routerecalculation

My Head Has a Heartbeat

“Hello?”
“This is your Dr. Office calling. We’d like to see you as soon as possible.”
“Umm, okay. When?”
“Can you come tomorrow?”
“Really? Sure, see you then.”

It’s not often my Dr. calls me. I have a lot of calls from doctors over the last 2 years, but not for me. What could be so urgent?

“HI. What are you here for today?”
“I don’t know. You called me, remember?”
“Oh, right. We’re going to need your vitals, height and weight.”
“Really? Ok – vitals yes, I’m very aware of the other two.”
“You won’t have to look.”
“Nope. Not happening. See, I’m having a hard enough time as it is, I don’t need to be depressed more on top of it all.”
“It won’t be long, the Dr. will be in soon.”

My Dr is pretty good – I never usually have to wait long. I wasn’t terribly worried because I haven’t been in for any tests recently, and I figured I was there to hear a lecture on my health, follow up, and the fact it’s time for a check up.

“Hey – how are you?”
“I’m ok.”
“I noticed on your file your prescription needs renewal.”
“Yeah. I guess it does.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“No, not really. I mean I get about 4 hrs on a good night, usually interrupted half way through. Seems I can’t sleep longer than that. Some nights 2 hours, but a lot of nights 4.”
“Have you tried the sleeping pills I gave you?”
“They don’t work”.
“Did you try both prescriptions? ”
“Yup. No difference. I don’t have trouble falling asleep. I can fall asleep almost anywhere – instantly – I just can’t stay asleep.”
“Hmmmmm. That’s not good. How’s the anxiety?”
“Better. I don’t shake from morning to night anymore. I still can break out in a full sweat instantly, and I do shake, but it’s better than it was. I feel sad sometimes – but I think I’m just tired. ”
“You’re over due for a check up.”
“I know. I was getting to it.”

“How’s work?”
“Fine. Hard. New boss has high expectations. Company is expecting major growth which is stressful.”
“In a recession? How are you supposed to do that?”
“LOL. How ever I can.”

“How’s your daughter?”

I stared blankly for a moment. How is my daughter? That’s a good question. A very hard question actually, because I don’t think I really know.

“Ummmmm. Hmmmm. Well. I’m not really sure what to say. Better…..I guess. She’s not suicidal anymore, and not cutting. She’s at a healthy weight. She’s gifted actually – she’s been tested – but she’s failing school. The pendulum has swung full to the other side. We haven’t had police for awhile – that’s a good thing.”
“Police? Why?”
“Well, there was the time they kicked in my door late at night because she had messaged someone she’d taken sleeping pills. Then there was the time she was at her dads and her friend couldn’t find her so she called the cops. Then most recently we couldn’t find her and had to get the RCMP to help.”
“Really? And you wonder why you can’t sleep?”
“It could be worse. We have a ton to be thankful for, really, we do.”
“How are you coping with all of this?”
“We’ll, that’s why I came to you, remember? You gave me those bright orange pills?”
“Right. Do you need someone to talk to? A counselor or something?”
“No. Well maybe, but I don’t really have time right now. We’re going to YCUSP later today to talk with the counselors, medics and such. The thing is, I don’t really know what to say anymore. It’s been 2 years, and I’m kind of at a loss. I’ve run out of potential solutions, and my ideas are pretty much exhausted. I’m exhausted. I can feel my pulse in my head. I don’t really know what to do to make things better anymore.”

I know what the Dr’s want to hear. I’m fine, things are great. The system is awesome and helps so much. The support is incredible, blah, blah, blah. The truth is that I tell the truth. I don’t hide and say what they want to hear. I don’t have the energy to paint pretty pictures, so I say it like it is. The truth is uncomfortable sometimes. It’s not that I want to make anyone uncomfortable, the truth is that I really just don’t know what to say anymore. I’m so very thankful because my daughter is home and alive, and we’ve seen so many not make it. I get to see her at night, text her when I want, and hug her whether it’s sincere or not. I just don’t know how to help her anymore.

The Dr and I sat and looked at each other in awkward silence………….
Someone had to say something.

“I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“Have you set a date yet to get married?”
“……sigh……no….. no we haven’t. It just seems so complicated, and between our kids being back and forth from the loonie bin and work and such, we just haven’t figured out how to make it happen. There always seems to be a crisis.”
“(He chuckled) Well, I guess you’ve got a point. Things could be worse. It’s a good way to look at it. Here’s a different prescription – try it for sleep. If that doesn’t work I don’t think i know really what to say. Here’s 60 days worth. Let me know how it goes. Is there anything else you need?”

OK. Breathe deep. Don’t say it – just smile, bite your tongue, and leave it alone.
“Nope. I’m good.”

Back to work. I have a sore head. Back to YCUSP. Maybe they’ll help this time.

There comes a time, when you’re deep in the muck and the mire, that you need to step back and assess yourself. It’s not just our kids that need help – often we do too. You don’t have to be suicidal to need help. Reach out. Tell a friend. See your Dr. Do something, just don’t leave it too long.

January 20, 2016 0

Freaky Friday

“Hi mom? I need to go to Urgent Care. I threw up and I’m not feeling well. I’m just going to get a ride there, ok?”

