routerecalculation

I sit in a room. The walls are a newly painted pale green – peaceful and refreshing. In the window sits a bamboo tree, and a tiny stone Buddha hangs in the window as a symbol of peace. A straw heart with a red ribbon hangs on the wall. There’s a wooden end table with a large old lamp on it to light the room at night. . The window is set at the angle so the bright sunshine can stream through the window throughout the day.

Below me is my daughters room. I can hear the canter of her voice on the phone. There’s an odd chuckle, here and there. I know she’s on the kids help line. She’s been struggling, and won’t talk to me about the details, whatever they may be. I know the outline of the story, but it’s the details that are eating her up from the inside out.

The cutting has stopped, for now, but she’s getting thinner again which is just a different type of self harm. Her birthday dinner was 4 of us sitting at the table talking, and her sitting in the corner of the booth crying and wanting to return to the hospital. “No, I won’t take you back there. I will not sit in a cold room for 9 hours only to hear it’s all in your head. We know what this is from.” “Please, just stop the pain”, she cried. It was a difficult evening.

Today I feel as if my heart is a little bit broken. I’m doing my best to stay cheery, but it’s been more difficult this week. I know it’s wearing on my boys, my fiance, and my family, which wears on me even more. I find myself apologizing for just trying to to be a good mom. I lack the energy to stand up and do.the things that need to be done. Maybe a little cry would do some good.

There is a time when you hold your baby, and you look in to their eyes and promise them you’ll never let anything hurt them. Unfortunately it’s a promise we can’t keep. Somewhere along the lines things just fell apart a little. The puzzle box fell and some of the pieces got lost. Every once in awhile I find one, but the is still the missing few rhat keep me from putting things back together.

I have no reason to be sad – I know that. All 3 of my children are alive, and are, at this moment, not in iminemt danger, and yet something just doesn’t feel right. I can’t quite put.my finger on it, but my spirit is bothered.

The call is over, and the house is quiet. My job today will be to try and fill these walls with sunshine and somehow change the energy. One step at a time. One bit at a time.

To stay in one spot is to drown. If I want to go somewhere different I must swim, so swim I shall. I’m not a great swimmer and definitely no fast, but I can swim, as long as I know there’s an edge. I don’t really like the water, never have, but we don’t always get to choose where we are.

Time to jump in the water once again.

I grew up in a Mennonite home. Our family was based on hard work, kindness, following the rules, telling the truth, and a Christ based faith. There was always room at the table for one more. My dad would have given the shirt off his back for anyone. My mom was a little on the wild side (at least compared to the rest of us), so there was always time for a celebration or some kind of party. We had chores, and I think my first job was selling Regal door to door when I was 7. We went to church Tuesday nights for family night, Friday nights for Youth, Sunday mornings for Sunday School and Service and Sunday nights as well – we never missed. It was unacceptable to be in God’s house poorly dressed so we always had our Sunday best on, and once we were older, if we were well behaved, we could sit with our friends on Sunday night in the balcony. Our pew was second from the front on the lh side, and we’d better not be late or everyone would know.

It was a different world back then. No cell phones or computers, pretty much no electronic technology of any kind. If you wanted to communicate you had to use a telephone, write a letter, or wait till you saw the person next. Girls were girls, boys were boys, and those who didn’t fit in had to hide for fear of unacceptance and ridicule. Bullying was face to face, and as I remember it, was harsh and unforgiving. Fit in or be left out. Don’t be too fat or too thin, too tall or too short, too strict, too straight….the list went on and on with descriptive words to judge and describe you and whatever the world thought of you.

So much has changed – some for the good, and definitely some for the bad. With the invention of electronics, you know longer have to get up the courage to speak to someone face to face. Bullying happens 24/7 with the ability to challenge someone in an instant.

