routerecalculation

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

“Miss” – Communication

Last week I was supposed to be on holidays. I had 12 days I had to use up prior to the end of summer, so I booked a week off to go to the lake. I knew it might be a little complicated because my daughter has been so busy, but I was really looking forward to some down time, and maybe a little normalicy. I had arranged with her program that she could miss 2 days, and just said we’re headed out of town.

The first derailer was unavoidable. We had a family emergency, and my fiance had to head overseas, so I took all the kids. No problem. One more kid in the mix? I’ve done it before, I can do it again. Then we had the school reunion melt down night. After that whole incident, I decided that at least 1 day of program would be necessary to try and straighten things out. The problem came with 2 teens discussing suicide via text. Then one puts her phone away, the other freaks out, and the police are now involved. That was not the best moment and was definitely a very stressful start to the week. We could still potentially have almost 2 days away, and get my daughter back to her job on Friday and Saturday. The next issue came with more appointments, taking up the other days of the week. Oh well. That’s kind of how it works – not going to sweat it.

Thursday came, and my daughter was supposed to be at program. Fairly early, she came up the stairs and said she didn’t have to go. She had texted a counselor and said she was tired, and they said she didn’t have to be there. We were supposed to be on vacation anyways, and I had numerous other appointments, so I was a bit relieved. There was a little voice inside of me saying check the phone, but I dismissed it and went on with the day.

The week passed, and Monday came with work, appointments, cleaning, laundry and all the other fun that goes with a busy family. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I go to work at 6 am, leave at 915 to get her to her program, head back to work, go back to pick her up at about 4, and then back to work to finish off what I missed and put in my time during the day. As I drove to the program, I received a text asking me to come in and touch base when I dropped her off. Sure – I could do that.

“Did you think it was ok for your daughter to miss Thursday?”

“She said the other counselor said it was ok.”

“No, it wasn’t ok and that’s not what he said.”

“I’m sorry – I’ll take responsibility. I didn’t check her phone and just took her word for it. I should have checked.”

“Everyone was asking where she was. It’s not ok to miss as this is part of her therapy.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I should have checked. I did kind of wonder, but we were supposed to be on holidays anyways, and I had a crazy day so I just took her word for it. It won’t happen again.”

“On Thursday we’d like to have a family counseling session and talk about communication. There seems to be a lot of problems with that lately.”

“Yes, I think that would be a good idea. There are things I’d like to discuss around that as well.”

“Ok, Thursday at 4?”

“Sure. Thursday at 4.”

That conversation bugged me the rest of the day. I want to trust my daughter, I really do, but this was putting me in the position of a major trust breach and feeling that she lied to get her way.

“How was your day?”

“Good.”

“How was your testing today?”

“Long. I have a headache.”

“We have a family session on Tuesday.”

“I know – about my “mis-communication. I’m sure I have the text mom. I swear they said I could miss. I don’t understand why I’m in trouble. I swear they said yes.”

“Can I see the text?”

“I’ll read it to you.”

She proceeded to read a conversation to me between herself and a counselor, who had said he preferred she come to program that day, and it’s part of her treatment, but if she felt she needed to rest he was in approval and “by all means you should stay home and rest prior to work tomorrow.” That sounds to me like they said it was ok for her to stay home. We took a screenshot of the conversation, and I sent it to the other therapist. I wanted her to see it prior to our counseling session.

Part of me is relieved. Part of me is saying “whewf. She didn’t lie.” Part of me is saying, “you should have checked the phone! You felt it in your gut, why are you still ignoring that?”. And then a large part of me says, “Here we go again. I can’t believe this. A counselor threw her under the bus, and now we get to have a counseling session and discuss a text. Are the counselors telling each other stories? Why can’t we get this right?”

When we came in to the program, they told us the door was always open in an emergency. An emergency happened, and we were turned away. Bad communication? On who’s part?

We were told go ahead and send a text to reach us. The text was sent, an answer given, and now we’ve been called in. Bad communication again? Our fault?

4 tomorrow. Here we go again.

July 30, 2015 0

John Henry

Forms. Piles and piles of forms. With every program we’ve been through so far, there have been forms, to agree to sign other forms. Forms for release of information. Forms for obtaining information. Forms for medical tests, and forms for the results. Forms for classes, forms for communicating, forms for staying, forms for going…really no end of forms. During an intake to any program, you spend approximately 1 hour at the beginning signing forms, and then usually get presented with many others along the way.