These are not the words you want to hear in the middle of the afternoon on a Friday. Why on earth would you need to go to urgent care because you threw up? That just doesn’t make sense. Pluse, since when do you just “get a ride” to urgent care, in the middle of a school day, when you’re that young?

“Urgent Care? Really? Is it that bad? I’ll come get you.”

“No mom. I need to take care of this myself. I just want to go by myself.”

“By yourself? You can’t go by yourself? You’re too young. Plus you need your health care info and stuff. I’m on my way to get you.”

“No mom, please. It’s too stressful when you’re with me. They said I don’t need the card.”

“You don’t need your health card? I’m too stressful? I’m your mom. I’m on my way.”

“But….”

“I’m on my way!”

Something wasn’t right. Since when do you need Urgent Health Care when you throw up? And get a ride? With who? Go by yourself? Yeah – right! Not after what we’ve been through! 2 years of hospital visits, pain, complaining, excuses, and mystery issues. I’m not anywhere near being done with this, and I’m not getting cut out of the picture now.

I drove up to the school, my mind racing with what the issue could really be. Did something happen at school? Had she been in classes? Had someone said something or done something to upset her? Work is only 4 minutes away, and I got there fairly quickly. The teacher walked her to my car, and a very unhappy girl, pale but with flushed cheeks and teary eyes got into the car.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I just don’t feel well”

“Okay – no worries. Let’s go get things checked out”

The short drive was very quiet. She was pushed in to the corner of her seat, knees to her chest and visibly agitated. We pulled up to the doors of Urgent Care and the freak out began.

“I can’t go in there! Get me out of here! This is way too awful. I can never go in there again!!! I’ll be fine – why couldn’t I do this by myself. You coming in just makes terrible memories! Just take me back to school! I probably just have the flu.”

“Okay. Calm down. We don’t have to go in. Do you want to just go for a drive? Maybe go get a drink, or go for a walk somewhere? Maybe you just got overwhelmed and need to cool down a little?”

“Just take me back to school.”

“I’m not sure if you should be there if you’re throwing up. Did you make yourself throw up? Is there anything you’re not telling me that I need to know?”

“No. I swear I didn’t – I don’t do that anymore. Just take me back.”

We drove back to the school – perhaps 15 or 20 minutes had passed. I walked her in to the zen room and the teacher looked at me with wide eyes. “What, Urgent Care is working at record speeds now?” I explained that she felt it was maybe unnecessary, so we decided to come back. We continued to talk a little while longer and I expressed my concern. I felt something was fishy here but wasn’t sure what. I hadn’t seen this kind of behavior for a very long time, and it wasn’t sitting well with me. I asked them to just keep an eye on her, and asked her to check in with me in a few hours.

I went to my car, and immediately called her YCUSP counselor. “Something just isn’t right. She’s acting erratic, irrational, and very agitated. I’ve been to every appointment for 2 years, and now I stress her out? I don’t get it. She hasn’t been to classes for 2 days. She seems so lonely and unhappy. This isn’t a transition – it’s a plunge, and things are starting to unwind. The stomach pain is back and she’s overwhelmed. It’s just too much. We can’t go back there.”

We decided to set some appointments with the school, and reevaluate what things needed to look like. If things continued on like this, we both agreed it would be a one way ticket back to program, or even hospital, and we couldn’t let that happen. Then my other line rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’ve just been having a long chat with your daughter, and she’s told me some information that you need to know. She’s very afraid you’re going to be mad.”

“Mad? Why would I be mad? Can I talk to her?”

“Hi mom? I’m really sorry. I wasn’t feeling well, and this girl at school gave me a pill. I think it was gravol – I’m almost sure of it, but I don’t know . Then I started feeling sicker, and I got really scared. I don’t know what I took for sure, and I don’t know the girl. I’m scared it might be drugs or something bad.”

“Ok, well why don’t we go get it checked out?”

“Don’t be mad at me!”

“I’m not mad. Not at all. Let’s just go and get it checked.”
“I said I’m not perfect!!! I can’t always do everything perfect. You don’t have to be mad.”

“Oooookay – I said I’m not mad. Not at all. We need to just go and find out. I’m sure you’re fine, but better safe then sorry.”

“Why are you yelling at me!!!! I said I screwed up, ok?!!”

Now I’m not sure what conversation she was on, but it definitely wasn’t the conversation we were currently having. I could only imagine the look on her teachers face as she was yelling at me on the phone. She was clearly stressed beyond belief, and was having her own conversation in her head, aside of the one we were having on the phone.

“My friend will drive me, ok? I’m just going to go get checked out.”

“I haven’t even left the parking lot yet – I’m still here. I’ll take you. You can take your health care card and go in on your own if it’s that important to you, but I’m not leaving. I’m taking you myself, and will be there for you.”

She got back in the car, and we drove to Urgent Care once again. Reluctantly, I gave her her card, and sent her in on her own. I couldn’t believe, that after all this time, and all we’d been through, that I was being shoved to the side as a stresser, rather than a supporter. I was hurt. What were the Dr’s going to think? What would she tell them? What kind of parent lets a young teenager go in to emerg on their own?

