

For the first time in my entire life, my mother is sleeping at a friend's house.  I feel like a kid watching her walk out, and the pain is real and palpable.  My kids have asked, "is Mimi really leaving?  Why?"  I wish I knew, other than she's overwhelmed with life.  With us.

Like any kid, I blame myself.  If only I had made toast.  If only I had checked the groceries before we left.  If only I had done the shopping instead of my dad (he offered and wanted to).  Right now I'm furious and sad and feel helpless.  I'm furiously angry and full of regret.  Do you ever get over your mom walking out?

I don't know.  Ask me tomorrow.  As for tonight, I'm done with the blame.  Everyone in the house gets blamed except for Mom.  It's no longer a place I want to be.  It's a place I want to flee.

Day I have no idea.

The other night as I was browsing Facebook, I noticed that one of my friends had stated that it had been three years since her disorder had first caused her tremendous pain.  I wanted to reach out and hug her, knowing how much pain she is in and how brave she is to face it every day.  She is a face of bravery, but every once in awhile the facade shows a crack.  There have been many nights she and I, awake at ungodly hours with pain, have comforted one another with fond memories of when I lived near her and of our careers, before there was pain.  Rarely do we speak about what may happen in the future.  We don't know.

Her statement of a three year anniversary though, made me think about how long it has been since I was officially diagnosed with fibromyalgia.  A year this month, February 2011.

I remember going in to see the rheumatologist.  A young woman, she listened to me for three or four minutes before cutting me off.  "I don't give narcotics," she said firmly, almost snappish.  I had described how my former doctor had been treating me with muscle relaxants and a mild narcotic.  My mother sat in a chair watching us, and I wonder if she knew that I would make a stand.

I did that day.  I had to.  "I'm not here for narcotics," I snapped back.  "I'm here for a diagnosis.  I'm here to get better.  I'm here because I have fibromyalgia and I need a diagnosis if I'm wrong or if I'm right."

She had me stand up, then pressed a few trigger points, all of which I winced or cried out audibly.  Three minutes later I had my diagnosis.

That was a year ago.  In the past year I've suffered pain and I've survived it.  I've fought to work jobs and lost them.  I've fought to attend things when my body was screaming in pain.  Sometimes I've been successful, and sometimes I've given up.  I've felt sorry for myself, I've felt desperate.  But I've also known the loving care of my friends, my family, and my God.  And I've had a lot of time to think about solutions.

Today marks my first day of physical therapy.  Soon I will start therapy again with my second therapist.  I am working on quality sleep at night, and have a good psychiatrist who is helping with the depression and anxiety that often accompany fibro.  So baby steps make it get better.  Nobody learned to be a masterpiece in a day.

So originally I had vowed to write every day and have fallen woefully short.  But this update is positive and good.  And I'm sure there will be more.

Happy one year anniversary to my diagnosis, and to the strength in me that survives.

Good things come from fear

So today the kid lost it.  I mean screaming, throwing things, kicking furniture, call the police lost it.

I got nominated to call the cops.  Lucky me.

Three of them show up, looking at each other like they can't believe they're in the right place (they later confided in the kid that they normally spend their time in the projects with the cockroaches and he has it pretty good).  They talked to him, to me, to everyone in the house (there were five of us) and determined he wasn't in danger of hurting himself or any of us.  I couldn't honestly say "Yes, I fear he will come after me tonight," because I don't think verbal assault is what they're looking for.

In the end he went to my brother's for the night.  Yeah, the same brother he had been screaming about going with in the beginning.

One of my biggest fears has always been calling the cops.  Beyond the embarrassment of saying, "I can't handle my kid", there's the fear of having the police actually believe something this kid says.  Our cops seemed to be on top of it, and one of them actually talked about fetal alcohol syndrome, and that the kid seemed to be suffering from it.  Bingo.  Could I hire you as his psychiatrist?

So all in all the kid goes with his uncle.  The younger one and I get a nice long nap...longer than mine should be or I wouldn't be up at 3 a.m. writing this entry.  But it's the calmest, least depressed I have felt in days.  I actually feel like I can handle my life.