Lives can be threatened and changed in the blink of an eye, with no realization of consequence. Recently, an old friend of my daughters from her last school, was being cyber bullied. The texts floating around were making fun of her for being gay, a fact everyone has known for some time. The rumor was that she was going to kill herself, and the kids were all laughing and thought it was funny. My daughter found out and was horrified. While other kids were laughing, she was ensuring the safety and security of a girl she completely accepts as her friend, a person, and a valuable human being. At my daughters current school (ADTP) they are given the opportunity to introduce themselves using descriptive words so others know how to address them and so there is no opportunity to be confused about who they are. This was quite puzzling to me at first. I always thought we were given a name and that’s what we use, but no so here. In her school you have kids struggling with gender identity, kids who have been abused and mistreated by their own families, kids who have no families, and kids who are.just plain struggling. I’m sure.it’s the same as anywhere, but here they are welcomed and embraced. Piercings, tattoos, colored hair, different clothes – it just doesn’t matter, and when then say no bullying, they mean it. Even the kids hold each other accountable. There is no bullying. They can say “I prefer to be addressed as he, she, they….I’m male, female, bi-gender, trans-gender, pan-gender…..I have an eating disorder so I’m in the bathroom a lot because I can’t poop…..I have hyper sensitive hearing so I wear huge headphones all the time – I’m not being rude I’m just scared. The list goes on, and they truly understand and accept each other. They actually all really love each other. Can you imagine if we had the freedom of that in our every day lives? No judgement for your identity and what makes the you that people see? I know I’ve thought of this in different ways in the past. When filling out forms I resent having to fit in to a “divorced” column because I don’t think that moment should define my life. I don’t check Mrs. because I’m not, but Ms. has a negative connotation. I don’t like my last name because it’s not really mine, I kept it because at the time it was important to my kids and now it’s not. I’m a female, and won’t judge you, no matter what you are, even if the church and religion don’t agree. I eat sometimes because I’m sad. My house is messy because I’m over whelmed and tired. What are my descriptive words and how do I like to be addressed? How do i think of myself? What should you expect? It really made me think. Female, she, kind, caring, determined, spontaneous, hard-working, passionate, soft, old-fashioned, silly, changed….that’s a pretty good start. Can you imagine the freedom on your psyche if we could all just be who we are? How would you descride yourself if given a chance, knowing there would be no ridicule?

The day after any escalation is always unnerving, to say the least. You never really know what the mood.will be like, and you’re never quite sure if you should say anything or pretend it didn’t happen.

“Are you going to call the Dr and tell them what happened?”
“Yes”
“Are you going to tell them who I was texting?”
“I haven’t decided that yet”
“You know I’ll get suspended if you do”.
“You’re not going to get suspended for sending a text. That’s not what I’m upset about. I’m upset that you self medicated without telling me.”
“I’ve had higher prescriptions than what I took.”
“That’s not the point. The police almost kicked down our door because you took extra “sleepy pills”. Your actions deeply affected your brother, myself and a co-patient. You didn’t even ask to take more. That is the problem.“
“Nope. I’m going to get in trouble. I’ve already had a warning. Can’t you just punish me on my own? Can’t we just figure it out? I don’t see what the big deal is. I thought you’d be proud of me. This isn’t my fault. It’s not my fault. You should just be glad I’m alive”.

It’s at times.like these that I have a hard time not laughing. Not because it’s funny haha, but mostly because it’s amazing how once you know about the disconnect between the front and rear parts of the brain in adolescents, the more it shows. How many times have you muttered or thought “How stupid can they be?” Really be honest. Now match what they do with the information that kids don’t have that connect between actions and consequence. “It’s not my fault. I didn’t mean for this to happen”. That statement now makes perfect sense. Of course they don’t mean it to happen. No one ever means for something to go wrong. It absolutely never dawned on my daughter that saying, “I’ve taken lots of sleepy pills. I’m tired, goodnight”, to another mental health patient would result in what it did.

I got the call at 830 am.
“Hello, this is the counselor. We got the message – what happened?”
I began to explain the events of the night before.
“Can you tell me who she texted? Was it a current of former patient?”
“Well……”
“I know you or your daughter doesn’t want to say, but it’s important we know. There are rules for reasons but we can always discuss things”.
I didn’t tell the name, but it didn’t matter. They knew who it was.