A few hours passed by, and I just got more annoyed. The odd text would come through. “They’re not worried. Just taking precautions.” “They’ve done a drug screen and are testing me for mono again because I don’t feel well”. “They’re not concerned.” “I’m sorry mom.” I told her this was the last time this would ever happen. She needed to understand that I’m her supporter, nothing else. Then came the in. It’s amazing how we’re no good as parents until our kids need food, shelter, or money. “I’m hungry. Can you get me food?”

Lol. Hungry. Of course you’re hungry. You haven’t eaten all day, and now the stress is going down and you’re starving. “Yes, I can bring you food. I’ll be right back.” I ran to her favorite stop, and brought back some protein and veggies for her to have. “You don’t have to come in, I’ll only be 10 more minutes.”

Ok, that’s it. “Excuse me ma’am. Can you tell me where my daughter is? I went to get some food for her while she waits.” “Well of course. Just give me a moment……..she’s in room 3. Right that way.” I’d had it. I wasn’t going to be cut out for one more second. It’s bad enough when the Dr’s ask you to leave, but when your own kids shuts you out?

I walked through the curtain and she was surprised to see me. Not quite as surprised as I was. She had an IV going in to her arm, with fluids for dehydration, Toradol for pain, and an antacid for her stomach. “Here’s your food. Excuse me, nurse? Can you please tell me what all of this is for? I’m surprised you don’t need consent from a parent for all of this. At what age do you need consent? I’m not upset – I just want to know.” The nurse stood there looking at me, stunned. “Uuuum, well, actually – I don’t really know. She came in by herself, so we juuuust…..are you ok with this?” “Well, I guess, but it doesn’t really matter at this point. I just want an explanation of what’s happening please.” She explained there were complaints of stomach and head pain. They said she seemed a little dehydrated, and there was evidence of some acid reflux bothering her throat, so they were giving her something for that. They didn’t want to bother her stomach, so IV was the way to go. And, we were still waiting for the results of a drug screen and had taken pictures of her stomach.

Great. Perfect. IV pain killers – here we go again. Drug screening? Perfect. Dehydrated. Lovely. I looked at my daughter and sat down next to her.

“We are not going to be here for 10 more minutes. This is going to take some time.”

“Really? I’m sorry. I hate this place. I’m not a sick kid. I’m not a sick kid. I hate this place.”

“This place was made to help people who feel sick. It doesn’t mean you are sick. The past is the past – we don’t need to worry about that anymore.”

“YCUSP offered me to come stay the night.”

“Do you feel you need that?”

“Pffff! No! I’m not going there to stay the night. I’m safe. I’m not going to hurt myself. I don’t do that anymore. I just got scared. I thought it was a gravol and then started feeling sicker and realized I didn’t even know the girl and I could have taken anything and I didn’t know what to do so I just wanted to come here and take care of anything and…”

“You need to realize I’m here for you. I’m not perfect, but I will do what I can to stay calm and help you. Let’s make a plan. How about no taking anything from anyone.”

“Except you.”

“Except me. With the amount of things going on, and your other medications, let’s just keep it simple. Use your oils. Use your head and call me if things are out of control. Don’t take drugs of any kind from anyone, and certainly don’t drink alcohol. We don’t know how any of that would interact with everything else. I know you want your independence, but you’re only 14. You have plenty of years to be on your own when you’ll have to make decisions by yourself. You’re young enough that I still need to be involved. It’s ok to be a kid. You don’t ever have to do any of this alone.”

“Ok. When can we go?”

The Dr. came in and gave the all clear. 2 more hours had passed, (10 minutes – yeah right!), and we finally go the the IV removed and went home. 7 hours in total.

“Can I go hang out with a friend?”

(Chuckle)”I don’t think so. We’ve had enough excitement for today. I think we’ll just lay low for the rest of the evening.”

“Yeah. Ok. Probably a good idea. I’m going to clean my room.”

“Whatever makes you happy doll. Whatever makes you happy.”

We were lucky. She could have taken anything. I’m pretty sure that’s why she threw up. A momentary impulse could have been much, much worse. You would think with all the advertising, the warnings, school education, pamphlets and extra classes – plus exposure to kids who really have taken something bad, that our kids would know better. Talk to your kids, and make a plan. Do they really know? Pause before you proceed.

The hardest part of parenting isn’t just protecting our kids, it’s protecting our kids from themselves.

September 19, 2015 0

Round Hole, Square Peg

tran·si·tion

tranˈziSH(ə)n,tranˈsiSH(ə)n/

noun

noun: transition; plural noun: transitions

1.

the process or a period of changing from one state or condition to another.

“students in transition from one program to another”

Summer has passed, and we’re 2 weeks in to fall, which brings the start of the school year. We have waited with great anticipation for this. What will it be like? Is she ready? Will it all be too much?

Times have changed. My daughter has changed. For the last year, she has been with kids like her. All of them have stories – some sadder than others – but they all relate with the common thread of needing extra care to get through. A year ago, she was so depressed the only hope for her was trying to end her own life. Now? Not anymore. Now she has found herself. She has had a year to remove herself from the every day pressures of school and peer pressure and get intense therapy.

How do you take a girl with colored hair, fairy clothing, who wears no shoes most days and fit her in to jeans, tshirts, runners, and even worse – teenage drama?

Week 1:

“How was school today sweetie?”

“Ok.”

“Were classes ok? Did you find your way around?”