Perhaps it’s my real estate back ground, perhaps it’s having run my own business, or perhaps it’s the fact that I may have trust issues, but when I’m presented with a form, I will read it in full before I put my name on it. I’m pretty sure many people just accept those forms as is, and never really read through, because they’re always shocked when I read. I don’t feel pressure, and I don’t rush, I read thoroughly before I go ahead.

One of the forms I’ve signed, and I’m sure many other parents do, is a sex ed form. Now in every school, there is a sex ed class that they teach that requires approval. The form is pretty generic, and they say some content such as safe sex, STD’s, and basic topics like that. When I was in grade 4, the school nurse gathered all the girls together, and talked to us about getting our monthly. The book, “Are you there God, It’s Me , Margaret” had just been released, and everyone was reading it. We were trying to approach our parents, saying “it” had arrived, and they had no clue what we were talking about. The nurse went in to detail, we were thoroughly grossed out, and very glad when it was all over. In grade 5, the boys and girls had to sit in the same room and watch “the film”. It talked about zits, showering, how boys like girls, and girls like boys, and puberty, and all the gross stuff included in the topic. I remember we were all embarrassed and giggled when the nurse talked about it at the end of the class. We couldn’t wait to be out of there.

As I said, I read and signed a sex ed form for one of the programs my daughter was recently in. It didn’t say anything out of the ordinary, and I knew she was one of the youngest there, but I was not prepared for the conversation that followed.

“We talked about all the stuff from 50 shades of grey and that kind of thing.”

“Oh, really? And how did you feel about that?”

“Well, they described why S&M and all that stuff is dangerous. That no means no.”

“Ok, well, that’s good. Anything you have questions about?”

“No. We had a chance to ask questions, and were all really embarrassed, so, like one of the guys, who’s really good with accents and stuff, read the questions like this….(English accent) teacher, when you fist…)

“When you what?”

“You know, fist. Don’t you know what that is?”

“No?! What is it?”

The description came and I slammed on my brakes. My car came to a screeching halt in the middle of a residential street, and my head thrust forward and almost hit my steering wheel. I couldn’t believe my ears! And double fisting? That’s really possible? My jaw was literally hanging open, eyes wide, in complete utter shock.

“What?! Are you kidding me? That’s what you’re discussing? That’s what I said yes to? I can’t even believe that’s possible?! What the heck?!!”

Now I might be a little old fashioned, but really? Is that necessary? I’d just like to thank El James for opening up a pile of garbage that we now get to explain to our kids. This is what we get to compare real life to. Our kids don’t come home and ask about “it”. They get to come home and think about being bound and gagged, or beaten, and wonder if that’s normal.

Had I known that those were the topics my child would be exposed to, I would have thought long and hard, and definitely asked more questions, before signing that form. It’s not that I’m opposed to knowledge, but do we really have to know everything? I really don’t think so. My life was perfectly fine without ever knowing the terms I’ve learned.

I don’t think everything has to be defined. I don’t think all knowledge has to be known by all. I don’t have to experience everything to know my life is great as it is. I can really take my own experience and standards and filter how far I want to go. I have a choice – it’s called free will – the ability to choose and say yes or no. I also have a little life experience that allows me to sit in a room and know when things are going to far, or when the content I’m being exposed to is getting to be too much. When our kids sit in a classroom and are taught, they are expected to stay, listen and learn. They become victims of the opinions and potential values of the person at the head of the class. I am not against learning, but do they have to know everything all at once?

July 27, 2015 0

Hospital Hangover

“Don’t worry, we won’t forget about you. You can sit in the room on the left.”

Probably the most frustrating words you can hear, as you look at the wait time on the clock. 1:54. Really? It’s after midnight, and I have to wait 1 hour and 54 minutes to see a Dr. I hate the hospital. Hard plastic chairs. Cold, white walls. Harsh, florescent lighting. ” I can’t even believe I’m here again, let alone waiting – yet again.”

I had been at my high school reunion on the opposite side of the city, meeting with people I hadn’t seen in 30 years. The night was supposed to be great. My daughter had arranged a sleepover with her dad – probably not my first choice but still safe and dependable. Having her taken care of meant that I could let my hair down a little, and maybe even have a drink. My fiance and I made the trek across town, and joined in the celebration. He was the DD, so I decided one drink would be ok. I sat with old friends, and had a chance to laugh a little, and have some fun.

Truthfully, it was all really overwhelming. I found myself at one point, with my back literally against the wall, breathing hard and wishing I could be alone. The people, the noise – not something I was used to, however, I managed to distract myself and have some fun. We decided to leave a little early, and no sooner do we get to the car……..