I received another call at 1130am.
“Hi there, sorry to bother you, but we need you to come right away.”
“I can’t, I’m at work and in charge today.”
“We need you to come and youll need to take her with you when we’re done.”
“But I’m at work. She’d have to sit here. I can try and find someone to cover me for a few hours but that’s the most”.
“We will work with that”.

My mind was racing. What was going to happen? Are they kicking her out? She’s not suicidal – far from. The context of the text was innocent – it just went bad. Surely they weren’t going to kick her out of the program – I’d be hooped.

When I got to ADTP, I sat with the Dr and the counselor to explain what had transpired the night before. I was concerned about the medication piece. They were upset by the communication. They sent for my daughter and we had a discussion.

“We have 3 things to discuss. First, you know what you did last night was wrong. You’ve already had a warning.”
She nodded her head.
“We are sending you on a reflection (the positive word for suspension) until next Wednesday. You will have pages to complete that need to be brought back. You’ll have a private counseling session Tuesday morning but will not be able to be part of the program until Wednesday when you come back. Rules are rules. The same for everyone here.”
“I understand, it just sucks. It was the first time we had talked since we were warned. ”
“Secondly, we have decided to keep you in program longer – at least till June. Due to the circumstances and everything you’re dealing with, we think it would be beneficial”
“Awesome. That’s awesome. That will be great.”
“Third, there’s a new program starting, and I don’t even know what it’s called yet. There is room for 12 kids, and we’ll be holding a spot for you. It will last 6 months to a year. It’s lead by a Dr here, and she knows the details better than we do so we’ll talk about it down the road a little. ”
“Wow. That’s incredible.”

The rest of the meeting went well. I had to take her back with me, so we chatted for a few more moments while she got her things together, including an “I’m sorry I called the cops on you” cake. We actually had a good laugh about that, because although it may seem horrible, sometimes you just have to laugh.

On the spot we invented a company that would make cakes for akward occasions. My daughters passion and weakness is cake, so her friends bought her one. We started making up slogans like, “Sorry you cut…..”, and many others that were inappropriately funny. The psychiatrist, counselor, and I all had a good laugh, knowing full well the underlying seriousness of it all.

“See you on Wednesday”

Every evening, usually between 10 and 11, I get my jammies on, get a glass of some kind of liquid, and sit myself down in my chair in the living room. It’s usually the time of night when it’s quiet, and I’m not really ready for bed. I usually fall asleep, and wake up a short time later to stumble off to my bed. Not a great routine, buts it’s how it works for me.

“BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG,BANG.”
“What the heck was that? What’s going on? Where is my son? Help. I need help. Who’s there? What’s going on? Who is banging on my door? At this hour? What’s going on?”

I tell you right now. That is one of the worst ways in the world to finish a hard day. As I peeked through the window, trying to keep my knees from buckling, I saw two RCMP outside my front door. Quick thoughts ran through my head. “Did I park wrong? Why are there cops at my door. Those boys! Now what have they done?!” None of the thoughts made any sense, but it’s funny to recall what goes through your mind in a stressful situation.

I opened the door, and stood there now very awake in my nightgown in front of two extremely tall officers.

“Hi, hello?”
“Is this the ____ residence? Are you ____?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Is your daughter here?”

OMG! Now what. What can this possibly be about!

“Yes, she’s sleeping.”
“Can we speak to her please?”
“Um mm, no. She’s sleeping.”
“We need to speak to her now.”
“Ok, but she’s in bed sleeping. I’d have to wake her up.”
“You don’t understand. There’s been a text sent that she’s taken sleeping pills. When was the last time she had her phone?”

I’m not quite sure what happened next, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never run a set of stairs that fast before. We have a routine that electronics get turned off and turned in before bed. Things seemed to be going well, and the time had gotten later throughout the week, but I also knew the phone had been turned in for the night. I ran in to my daughters room and say her there, face down in her pillow.

“Wake up, wake up. You’ve got to wake up.”
“Huh, what? I’m sleeping. Don’t bug me.”
“Did you take more sleeping pills?”
“I always take sleeping pills. It’s not my fault. I didn’t do it.”

She was half asleep, talking sense and gibberish all at the same time. I could wake her, kind of. That must be a good thing. She hasn’t been suicidal in awhile. Why now?