“Yeah. It was ok……I cried today”.

“What? Where? Why were you crying?”

“Just overwhelmed. It’s just really overwhelming.”

“You’ll settle in. It will get better, really it will.”

Week 1 went ok, but just ok. We expected it to be hard. I thought a transition was supposed to work in to things slowly. Instead, she has a full load of classes, tons of homework – and it’s just not getting done.

Week 2:

“I heard people talking about me today.”

“Why? What were they saying?.”

“Well, I have no one to be with at lunch. I’ve been out of the loop too long, so I pretend I’m going somewhere until lunch is over. I sat down in a desk with my legs crossed and no shoes on, and the kids were pointing at me. Talking about how weird I am.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Well, I do get asked to go to the park and do drugs at lunch, but I don’t want to. I refuse to go there, to go back to trying to fit in. I’m the quiet one now – can you believe that? The teachers think I’m shy. And the kids? The older ones are nicer to me, but they’re not in my classes. I’m weird because I look different. I’m weird because older kids know me and say hi. I’m weird because I think differently and ask different questions. I’m weird because I’m more comfortable sitting cross legged than having my feet on the floor.”

“You need to be proud of who you are and how hard you’ve worked. You’ve come so far and you’re not the same person. You’re a great person – don’t forget that.

Week 3:

“I can’t get all this homework done mom. I just can’t do it”

“I don’t understand why you have so much. You have 2 spares and yet still can’t get it done. I thought you were supposed to be starting off slowly?”

“I’m feeling overwhelmed.”

“I know. We need to do something about this.”

Off went the email, stressing that this so called “transition” was more like complete immersion.

“I didn’t go to classes today. I had a panic attack when I entered the school. I sat in my counselors room for the entire day. I have so much homework, I don’t know how I’ll possibly even finish. My stomach is hurting and I don’t know why. It’s that pain – it hurts bad. Maybe I’m sick? Maybe it’s mono? I can’t move. A girl wrote me a letter today, telling me how mean kids are to her yet she’s made it. I think we will be friends forever. Can I have my meds? I need to sleep.”

Three weeks in and we’ve taken a huge step backwards. The pain is coming back. Discouragement is creeping it’s ugly fingers back in, and the pile is getting higher and higher. She’s fighting toothe and nail but it’s getting too hard too quickly.

“Don’t worry sweetie. I’ve sent an email to the team at the school. It’s time for a talk. We need to slow down a bit and make this a transition – not a plunge. You don’t need to worry.”

“Ok.”

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned. How do we get through a year when we’ve made it 3 weeks and the panic attacks are setting in? The good thing is she’s a fighter, and so am I. It’s not too late to make changes. We can make this what it needs to be, as long as she is allowed to be who she needs to be – not who she is expected to be.

September 18, 2015 0

Insignificance

“I remember things going dark.

Eventually all I could hear was my heart beat.

Behind my eyes would turn spotted, then red……

And eventually things would go dark.

Sometimes I’d feel as if I started to slip away.

And then they would come running in and find me.”

“How was school today sweetie? Did it go ok? How was it seeing everyone again?”

“Ummmmm. Not great.”

That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. We have waited a very long time for this day to come. The first day of school. The first day back. The first day going forward. She’s in a new school now. We decided the old one wasn’t a place we wanted to go back to, with all the stressful memories. Although we say that someday we’ll look back, and some of the stories will seem humorous, they are all very deep, and still very raw. Much more raw than I thought.

I was hoping for a great story. She was terribly excited. We have private transportation right now, as the stress of being on a cheese wagon loaded with K-12 kids is overwhelming on any given day. Our school division has been kind enough to provide secure door to door transportation so there are no worries. She was dressed beautifully, with a flowery baby-doll top and leggings, softly colored candy floss hair, and her signature dark pink lipstick. The driver told me she was shaking a little, and talking tremendously fast. She hesitated a little, and then went in to face the day. Everything was planned and charted out, with friends texting her directions to her first classes.

The thing is, one whole year has passed, with at least a half year before that one missed. Time goes by whether you are present or not, and fitting back in isn’t so easy. Add some disassociation to that and you have a feeling of being very alone. It’s amazing how you can walk in to an environment of a lot of people, and feel more alone then when you’re actually by yourself. It doesn’t seem possible, but it’s very true. Social anxiety is just that – being alone in the midst of the craziness, and not knowing really how to change it. I would describe it as an out of body experience, inside of your body. Feeling like you are absolutely unimportant, and nothing.

“I cried today.”

“Why sweetie? Why did you cry? Were you alone?”

“No, I was with my teacher. I just feel insignificant. And uncomfortable. And….overwhelmed.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that this is so hard. I’m sure it will get better. You’ll get back in to it.”

“The thing is, I don’t want to get “back in to it”. I don’t want to fit in and be a part of the way things used to be. I don’t want things to be the way they used to be. I’m not that person anymore. I don’t want the same nick name. I’m not anorexic anymore. I don’t want to sit and be part of the drama, talk about who did what to who, and how much of a witch that other girl is. I want to love people, and talk about wonderful things. I want to sit with bare feet, eat raw corn and not be made fun of. I want to stand in the mud and feel the earth in my toes and feel the rain on my face. I want to talk about life and how amazing things are. I’m not sick anymore. As a matter of fact, I’m the least sick person I know. I just want to show love to people.”