“Mom, my friend called the cops on me again. I don’t know what to do.”

“What? Why? Why would she do that? Phone her and tell her to call them back.”

Electronic devices and social media are probably one of the most dangerous tools our kids have today. They do not have the capability to stop and think prior to posting, and consequence just doesn’t cross their mind. When I was 14, my dad gave me a dime in my pocket, and always let me know that I could call him and he’d be wherever I needed him in the moment. No matter what. I knew, that if I was in trouble, I could reach out to him, and he’d be there. Nowadays, kids have anyone they want to talk to at their fingertips, and unfortunately, misery loves company. “Let’s all get in the same boat together, and talk about how we’re going to drown.” Yeah, that’s a really good plan. Makes perfect sense. Don’t bother reaching out to someone who can actually help, but instead, talk to someone who is also going through difficult times, and hope they don’t freak out when I don’t respond to their text right away. Yup. That’s a great plan – let’s do it!

I quickly texted my son as a warning, but it was too late. My phone was already ringing, and there I was in a conversation with my son and the RCMP. Now the City police were involved, and they were on their way to her at her dads house. This was definitely not good. I knew at this point things weren’t going to be good. My phone rang again.

“Mom, please, please come get me. I want to go home. I don’t want to be here. Please, please can you come get me? I can’t stay, please. Please come get me.”

We started the drive to her dad’s house. By this time it was almost midnight, and I couldn’t imagine what kind of scene was playing out. To make matters worse, the anger that was coming towards me in the situation was awful, and only making things worse. We got to her dad’s, and couldn’t leave because the police hadn’t arrived yet. I had 2 choices – stay in an ugly, escalating situation, or call the police and tell them I was taking her to the hospital to be assessed. So, off to the hospital we went.

1:54 wait time. Really?! I hate the hospital. I don’t even wait to get in to an assessment room anymore. My purse makes a perfect pillow, and at that time of night it’s easy to find a few germ infested seats in a row that can make a portable bed. I’ve grown accustomed to falling asleep in uncomfortable spots – actually almost easier than falling asleep in my own bed. The hardest part is the crinked neck and the massive headache that follows the next day.

I know the drill well. Wait in the waiting room. Wait in the assessment room. Wait again for a second opinion. An awful lot of waiting. “I don’t even know why we’re here,” I thought to myself. “I know how to deal with this. She needs sleep. She needs quiet. I need sleep!
She needs her own bed, and a decent talk on a help line.” The Dr.’s tried to assess her, but her regular regimen of sleeping pills had kicked in, and talking to her was like trying to rouse a passed out drunk – just not possible till they sleep it off. After a lot of talking, they were convinced we could go home, but gave us the option of staying the night. When I was offered the place to stay, I quickly declined. There was no way I could go back to that first admission night. We would have to stay in the same room again, under watch of security guards – and I just couldn’t go back. “That’s fine – I do believe she’s safe. I think the situation got blown out of proportion.” Time to go home.

4 am. I am so tired. We walk outside and wait to be picked up. The glowing lights outside no longer bring me comfort. Seeing the parkade just brings back memories of crying in my car until I had no tears left. The whole atmosphere gives me flash backs, and no longer represents help and safety, rather stress and trauma. I just want to go home.

July 20, 2015 0

Set To Fail

As things get better, it gets easier and easier to let my guard down. I have a knife in the kitchen that actually cuts things. There’s razors in the shower. A pair of scissors is in the drawer in the kitchen now – with free access to all. I have a bottle of Motrin that I don’t carry in my purse anymore, and the medication hasn’t been under lock and key.

Last week, after a difficult therapy session, my daughter asked to hang out with a friend. She texted me repeatedly, called a few times, and basically begged to meet up with someone (other than myself) that she could talk to. I agreed, based on the fact that it be someone I approve of. She said she tried everyone, but could only reach the one person I rather her not hang out with. Reluctantly, I agreed to her spending 2 hours at a public location close by, and then I would pick her up. They were to go no where else, just stay at the place we agreed, and then I would pick them up.

Long story short, things didn’t go as planned, and I found out. We got in the car to head home, and it was very uncomfortable. My daughter was upset and curled up, mostly I think, because I was not happy. The crazy thing was that I wasn’t terribly upset with her – I was upset at myself.

I knew she was having a hard time. I knew the person she chose to spend time with definitely wasn’t my first choice, and yet I said yes. I could have said no, headed home, and tried to use all the skills I’ve learned to talk through things………but I didn’t. I basically set her up for failure.