“Wake up. I need you to listen to me.”
“Leave me alone. What are you doing ?”
“Did you send a text to anyone saying you’d taken lots of sleepy pills?”

I don’t think I really waited for the answer. I ran upstairs and grabbed the phone, turned it on and ran back down to her room.

“You changed your password. Unlock the phone.”
“No, leave me alone! Fine. Here. ”

I ran back up to the police and gave them the phone. I also told them I had woken her. They weren’t satisfied with that.

“We’d like to see her if possible. Do you mind? Can we go in her room? We need to see her face.”
“Yes, sure. Whatever you need.”

We proceeded to the basement. My son was now awake, asking what was going on. One officer stayed with him asking questions, and the other came with me. In the back ground I could hear, but also had to pay attention to what was happening hwith my daughter. By this time she was starting to wake up. She opened her eyes and saw an RCMP officer standing in her room. He was searching through her phone, looking for messages that would shed light on the situation. She pulled the blanket over her head. What could be worse for a teenage girl then to have a stranger standing over your bed, and you have messy hair, no makeup and pajamas on?!

“We need to see your face. Did you take extra sleeping pills?”
“Fine. See. I only took 1 extra. That’s still less then I’ve been prescribed before.”
“Why?”
“I just wanted to sleep. I don’t sleep well. It’s been a crappy day. I just wanted to sleep.”

“Is this true? How much does she usually take?”
“She usually takes 50mg. One extra would near 75 mg. She’s been prescribed 100 before, we’ve been dropping it down”.
“Who gives her the meds? Do you have them locked away? Is there alcohol on the premises?”
“We both do it. They’re locked away now. There’s one beer in the fridge – it belongs to my son. We aren’t allowed alcohol in the house during this time. It was for the game and is still there.”
“We’ve done some research. There’s a history of mental health? You’re her mom right? Are you divorced? Where is her dad? Will you be watching her? How long will you watch her for? Why was today so bad? Will you tell her Dr’s about this? ”

The questions went on for a bit. After all were answered, and they felt satisfied that she was under good care and was ok. I shut the door behind them, still shaking from the adrenaline pumping through my veins, and went to her room.

“I saw the messages. I know you didn’t mean anything by what you said, but do you understand why you can’t send messages like that? To text another patient that you’re taking “lots of sleepy pills, goodnight”, and then not be able to answer her concerns is going to cause alarm. She did the right thing by calling the police. We’re going to call her now so she can see everything is ok.“

We made the call, and there was a very shaken girl on the other end. We assured her everything was ok, and then I told them they both needed to go to bed and get some rest.

None of us slept well the rest of the night. I continued checking in every 15 minutes till 230 and then not as often. My son and I talked for a bit to try and come down from the fright of it all. My daughter tossed and turned which brought me relief. At least she was alive. I had to believe she hadn’t taken more then she said. I looked at her and debated calling an ambulance, but I knew deep down this wasn’t a suicide attempt. I had to trust this time.

“Hello, I know you’re not open now, but I need to speak to the Dr first thing in the morning. Here is my work and personal number. We’ve had an incident tonight that we need to discuss. Please call me first thing in the morning.”

“Hello, Kerry?” Are you somewhere you can talk?“
“Just give me a moment……Ok, I’m ready.”

Ready. I don’t know if a person is ever really ready for what they will hear from a mental health Dr. Ready to hear things are worse than you thought? Dr’s don’t call for appointments. They only call when things are getting more serious. Deep breath in……I’m ready as I’ll ever be.