I sat and looked at her for a moment. I know how she feels. We have come so far and have changed so much. I don’t want her to be part of that world either. She isn’t suicidal anymore – and those days may haunt her but they do not define who she is. She has turned in to this amazingly confident, sensitive, feeling, empath – but suffers with anxiety, stress, OCD, PTSD, unspecified eating disorders and a few other unmentionable things that circle above her head, threatening to land on her shoulder and speak fear quietly into her ear. She requires support still, in very significant ways, but she has fought very hard, and grown up perhaps a bit too quickly.

Her smile will light up a room. She sings with unabandon in the shower, in her room, to the radio, and just about anywhere we go. She plays in the sand, walks barefoot most of the time, plays in the rain and dances as she bounds up and down the stairs. Her eyes twinkle while she tells corny jokes, and she has taken a strange pleasure in discovering great new lipstick colors. Her clothes are usually soft and flowy, sprayed with colorful flowers and the odd piece of lace or ruffle. At the end of the day she flops down on the couch talking about her many plans to travel the world her VW or PT Cruiser – she can’t decide. She is definitely not the girl she used to be.

“I don’t know what to say doll. I wish I could tell you it will be easy, just give it time and things will be better. Instead, how about this. Just give it some time – things will be different. You’ll find your way, whatever that is. Thank you for telling me you cried. Thank you for having the courage to share with me how you’re really feeling, because one of my fears is thinking it’s all just ok when it’s really not. You and I have come a very long way. Let’s make it our goal just to love the people around us, and if they don’t accept that, well, we can always move on. There’s always someone who needs some love.”

September 4, 2015 2

Reflections

It was almost a year ago, that I went shopping with my daughter for school clothes. I will never forget that day. I had my arms full of pants, jeans, tops and all sorts of fun things, but no matter what we picked, we just couldn’t find a size that fit. Size 5? Nope – too big. Perhaps a 3 would work. Still too big. Then I went for the 2, then the 1, then really – a zero? Yes – we were there – at a 0 and even 00, and when I looked at how the clothes were hanging I was shocked. In my head I gasped, and realized we had a problem.

Where are things now? Time for a update.

Today, we went shopping for school clothes. It’s about a 30 minute drive to the mall we wanted to shop at. My daughter chatted along the way about how she found her journal from a year ago, and was shocked at how much she’s changed. She said she found her entries to be dark, grey and very depressing. She talked about how now things seem bright, and that life is great – for the most part anyways. We spoke about how far she’s really come, and headed straight for the mall.

We walked around, looking at different things – lipstick, lingerie, tshirts and were in search of the perfect pants. We ended up going in to the very same store we shopped at last year. It was a little dejavu, and I must say I had to breathe pretty deeply and focus on now – not then. We founds lots of wonderful things to try on, and off to the dressing room she went. This time, not a size 0. We discussed how hard it was to find clothes, and although she’s probably only a size 1 now (maybe a 2 if we went for loose), but at least we’re not at 00. We were able to talk about self image, potential triggers, and what makes her feel beautiful now. It was refreshing to see her laugh, twirl and primp herself in front of the mirror. There was one point where I made the mental note that 0 is very close, and I would have to be watching very closely, but her mood was wonderful. The marks from all the self harm were there, but really – neither of us could really see them anymore.

All the shopping was making me ready for lunch, but she just wanted to keep on. Next – a stop for the perfect new lipstick. There is nothing like a new lipstick. The feel of the cardboard box, the smooth beautiful tube and perfect shape of the color inside. You twist it up and look for a moment, and then try it – and hopefully it’s magic. It was hard to decide, but we managed to settle on 2 new colors for her, and 1 for myself. Lunch? Not yet.

We hit a few more stores, tried things on – primped and preened, and got her fitted properly for a few new items. Lunch? Well, that’s when the conversation began.

“Mom, I’m really struggling. I know I have to eat, but I just can’t handle the food in my mouth.”

“Ok, is there anything that appeals to you at all? Soup? Smoothie? Sushi? Fries? Salad? Anything?”

“No, not really. I know I have to eat. And I will. At least I’ll try, but I feel noxious when I swallow.”

We settled on a small vegetarian tray of sushi. The first few pieces were ok, as long as we kept talking and were distracted. Then I could see her trying not to taste it, as if it hit her tongue she would be sick. She managed to swallow, but by the time she hit the last piece she was holding her nose and gagging.

“You don’t have to eat it all. You made a great effort and got enough down.”

“I’m sorry mom. I’m really trying”

“I know you are. Maybe smaller amounts as we go?”

“My stomach hurts because I know I’m hungry. I hate the pain – I know that’s what it’s from. I just can’t handle the texture of anything. It all feels thick.”

The good news? She’s being honest with me. She’s letting me know upfront that she’s struggling, and even better – letting me try to help. The bad news? She’s struggling and choking back a protein bar with her nose plugged in an effort not to loose weight. She’s in a safe zone now, but danger is a mere 5+ pounds away. Her program knows, she knows, and I know that it’s a struggle she may have the rest of her life, but we just have to be patient and honest. I’m being told to try and find one food she can enjoy, but even a liquid other than water turns her off.