“I’m sorry ok, what do you expect? I’m sorry!”

“I’m not mad at you sweetie.”

“I said I’m sorry. I had a hard day. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I lied. Ok? Happy? I lied – I’m sorry”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m not even mad that you lied. I put you in a situation that was impossible for you to succeed in, and I can’t be mad at you for that. I know you don’t mean to lie, and I know you don’t mean to do the wrong thing. I don’t think you intend to break my trust, but I have learned that when put in certain situations, you are not strong enough and will make the wrong choice. I’m sorry for allowing that to happen.”

The car was silent for awhile. I couldn’t be mad at her, and I think she was a little confused with me. As soon as we got home, she went in her room and called “The Cottage” help line at YCUSP. She was on the phone for hours. When she came upstairs, her face was all swollen from crying, and I think she pretty much cried the rest of the evening until she went to bed.

A day later, when I was taking laundry to her room, I found 2 blades on her bed. Quickly I went through the house, checking for anything that could have been disassembled, but found nothing. I looked for the usual tell tale signs like gauze, hydrogen peroxide, polysporin, but didn’t find anything. I called YCUSP and told them what happened.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to say anything or not. I don’t know if I should confront her. She usually tells me if she self harms and didn’t say anything at all.”

“Well, we will need to know what you decide, so we know how to deal with the information on our end.”

“Ok, I will let you know.”

Tomorrow we have a counselling session at YCUSP. I finally decided to bring the topic up with her. Yes, they were her blades (obviously), but they were old. Yes, she had woken up during the night and self harmed. No, she didn’t tell me because she was rushed in the morning, and then the next day felt weird because more time had passed. Yes, she did tell the nurse at YCUSP and they know.

Now my mind gets going. “They know? Why didn’t they call me? Why didn’t they say anything? Aren’t they supposed to call the parent and confirm when self harm happens? Here we go again.”

The meds have all been put away. We’ve agreed together it’s the wise choice. The one knife can stay in the kitchen. Time with friends will be more monitored and limited, and if I have a funny feeling – I’ll be paying attention to it and doing the hard thing by saying no and sticking to my guns.

Learning can sometimes be painful………and not just for the kids

July 18, 2015 0

Running On Fumes

It’s been awhile since I blogged. I guess I’m not feeling very inspired lately. I started this blog to try and help someone – anyone – that might be going through the same journey. I wanted a form of self therapy – somewhere I could express myself openly and feel a sense of relief. Lately, I just feel really ticked off at a lot of things. Maybe it’s just part of the process, maybe it’s a loss of faith in people, and perhaps it’s just exhaustion catching up with me.

So where are we now? Things are going better – pretty well actually. I mean it. We’re down to 2 days a week at a program. I have to drive as our transportation has been cut off for the summer, and her dad won’t help. That ticks me off, but what can I do. Same old story – so I take care of it myself. Thank goodness my job is understanding.

Home isn’t too bad. I’ve been able to take a knife back in to the kitchen so I don’t have to use a butter knife to cut veggies and such anymore. That’s a real treat we take for granted. I have a bottle of motrin in the house – call me crazy. It’s not even locked up in a safe – just in my room. Strings aren’t being removed from pants anymore, and groceries are disappearing which means she’s eating. These are all good things.

I’ve made a few mistakes – accurate communication hasn’t been our strong suit. It can be difficult to separate the normal teenage garbage from mental health drama, and in an effort to be reasonable, I’ve been a little stupid. Good news is no serious harm done – at least so far so good.

I find myself getting mad at stupid stuff. A guy in the mall told me he could tell my skin care doesn’t have collagen in it and I almost popped him in the nose. I did tell him he was a horrible human and very rude, and abruptly left. My own fault for taking the free soap sample. A lady asked me if I wanted to try some shorts on, and I told her I was painfully aware of the shape of my ass so no need. Not something I’d normally say. I did try and recover and told her I am a firm user of retail therapy and probably should invest in a shrink instead, but they aren’t open Sunday afternoons, and that’s my only time off lately, so I’ll just pay for the shorts.I’ll probably go return it all tomorrow anyways, as the guilt of retail therapy sets in and I convince myself I don’t deserve it. Stupid endless cycle.

My house is a disaster. My yard looks like, well, I can’t see my yard – the weeds and grass are too high. Better for remodeling I guess. A chance for a new canvas. I kinda’ don’t even care right now. Not the right train to worry about today.