“I just finished a 3 hour therapy session with your daughter.”
“3 hours. That’s a long time”
“I feel we’re finally starting to deal with things that have been hidden all this time. I want you to know we’ve got this. That said, I also want you to know things could get a lot worse before they get better.”
“Ok. Can I ask a few questions?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“You’ve told me to trust what I see. Lately I’ve noticed she’s not eating much and seems to rapidly be getting thinner. Im noticing bruising again. Am I right? I don’t need to know the number. I just need to know if I’m right.”
“Yes actually, we’re trying to find her some food right now. She hasn’t been eating except the meal when she’s with you. She has lost weight, and although it’s not dangerous yet, it can happen very quickly. I’m asking you to have healthy nutritious food available for her to eat. Financial issues have been noted but she needs good choices. ”
“Ok. I’ve noticed the long sleeves and long loose clothes again. I know she’s cutting, and it’s becoming more frequent. She’s finally at the point of telling.me, but I can t see it. How do I know if it’s being taken care of properly if I’m not allowed to look? How do I trust her that she knows if it’s too bad or needs to be looked at by a Dr or nurse?”
“We’ve given her the supplies and taught her how to take care and clean the wounds. I know this is hard for you but you have to trust her. She won’t tell you at all if you make a fuss. Like I said, you’ll need to prepare yourself. Thangs will get worse as we get deeper in to the therapy.”

Prepare myself. Things will get worse. Worse than what exactly? Worse than seeing the head to toe bruises of a starving, malnourished teenager? Worse than seeing her in the corner in the fetal position, shaking and sobbing? Worse than wondering if she’s going to jump from the car while you rush to the hospital, trying to avoid lights so the car doesn’t slow down? Worse than the.midnight escalation calls? Worse than standing at the side of the river, shaking your fist at God? How much worse are we talking?

“Are we going to be in the hospital again?”
“Not yet, but we’re almost there. We’re watching closely. We don’t feel she’s at risk for suicide, but that’s not the only reason she could be unsafe. Things can change so quickly.”
“Ok.”

“How are you? Are you ok? Is there anything we can do for you? I know this is really hard.”

……………silence…………

“Um, no. I mean yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking. I don’t really know what to say. I’ll be fine. It’s all good. One day at a time, right?”
“Well you’ve certainly been through a lot. Let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”

That’s the hardest part of this all. And as harsh as it sounds, there is really nothing anyone can actually do. Maybe because most the time I don’t know what I’m dealing with. The odd person has brought a meal, which was wonderful. I’ve had various blessings along the way to keep me afloat, but we’re still on the raft.

This has been like bagging your own groceries, but the clerk won’t slow down or turn off the conveyor belt. You’re taking care to protect the precious items that you just spent time picking and paying for. At first it’s easy because the bags are empty, but as the items keep coming, space starts running out and the bags are getting full. You hit the stop button but it doesn’t work. “EEEK, I need more bags! I need more time!” “That’s 4 cents a bag ma’am. How many do you need?” “I don’t know. Here’s a nickel. One will do.” Then that stupid roast you bought comes towards you and takes up the entire bag you just bought. Worse, you have no more nickels, and when you look up everyone is staring at you. The clerk is holding more bags and lifting her eyebrows. The lady behind you is rolling her eyes like you’re a grocery novice. People walk past and shake their heads. “I need to reorganize. It wasnt supposed to be like this. Forget it. This is ridiculous.” You quickly sweep everything up and just put it all in your cart, smiling at everyone like this is all normal. Nothing to see here, move along. You walk to your car slowly, being thankful that today youre not pushing the cart through slush.

No bags left. No room. Hopefully nothing spills out

I don’t even know where to start, or what to say. Just when Ithink I’ve reached my limit, another heaping spoonful gets dumped on my plate.

I started blogging to share what I’ve gone through in hopes of helping other families learn what is available, and perhaps to let others know they’re not alone. I have received feedback of all kinds, and am always surprised to find out anyone even reads these posts. I have had the very people I thought would be beside me abandon me and disappear, and I’ve had unexpected blessings from near and total strangers. Quite quickly blogging turned in to a sort of self therapy, freeing my mind and spirit of experiences and helping me move on. At times the results have been very heavy, affecting those closest to me to a point of where I felt I had to stop before relationships crumbled and were lost. And today, all I can do is throw my hands up in the air and say “ Dear God, what next??!!”

I am exhausted. Completely spent. My mind is so full of things to share and yet it’s coming at me so fast I’m drowning. I don’t know what I’d do without my wonderful fiance. I would have left me a long time ago, but he’s so calm and patient. His wisdom and ability to stay calm mean so very much to me . I’d be lost without him. He is my voice of reason in the darkness.