More good news. The rigid, straight back, perfect speech, and demure behaviors are all gone. Now, I have a fun loving, slightly slouched, mostly barefoot dancing girl, that finds joy in brightly colored hair, tie dyed clothing, flowy pants, and singing at the top of her lungs. She walks barefoot in the mud (I tell her not to), and dances in the rain. Her favorite slogan is, “An adventure a day keeps the Dr. away!”.

There is still tough stuff, and we still have some big battles coming that legally I can’t talk about. She has trouble with parts of her family that usually end up in self harm, so visits are kept to a bare minimum. She is going to have to face a class room with kids, and a teacher, and schoolwork, and even home work – all things she hasn’t had for almost 2 years. What will happen when boys start paying attention to her, or girls start making comments about how tiny she is, or tall or colorful, or loud or any of the other things kids say? Her friends either aren’t in her class, or even in her grade. She won’t be able to lay on the floor in class and make toast whenever she wants anymore, and somewhere, I’m going to have to get her a computer and trust her with it. Our school division requires each student have a laptop – something I’m not excited about.

We have fought very hard this year. There have been good days, and not quite as good, but at the end of each and everyone of them, I’m glad and very thankful, that I’ve been given the opportunity to fight.

The toughest part now? Dealing with the demons…………….

August 20, 2015 0

The Walnut

The bowl of nuts every Christmas sits by the fireplace. The nuts are not the kind you get from a little tin with the metal tab that you peel back. The nuts in this bowl are carefully hand picked by my dad, making sure they’re all in tact. There’s a wide assortment of Hazelnuts, Brazil Nuts, Cashews, Filberts and Walnuts, all still in the shell needing to be cracked open. Next to the dish, there’s a small metal nutcracker, with a little metal tool used to dig the small bits out of the nooks and crannies of the shell.

I was really never any good at getting the nut out of the shell with those small little crackers. I didn’t ever get why we couldn’t get the tin, but my dad really enjoyed cracking open those nuts – and he was good at it. I remember watching and thinking, “He doesn’t even get any pieces anywhere. They just pop open for him.”

I remember going in to a store one time and seeing a big huge Nutcracker – the kind with the lever on the back of the head. Seems like a monstrous tool for such a small item, but have you ever tried to crack a nut? If you’re not careful and don’t do it right, it can make a really huge mess, and even break the nutcracker itself. It might seem like a very small problem – crack the nut – get the goodies out of the shell but if it’s not done right you have just more of a mess on your hands. I’m pretty sure at some point my brother tried using a hammer, and I’m sure there’s a story somewhere about a dented table or floor because of it. The point being – a small nut can seem really hard to crack, and the large tools can seem unnecessary, but really might be needed to do it right.

This last week we took another trip to the hospital, not for my daughter this time, but for another family member. It seemed so unnecessary. “Can’t we just talk about this? Tell us what’s up and we’ll help you fix it”, but mental health doesn’t work that way, and I’ve learned our youth don’t trust us and don’t feel safe sharing.

Why don’t they trust us? Why can’t they share? What have our generation, and the ones before us done to loose the trust of youth today? And even more importantly, why are there so many, many hurting, angry, beaten and broken teens?

I don’t have answers to any of these questions. I’m as perplexed as the next person, and watch as lives disappear due to a dark moment intensified by intoxication, or being high, taking away the inhibitions that could be that small little piece keeping them from ending it all. It’s so senseless.

Talk to your children every day, and not from the other room, or while you’re working at something else. Look them in the eye, ask them how life is. Talk about issues like drugs, alcohol and sexuality. Put on your big girl panties and be prepared to calmly answer some tough questions (even when you’re freaking on the inside), and if you don’t have the answers, find a safe place to get them, and then follow up. Who will your child go to when they’re in trouble? Do you know? I’d be willing to guarantee that it won’t be you – at least not at first. Learn to be ok with that, because it is what it is. Just make sure, that they have a “go to” adult to use as a support. A pier is not the right answer. It needs to be someone that has their life at least a little together, and has some life experience.

“Not my kid”. Don’t kid yourself. I said that over and over, and I can’t write about some of the things we’ve been through. Maybe it seems like a huge sledgehammer for a small walnut, but like those hard shells, our teenagers are no different. The tools are there – use them – and don’t be ashamed. At the end of the day, the only thing that matters, is that we have them to hug and hold as long as we possibly can.

As my friends son said to her, “life is a roller coaster mom – lots of twists and turns along the way”. Eventually we’ll get there. Stick together and hang on for all you’re worth.

August 15, 2015 0

Not This Time

It could have happened, many times. There were plans and notes. We went through 5 different attempts, and not one succeeded. There were escalations – but nothing ended in tragedy. I have watched all 3 of my children suffer with depression, go through bullying, battle with poor self image, and yet somehow we have come through on the other side.

Today, a family in our community didn’t come through the other side. For some reason, what ever was going on, was just too much, and an intercession didn’t happen soon enough to help. Why us? How did I get so fortunate? I don’t think there’s an answer.

When we were in the days at the hospital, I remember talking to the Dr.’s and nurses, and asking if anyone ever succeeded at an attempt while there. I was told that twice kids had succeeded. Last week, there was one more success. It breaks my heart to think of what that family must be going through. I hugged my daughter a little tighter all week.