I have some vacation coming up, and I’ll probably use that to try and look at life and perhaps get my own on track. Have a garage sale. Clean up. Fix stuff. Sell stuff. Fix more stuff. That kind of stuff.

I’ve had a headache for 6 days. Not sure if it’s the weather, or stress, or both. Probably stress I’m guessing. Work is tough. Money is tricky and always somewhat short. We have another family member suffering from mental health struggles. My fiance is stressed beyond belief. Seems like everyone around me is struggling. I can feel their pain, and there’s not much I can do about it.

So why do I blog? Doesn’t seem like there’s much to say, and I don’t know how this can help any more. I’ve been told my blogs are wordy. They’re too long. They could be blocking God’s blessings on my family. They’re too cryptic. They’re too often. They’re not often enough. They’re depressing. I should be doing them for money. I should be doing them on different sites. I should be sending them to higher people (whatever that means).

Again, why do I bother? Maybe, just maybe, this track that I’m on could be shared with someone on a similar journey. Maybe it will mean something to someone. Maybe it will mean something to me. Even if it just happens rarely, maybe, just maybe, one of us will be helped.

Things are getting better……really – they are.

July 18, 2015 0

Tough News

I had the pleasure of having coffee with a friend I went to high school with today. It was great catching up and just chatting about life, the past, the present – great medicine. We had some time to discuss what the last year has held, and I told her, the scariest thing right now is letting my guard down.

It’s easy for things to be good, when you get to do everything you want, and not have obvious stressors or pressures. It’s when life gets a little tough, that you see what is really happening for someone.

Tonight, life got a little tough. The day seemed to be going great. My daughter has been meeting up with old friends after her program, and catching up on things. She gets dropped at my work, meets a friend, and they wander around town, maybe grab a slice of pizza together, and reconnect. That happened today, and went well.

Along came a bump in the road, when we got some hard information that triggered a lot of emotion. To make matters more difficult, her dad got laid off, and phoned her to discuss the existential connection to his career choices. I knew it would be hard, but it was our discussion, or lack thereof that caught me off guard once again.

“Mom, did they call you about my meds today?”

“Nope – they called but said nothing about meds.”

“Really? They said we would talk about increasing things at night so I sleep better.”

“You need to sleep better? I thought you were sleeping fine?”

“Nope. Things have been really hard lately.”

“Really? You told me yesterday how good you’re feeling.”

“Can I have my meds tonight?”

Of course she could have her meds – we never go without them. Things have been hard? Once again, I’m caught by surprise. No cutting for about 6 weeks. No restricting, at least nothing major, for quite some time. Weight is perfect, and so is BMI. Drug tests clear. Routine blood tests happening, but the argument has been, “Why should I be in a program when I feel great?”

More phone calls were made. “I’m calling the cottage”. “OK, anything I can do?”. Again, I’m left on the side lines, watching while she struggles. It’s hard hearing your child cry and having them pull away. All I want is to wrap my arms around her and tell her it’s going to be ok. I’m not leaving. Things will be fine. We’ll get through it.

Tomorrow is another day. “Mom, I need to talk to someone tomorrow. I need to see someone tomorrow.” “Yes, I understand. We’ll make it happen”. I gave her a hug and a kiss goodnight, and told her it will be alright. This is all part of her journey – and it’s been a tough one.

As parents, we need to remember not to take this stuff personally. Sometimes being a silent but steady bystander is what they need. There are plenty of resources out there to help – and they’ll use what they need, but it isn’t just anyone that can be there through thick and thin – no matter what.

Take care of yourself. Talk to a friend, go for a coffee, write a blog, maybe even get some counseling yourself. Do what you can to keep yourself strong, so you can be the steady rock your child needs in the hard times

July 18, 2015 0

When Answers Aren’t Enough

As I came home from work yesterday, I made a mental note, that it’s been about a week since I received the letter from the analyst at ADTP regarding my daughter and their findings. I had been promised a phone call by early this week with an answer from the manager of the program but hadn’t heard anything yet, however, I did get a call I couldn’t take while I was at work, so hopefully after I grabbed some dinner I could check my messages. Sure enough, there was a message saying I would be receiving a phone call from the writer of the letter, probably today, and would get some kind of explanation.

“Hi, I’m calling to discuss your how you see things about the letter you received. I’m no longer with the program, and work at the Foothills now, but I could meet you next Tuesday and we could talk about it. You could ask me questions if you have them. I guess I could book a room there. The manager said you have some questions about things.”