What amazes me so much is the gross disconnect in the system. I just don’t understand how all of these services are so hidden, and why even the “mental health specialists” at schools know nothing about what to do in a crisis. I mean nothing. I spoke with my daughter’s principle today and he said they had no idea of programs and help available. If it’s such an epidemic, how does that even happen? Is no one trained?

I’m so tired of hearing the current question of the day. “What are you doing for yourself? For self care?” “We’re worried about you”. Are you kidding me? I’m dealing with 4 kids right now all struggling. I have a business to run that I need to be at to try and pay some of my bills. I come home and throw a pathetic dinner together and fall asleep on my couch late at night. My dishwasher has been broken for a year, so imy peaceful time is standing at the sink washing dishes. I just did laundry for the first time in 2 weeks. Thank goodness my kids do their own. On the opposite side I just don’t sleep, then show up at work like a zombie, trying to care for the 24 employees I have that count on me to be an example for them, and listen to them, and guide them through a very difficult high needs job. I run constantly to Dr. appointments, family counseling appointments, taxing kids from one place to the next.

My fiance and I spent a weekend together November 2013. We have seen eachother for only a few hours, maybe once a week in the last 9 months. We haven’t even talked about wedding plans. You’d have to actually be able to grow a relationship to make that happen. All I have wanted to do for the last year is go to Banff or Seattle and just spend some time together, talk a little, but there is no chance of that in sight. How do you leave constant crisis?

I have wanted my daughter to confide in me for months. I heard the words tonight, and I had no clue how to respond, because there is no correct way. If I say nothing, I lose. If I say too much, I lose even more. I get to be a parent bystander, just watching this crazy life unfold. Today I actually put my head in my hands, and thought, “what horrible thing did I do in my past to cause all of this? Is it my fault? Was it my divorce? Lack of finances?” During a recent counseling session they asked me, “Are finances an issue? ” I looked stunned, and my daughter laughed. “They’ve always been an issue”, she said. “Hmmm. I see” , the counselor said. “WHAT THE HECK?! Are you kidding me? What about single mom with no support don’t you understand? How do I bleed a stone? I didn’t luck out and hit the mother payload with an X floating in cash. Quite the opposite” All of those words run through my mind, and I instead calmly say, “ yes. Money is as challenge”. “Has it always been that way?” “Good grief!”.

Where do I go from here? How do I get out of the middle of this quick sand? I have no clue, but I know I will. I always somehow manage to work my way out, and I know although I’m up past my neck, I will squirm my way out. Some how. Some way. I will do this. We will survive.

People should know. They just have to. It just shouldn’t be this hard.

“I’m so glad I don’t have a cell phone!”

That was the story 3 months ago. When you’re in the hospital, all electronic devices are restricted, and even on visits I didn’t allow any electronic communication. I remember my daughter watching other kids and being amazed by the distraction. “Not me. I’m never going to be like that again.”

Our children have become walking zombies. Glazed eyes, staring at screens, walking straight in to walls and having lost all sense of time and direction because they’re memorized by the screen. I’ve seen parents with babies as little as 1 giving them screens to start learning on. God forbid we should have to take a car ride and talk to each other. Instantly the ear buds go in because no one can agree to the music in my car and have a conversation? No way.

On the weekend we had a family gathering for my sister in laws birthday. There were 14 of us, and who was the worst electronic offender? My daughter. We have a no technology after 9pm policy, but due to my lack of policing, the rules haven’t been as strictly followed. The longer we’ve been away from hospital, the easier it’s been to fall in to the old route – something I have to fight from happening. I was so angry. To see her face stuck to her phone, texting with conversations outside of that room had me seeing red. She did put it down when asked, but I realized we may have a problem starting again.

Last night was no different. I called down the stairs stating it’s time for bedtime routine. “ Ok mom, just setting out things for tomorrow.” More time went by and I called again. “Yup, just finishing up.” Still moving too slowly, I went down to her room to see what the hold up was, and spontaneously asked for the phone, saying it could charge upstairs, out of the room. She gave it over to me with no quarrel, but when I touched it the phone was warm and battery almost dead. When I remarked, she said “mom, I’m really worried about my friend.” Here she hadn’t been getting ready at all. She had been working with another girl on the phone, texting another co patient to not commit suicide. As soon as I found out, I said “We must call the police before it’s too late.” Knowing the girls mother from my self care group I knew the situation was grim, and in these situations time is of the essence.