Over the last year, I have seen countless numbers of kids struggling with gender and sexual identity. I’ve learned words I didn’t even know existed. Bi Gender, Pan Gender, Trans Gender, Trans Sexual, Pan Sexual, Omni Sexual, Bi Sexual, A Sexual- I don’t even remember talking about that kind of stuff when I was a teen. I know there were and are many reasons that this topic isn’t talked about, but why the pressure to be defined in one category at such a young age? I’ve seen countless girls victims of sexual assault or mental and physical abuse, that are now afraid of men, so they feel they must be different. The word “lesbian” isn’t used because of the stigma, but because of the fear, they struggle with thinking they must be different, and it’s not much different for boys.

I’ve met a young girl, so beautiful, that is almost 17, but has already had a heart attack at age 15 from being so thin, and tonight is fighting to get past a drug over dose. Her step dad can’t understand her struggles, so her mom kicked her out and sent her to her grandmas. She’s sad, confused and obviously hurting enough to repeatedly try and take her own life – and there’s so many more like her. I watched a young girl cry out of control at having to eat one pea on her plate. One….small……pea. The terror in her face was unreal, and the pain was so evident, and yet I couldn’t understand where those feelings came from.

We met a boy, gang raped by the foster kids in his house for being gay. What’s the big deal? He’s gay, so why shouldn’t he take it? His parents kicked him out when he was just 12, because they couldn’t take the fact that he didn’t feel like the boy they wanted him to be. Pushed from home to home, the feelings of self hate had him cutting so deep that he ended up bandaged with stiches all over. Button pusher? Yes. But the cries for attention were just so obvious, and when he asked me to take him home I almost cried.

Speechless yet? Feeling shocked? This is the world we live in. Kids don’t get the film we did in grade 5 about what happens when you get fuzz in your special spots, and that having a shower is important. Sex ed for 14 year olds talks about 50 shades of grey, and topics like fisting. Yup – that’s right – fisting. Or even more shocking – double fisting. Don’t know what that is? Find out – I bet you’ll be horrified. Maybe not all teachers are talking about it, but I guarantee you our kids are.

There is a bombardment on our kids of negative, provocative, depressing information. A constant onslaught is hitting them from every direction. When I was that age, the bullying stopped when I got off the bus after school, and didn’t start again till the next day when I got back on the bus. I went home, did chores, homework, helped with dinner, went to lessons, complained about practicing, went to church clubs – I was busy. If someone wanted to bully me, they had to call on the phone, which meant my dad would probably answer, and then the house would probably hear. It just didn’t happen. Yes, I was afraid to go back to school sometimes, but one of the worst bullies was a teacher so being around other kids wasn’t even always the problem.

The onslaught of constant information is 24/7. How do we make it stop? How do we take the pressure off, and change the environment so our kids have a fighting chance? How do we inspire our kids to feel that life is worth it? This is a serious question, and is going to take some serious thought. There have been anti bullying campaigns for ages and I’m not sure they really even work. If they did, would these things really happen? Would kids be taking their lives? Would there be waiting lists for programs with a lot of kids not having any hope of getting help?

When will this insanity stop? We can’t just continue on and not say or do anything. Not this time.

My family is reeling today. 3 tragic deaths in 3 weeks. The ripples of these tragedies go far. We need to do something different. Something has to change.

August 10, 2015 1

My Story

It was 4 months and 4 days after “The Event” that I started blogging. I’m pretty sure I started doing it, because I thought that by sharing, other parents going through the same thing might have a little head start on what they were going to experience. When I wrote my very first small blurb, I was pretty nervous, but it came out fairly quick and easy as it didn’t really have much meat in it. It wasn’t until I actually started writing the beginning of the the events that I really started to feel what was happening.

As I started writing that first piece, I started to cry. At points, I was crying so hard, I was typing by memory because I couldn’t see the screen. I felt almost feverish as I typed, banging out the words as I relived the terror, grief and fear of the different things I had experienced. Before I posted, I read the blog through, making sure I had not disclosed names, or anything else I thought might reveal sensitive identities or issues. I wanted to really make sure I was ok with what would be in print. I remember one day, reading my words back to myself, curled up in my bed, as the tears poured down my face for 2 straight hours. I was exhausted, weak, and felt broken, but what happened next was pretty surprising, and quite unexpected. I wasn’t upset anymore. I was done. No feeling, no more tears, no extreme fear – I was done. By being open with myself, and perhaps others I dealt with the trauma and it was gone.

About a month ago, my daughter and I decided to have a girls night. We made popcorn, got our favorite beverage ready along with some fresh fruit, and picked a movie to watch on tv. We usually pick our favorite essential oil to diffuse to add a beautiful atmosphere, and that night was no different. About 20 minutes in, both of us fell asleep. One and a half hours later, I woke up, and realizing what had happened, got her to bed and then followed suit quite quickly. The next morning, she came upstairs and asked how I slept. “Not well, I had really bad dreams.” “Me too. What were your dreams about?” “I dreamed about one of the escalations that happened at the hospital.” “No way!!! No way!!! Really? I did too, just my dream was my side of it.” We both dreamed about the same event, through the entire night. The amazing thing? Since then, that night is no longer frightening and I have a hard time even thinking about it. It’s gone. Done. Over. It’s no longer part of my life – just part of the story.