“ Yes, I do have questions, but really not so much about the findings in the letter. I spent an hour Googling things, and even though I don’t like Google for medical things, I managed to get some explanations. I have questions as to how the situation has been handled.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I am not a medical professional. I gave permission for a testing to be done on my child. Last week when I came home from work, there was a letter in the mail, not even marked private or confidential, with a whole lot of big frightening words and mistaken information. I don’t understand why it was sent to me without being discussed first?”

“Because you agreed for the testing to be done.”

“Yes, I agreed. In my experience, whether it is in the school system or at hospital, when something official is done, results are discussed with parents, and then with the child. Instead, I was sent a letter I didn’t understand. I don’t even know what the purpose of the letter was. I don’t know if was a diagnosis, information, treatment advice, an assessment? I have no idea. There wasn’t even a header letter addressing me and saying what it was for.”

“There’s a disclaimer when I talk about the test that it’s not a diagnosis.”

“ A disclaimer? Half way through the letter? You have information about me having mood and anxiety problems in the past. Except for 6 months of post partum depression 21 years ago, and being in a severely bad mood right now, I can assure you I don’t have a problem. I don’t know where you came up with information like that.”

……..silence………

“Your description of my child was wrong. You didn’t even spell her name right. This is supposed to be a professional document. And then you send it in the mail. Why didn’t you at least call to talk to me about it?”

“I was filling a matt leave position. My time was pretty much up, and I usually sit in on appointments when these things are discussed, but we never had that opportunity.”

“We were there an extra month. I was there every single week. How could we not have time?”

“Well, for some reason it didn’t work, and I had to finish off the position, so I just typed up the letters and sent them out so I could finish things off.”

“Finish things off? That’s how you dealt with it? Just get it done? You mail me a letter? What if my boys had opened it? Worse yet, what if my daughter had opened it. That information in the wrong hands could be devastating!”

“She already knows.”

“What do you mean, she already knows. No she doesn’t. I told her nothing.”

“Well, I told her.”

“You what?”

“I told her.”

“Why would you do that? You talked to her about this stuff without my permission? Without talking to me first?”

“Well, kids want to know.”

“Yeah. Kids want to know tons of stuff. Doesn’t mean you tell them everything! How could you do that? How could you possibly put me in that position? No wonder she was having such a hard time!! She was phoning help lines, cutting, restricting……things were awful. I can’t even talk to her about it now! How could you do that without discussing with parents first!?! You certainly made a call for permission to run the testing! Shouldn’t you do that when it comes to the findings too?”

“Well, I guess. I mean, if this is how you think it is.”

“This isn’t what I think it is! This is how it is. Put yourself in my position. Imagine this happens to you as a parent. Can you remove yourself from your profession for just a moment and imagine what it’s like to have all of these things happen? Do you have any idea how I feel as a parent? We aren’t bad people. We aren’t abusing our kids and making their lives awful. We are fighting tooth and nail every single day to keep them alive, and help them get better, but don’t have a fighting chance when your programs just do what they want. You can’t cut me out of this! I’m her mother and I won’t be cut out.”

“Well, I guess I can understand a little. I imagine if you think it is that was. No one else got the information.”

“Not even YCuSP?”

“No.”

“Why not? Isn’t this information for her treatment? Why do I even have her in programs if you’re not communicating with eachother? She doesn’t need a babysitter, she needs support and help. She is dealing with very heavy stuff.”

“Well, I guess I understand these things so it’s difficult for me to take a step back and see what you think it is.”

“Ok, that’s it. I’m not having a meeting with you next week. I’m very upset right now and getting emotional. This is not how I make decisions. I’m going to hang up the phone and think. This isn’t over, but I need to be calm before I discuss anything any further. I am going to think about who I want to talk to, and how I’m going to deal with this. Hear me clearly – this is not over. You will hear from your director, and the proper changes will be made to that letter. ”

“Ok, I can understand that.”

“Goodbye now”

(ring, ring, ring)……..now what………

“Hello? This is YCuSP. How are you doing this afternoon? Can you talk for a moment?”

“Seriously, don’t even get me started…..”

This is not over. They have not heard the last of it. You can’t take away the right of the parent. Delivering any kind of results to a child without the parent present, or at least discussing the results is wrong. They took away the possibility of me asking questions, getting perspective, and having a potentially reasonable discussion about something that is very serious. To make things worse, I get to deal with the aftermath while they go back to their programs and “finish things off”.

It’s time to start a campaign, write some letters, make some noise. I will continue to fight for my daughter. Anger stirs my passion, and when I get passionate about something, well, just watch out.

July 18, 2015 0

mental health blog

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