Proper precautions were taken, and to the best of my knowledge the police arrived and “talked the girl off the ledge,” so to speak. I took the phone upstairs to charge for the night, and hardly slept a wink. I wanted to check the phone so badly for other things, but didn’t know the password – another mistake I had let happen again. I wanted to make sure the girl was ok. It’s against the rules to communicate outside of program, and it’s even against the rules for parents to talk outside of the groups until your child graduates. What would have hapoened if the girls hadn’t been talking? We were all so scared. The wholé thing was very real.

This morning rules were reset again. Passwords are reset and I know them this time. Communication will be limited again and the phone turned off at 9pm, onve again. Graduation for us is only 5 weeks away, and I’m terrified.

Have a conversation with your kids. Turn off the phones, and that means the adult ones too. If it’s so hard to talk, start with watching a movie or play a game. You’d be amazed at how nice people really are when you get to know them.

I believe this generations emergency is learning how to communicate with people, and our generations responsibility to remember how.

Set the example – they’re always watching.

I’ve been to a lot of counseling and therapy classes over the last year, but I think my favorite was my last care givers support group where we got to have 2 art therapy sessions. I’m not an artist by any means – stick men are my specialty. In high school I was mildly interested in art class, but was told I was meant for music, not drawing, so I didn’t even bother trying.

For some reason, the idea of doing something with art seemed an exciting challenge to me, and for some reason we all thought we’d be doing a family tree project. That wasn’t the case at all. We were put in a large room. With very large pieces of paper. We could use felts, crayons, pastels, chalk or paint. We all sat at our own tables and they turned on soothing music. Then we were given the assignment:

1. Draw a tree to represent you
2. The trunk represents our life, and the top of the tree describes how developed our life is
3. Marks, knots, or holes in the trunk represent trauma or difficult times
4. The roots represent our family history, traditions, and grounding
5. The landscape describes the mood or atmosphere we are planted in
6. Pests and bugs represent problems
7. Animals represent fears
8. Birds or butterflies represent hopes and dreams
9. Branches represent events, triumphs, tragedies, things we are proud of
10. Weather, sky represent current atmosphere or mood
We were given the rest of the night to start the project, and one more night to finish and present our tree to the group, answering any questions.

I’m not sure what came over me, but I found the project tremendously exciting. I sat down at the table, laid out my paper and pastels and began to draw. It was like being suddenly transported to a different world. I was thrilled. The next 40 minutes went so fast and I was really disappointed when the class ended.

For the next two weeks I thought about my tree. I couldn’t wait to finish it, and to my surprise, the other parents were excited too. We all sat down again, and spent another half hour drawing. No one could see what the other was doing, and even the counselors participated. When we were done, we reassembled in the counseling room to present our trees. Some parents got very descriptive and drew trees with words. Some put down colors and didn’t really draw anything that even resembled a tree. Others drew graphs and charts to explain parts of their tree. I took the drawing very literally.

I can’t tell you how therapeutic this was. I would challenge you to get in to a quiet place and try this exercise, uninterrupted. I actually learned so much about myself and the things that have happened to me in my life. As I presented my tree, realizations came to mind that I didn’t even understand while I was drawing. What I really realized is that I have junk I need to deal with that still hurts and could very likely be holding me back in things I want to accomplish.

My tree contained twisted deep roots, knots and broken branches, grass, dirt and ants, squirrels, butterflies and birds held in long, high swaying branches. My sky had daylight and a sunset, and the fruit on my tree was bright and colorful. When all was done, I rolled up my picture and brought it home. Others would look at it and perhaps laugh and not understand, but when I see it, I can feel all the emotion behind the trials and triumphs that have happened all through out my life. To me, it’s a work of art, and what better way to represent life than with art.

I think part of helping others is self discovery, which can be a painful thing, but when you’re ready, it’s beautiful. That’s life.