Over the last month, as my daughter has been digging deeper in to the issues that hurt and continue to haunt her, my own truths have been rising to the surface. Perhaps the topics and feelings are too reminiscent of my own, or perhaps its being in so many different counseling sessions, but I’m being forced to think about pieces of my past that I’m not comfortable re-living. I have learned that through merely writing my words in a blog, I can speak the past, and the pain disappears, but when faced with dealing with my own demons, I become weak, scared, and the anxiety overwhelms me. I’m a thankful person, and know I’m blessed in many ways, but there are also things I can’t ignore.

I was molested by a neighborhood girl when I was in elementary school. I was tormented as I grew up about my body by people I should have been able to trust, and I struggle every day with feelings of inadequacy – that my value as a person is based on what my body looks like. When I see these people as an adult, I’m still paralyzed as I was when I was a child. I was verbally abused by a teacher at school, and mentally over and over again in a bad relationship until all I could think of was letting go of the steering wheel and having it all be over. I don’t want to hear about laying it at God’s feet and He’ll just take it away. I don’t believe that – and I’ve never seen evidence of it. I don’t want to go to more counselors, because they just want to talk about my daughter. Talking to sympathetic people means hearing how I should just get over it, and empathetic people want to sit and feel bad together, which I’m not in to either. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself, and I certainly don’t want others to feel sorry for me either. How can I feel so strong most days, and still be struggling with the same things? I would really love, to JUST….BE….OVER IT. Absolutely….. all of it.

You can walk on splinters and get where you’re going, but you’re feet will still be infected. I’m strong, and I know I’ll get where I’m going, no matter what, but the splinters are festering, and the blisters are rising to the surface. I’m just not quite sure what it will take for me to heal.

August 1, 2015 0

Check-In’s

Part of any program, is a mandatory family meeting held usually every second week, with the counselor, or in this case, counselors involved with your child. Family can mean anything really, but on this journey, it’s just me and my daughter. Basically we go to a meeting, in a sound proof room. We strategically set up enough of the many chairs in the room that everyone has a seat in close proximity, but so that no one really has to look at anyone in the eye, except the main counselor or leader. You know that saying, “Never look a gorilla straight in the eye”? Well, there’s a reason for that. We’re given a topic ahead of time, so each person has time to think, and to try and avoid any big surprises – but there’s always a surprise. Typically I sit, look calm, try to stay comfortable and not look awkward, and keep my expressions neutral so not to reveal what I’m really thinking as I listen to the answers.

“So let’s start by asking the regular questions, are you ready?”

“Yup”.

“So. How’s your mood?”

“Same.”

“yup, seems pretty good to me. I’d agree”.

“And sleep. How’s that going for you. Are you sleeping ok?”

“Yup. Pretty much.”

“If she get’s to bed. Getting to bed is impossible”

“Ok. Thoughts about suicide?”

“About the same.”

“So…..3 or 4?”

“Nah, probably 4 or 5?”

“Wait, that’s not the same. Last time it was 3 or 4, not 4 or 5. Really?”

“Ok, how about your eating? Are you eating?”

“I’m trying. If I can get the food to my mouth, and actually in my mouth, I realize I’m kind of hungry, but I can’t handle the thought of food otherwise. Sometimes I actually feel sick, and then I force myself to eat something. I eat fruit. And I hold my breath while I eat other stuff.”

“Why do you hold your breath?”

“So I don’t have to think about it being in my mouth. I don’t want to taste it – it grosses me out.”

” I knew it! I knew it! One day after our spot at the eating disorder program expires. I knew it. I thought I noticed changes again……………i feel fat.”

“How about self harm? I know your mom knows you self-harmed last night.”

“Yup”

“And when did that happen?”

“During the night”

“And what did you use?”

“An old razor”

“Really? Where is she getting this stuff? That’s it – I’m searching the room. Next time she’s out. I’m going through every inch. She’s probably booby trapped everything…”

“Where did you get the razor? Did you wake up, see it and use it, or did you wake up and decide to self harm, so look for something to use?”

“I woke up and decided. I knew I had it in a junk drawer.”

“She doesn’t have a junk drawer. She re-cleans her room every week.”

“Can you tell your mom where you cut?”

“Always the same. Always on the legs.”

“NO! Why does she have to know?”

“She’s covering her chest. She carved her chest. She’s covering it while she answers the question. Dear God, this time it was her chest.”

“Ok. You don’t have to say. We just thought…..”

“No.”

“It’s hot in here. I need to take my shoes off. I wonder if they’d notice. I’m taking my shoes off. Be discreet. They’ll never know. I need water.”

No matter how many check in’s we have, for some reason, I always expect the answers to be the same as the ones in my head, and I’m always surprised on at least one of the answers when it’s not. I have gut instincts, but it’s gotten to the point where I’m so tired I don’t even know what is paranoia, and what I really need to step back and listen to. I’m constantly at war with myself and it’s exhausting.

For now? Trust the programming, keep communication channels open, stay close to the gorilla and watch carefully, and earn trust just a little at a time. At some point……well, we will get past this.

July 31, 2015 0