And hence, from the scary things can bloom something good.

A Not-So-Friendly Reminder from your Hidden Disorder

Holy fucking jesus christ.

Sorry Jesus.

Sometimes, with as much work and medication we've gone through, that we can slide by and nearly forget the attachment disorder.

I was chatting with a friend yesterday who said, "What happened?  Weren't you telling me he was doing well?"

Well, he was.  Then three things have happened that have contributed to difficulty and stress for this child and our family as a whole.

First, I quit my job.  I was so stressed I couldn't sleep at night.  It was making my illness go crazy.  So I quit.  Maybe not the wisest, but I did it anyway.  I'm not sure if the skipping school started before that or after, but the grade issues have been all year.  He was taken out of regular classes and put in honors classes this year, and he seems to feel he's not smart enough.  Ha.

Next, his biological family visited.  His older half sister and maternal grandmother.  A day later he tried smoking and he skipped school.  His older sister has pictures on her Facebook page that would make a hooker blush.  Arguing grew, and so did his disobedience and nastiness.

Finally, the decision was made for my husband to move back to our home state to try to find employment.  It's been a hard decision, but this child has lost his mind.  He's convinced everything is done TO him.  That he's the only one who needs to be considered.

And that tormentor, attachment disorder, has reared its ugly head again at the reality of his dad leaving.

In the last week, I've been called everything from a child abuser to someone who should never have children.  I'm stupid, hateful, a loser, incompetent...you get the point.  And it doesn't come out nicely, either (would anyone expect it would?).  It comes out in shrieks and screams and booming yells that only an wounded adolescent in pain can create.  Every once in awhile I can see the fleeting panic and pain in his face.  And I wonder if he can see the pain in mine.

We saw the psychiatrist again the other day.  I don't think he knows what the hell he's talking about.  He babbles on and on about ADHD and sleeping problems.  His cure is a medication to help the child sleep.  I think the child has a full blown sleep disorder.  The psychiatrist says he isn't bipolar but his mood swings are massive and quick, and he spirals like crazy.  ADHD is often a cross diagnosis or misdiagnosis for attachment disorder.  My biggest concern is this child often talks about his depression and yet the psychiatrist refuses to treat it.  So what to do?  Get a new psychiatrist?

I often wonder if I'm one of those people who knows just enough about this to be dangerous.  Probably.  But I strongly believe that regardless of whatever else is going on, this child is struggling with depression, and I don't see how bipolar disorder can be ruled out, given how he cycles.

So where does this leave us?  With a husband who's moving, a very angry teenager, an unemployed and sick mother, and an almost teen girl thrown in the mix.  Stay tuned for our next adventure...but lest we forget, attachment disorder never really goes away.  It lies below the surface, ready to grapple its hooks right into any shakeup.

When It Hits Hard

Ugh.

I was sick all last week and basically did very little.  Now it's Monday evening and I'm facing a ton of work and it feels like it's all due by tomorrow morning.

Tonight is Halloween.  I felt like crap earlier, but had planned to take my kid out trick ortreating (yes, I have two but one's too old).  Anyway, I shower, change, get ready to take her, and boom! she hasn't done anything she was supposed to do.  It's ten til six and she's done no studying and no chores.  She's still in her school clothes.  For what seems like every day for the last two weeks I've been after both kids to be more responsible.  And I burst into tears, telling her she'd blown it—there was no way we'd make Halloween now.  Trick or treat here ends at 8 p.m.  Even I can do math.  And she can too—she's tested two grades ahead of the 7th grade math class she's in.

She sighed and said guiltily, "You're right.  I won't go this year."

And I wanted to scream, "What about ME?  What about the costume I bought you that was beautiful?  What about the fact that this is the last year you're allowed to trick or treat in this city?  Did you think about any of THAT?"  But I was crying too much.

So I'm spending Halloween night crying, lying in my bed, feeling sick and staring at all my work that I have about fifteen hours to complete.  And sleep.

Right now I want to bury myself somewhere and never come out.