routerecalculation

There is a new program in town.  So new, that there is actually very little information on it, so I figure considering my daughter has been one of the 12 kids currently accepted in to the program, I will write about it and let people know.

YCSP – Youth Community Support Program.  This is a program specifically made for kids in the system that need prolonged care, and haven’t had success being stabilized at any other program.

First, you start with assessments at ACH – Alberta Children’s hospital.  After that, if you haven’t stabilized and qualify, you can  potentially go towards ADTP – Adolescent Day Treatment Program.  This is a 3-4 month program aimed at helping kids 13 – 18 transition with support from a hospital situation to real life.  There are Board of Education teachers, and it runs the same way a school does except there are interactive therapy groups, private therapy, and psychiatrists.  There’s also a nursing staff.  Kids are drug checked regularly, and there’s a cook that makes breakfast and lunch for everyone there.  It fits 14 kids at a time, and generally doesn’t run during the summer months – at least kids don’t attend there during that time, but sometimes there is still private counseling available.  There is also the Eating Disorder Program that may be a good choice for some, but you can’t attend both ADTP and the EDP – you have to choose one.

Previously, if all of these programs don’t work, your child might just end up back at ACH, and then the process would start again.  Now, there is the new program.  12 kids can attend this program – 6 beds for those who aren’t ready to stay at home yet, and 6 part time spots for kids who need regular weekly support.

We have been in the system for a full 8 months now.  First ACH, then an assessment for the Eating Disorder Program.  We ended up going to ADTP, and yesterday, we had our intake appointment for YCSP.  It took about 90 minutes to fill out forms, go through legal jargin, and learn what we needed to get started.

I guess I should be thrilled that my daughter has been one of the first accepted in to this program, and apparently there is a massive waiting list, so I know I should be grateful, but I’m having a really hard time with the whole thing.  We are in to our third set of psychiatrists, psychologists, counselors, nurses, and teachers, and frankly I just feel really exhausted and discouraged.  I feel bad for the people out there that have to wait to get in, because unlike other programs, there is no limit to how long you can be in this program, but there is a limit to how many youth can go.

There are so many things I haven’t been able to say or share, so I know it would make more sense if I could, but getting in to everything again just makes me feel down.  When I came home from work today, I looked at her and apologized.  She looked at me with her big blue eyes, and said, “Why are you apologizing mom?”  I said to her, “I wish I could fix everything for you.  I wish I could give you your medication and everything would just melt away.  I wish I could erase the past and just create a new one.  I wish I could make things right. I wish we didn’t have to go through all of this again. I’m just so sorry I can’t fix all of this for you.”  “I know mom.  I wish that could happen.  I hate interactive therapy.  I don’t want to go to more groups.  I don’t want any of this.” “You know I can’t keep you home, don’t you?  You know I can’t say it’s over, because I don’t think you’re ready to be on your own yet.  I think you still need support.”  :”Yes, I know.”

It’s hard to look at your child and not be able to fix things.  There comes a point, when a large part of her recovery is up to her, and only time can help mend that.  She has to get past what has happened and find a reason to thrive in the future.  To make things more difficult, the psychiatrist she has really bonded with will not be allowed to treat her anymore, and I just can’t bring myself to tell her.  Tomorrow she will find that out, and I don’t want to even be around for the after math of that conversation.  She will be so tremendously disappointed, and so am I.

YCSP will accept her for 2 days a week, and the other 5 will be up to me to keep her on track.  While school is still in, which is 3 more weeks, we will have 3 more days of the week taken care of.  For the rest of the summer, well, I’m not quite sure yet.  I will have 3 weeks of vacation I’ve spread out over the 2.5 months till school starts in the fall again, upon which time she will keep attending YCSP and her regular high school the other 3 days of the week.  As for the rest of the time, I’m not sure.  I will have work to deal with, and will have to juggle the rest.  Thank goodness my work is so understanding.

For now, as my daughter says to me, “Mom, let’s save the worry for tomorrow”.

Smart kid

There is a pilot project running right now at a local high school in the town where I live. From Wednesday to Friday each week, there is a room called “The Chat Room” where kids with IPP’s or special coding, or even kids that just need safety can take alternative classes, take a break and unwind, get some food or a cup of tea, and escape from the stress they’re feeling.

I remember first hearing the terms “coding” and “IPP” when my middle son was in grade 2. He was the tiniest child in the school, had pop bottle bottom glasses since he was 8 months old, and had a bad speach issue. I spent hours every day at the table with him, teaching him how to speak, repeating vowels and consonants so he wouldnt have to be pulled fromantic class. The muscles in his cheeks and throat did not develop properly, and he couldn’t say r, l, k, s, w, t, and many other sounds. He basically sounded like he had peanut butter in his mouth. They always wanted to test him for different things and it got to the point that he didn’t even want to go to school. He was horribly bullied, until one day I pulled him out and made a change.

Once we were at the new school they encouraged me to have him tested to see where they could best help him succeed. I had never wanted my kids “coded” because I had learned that this would make you “the class idiot”. I thought they would have this horrible stigma attached to them for the rest of their lives. I was very wrong.

After agreeing and going through the process, I found eventually that he had markers for learning that were completely missing, and some that were off the charts. Over time, he was coded with a rare extreme OCD disorder, severe anxiety, and ADHD along with certain learning markers. Accommodations were put in place, and he started to succeed. Slowly but surely some of his challenges were used in his favor rather than against him, and the one child I thought wouldn’t make it graduated! Not only did he graduate, but he ended up graduating with the most credits any student had ever had.

For awhile I felt guilty that my own fear, and perhaps embarrassment at having a child with special needs held him back. He had no 3D vision (still doesnt), his eyes work independently, his speech was horrible, he was very tiny, and eventually he became very depressed and suicidal. His clothes got bigger as he got thinner and thinner, he never smiled, and just sat in the dark all the time. Once we got him the help he needed, he started to soar. That coding was a signal light to everyone he encountered and changed his life. He became strong, and was his own best advocate.

My daughter is now undergoing coding for an IPP as she enters high school. Should the government decide to keep this pilot program going and make it permanent, which I really hope they do, she will be able to use this room as a safe place when things start to unwind. She can take classes in a room with an essential oil diffuser going, with lava lamps and beautiful art on the walls. She can do her work in a protected environment with other kids that are struggling with life too. There is a window in the room, and on the other side you can see 40 or so students in a sterile white room, sitting at desks with computers. As I stood in The Chat Room, I felt in awe as to how things have changed. For a moment it actually felt like it was ok to be different than the norm.

I come from an age of corporal punishment in school, where “suck it up” was a common phrase, and when it was ok for a teacher to throw his chalk at you if you looked the wrong way.

The future is bright for our kids if programs like this stay in place. No kids are turned away, IPP or not. We need to be advocates for things like this. The teacher told me they had a strong feeling about who would want to use The Chat Room, and when it opened they were shocked to see kids they never would have expected, coming by and checking in.

It’s a different tomorrow out there than I’m used to, but in some ways that alone dispels the fears I have. My knowledge is based on the past, but what I’m learning about future possibilities is bright. Coming back to the system might not be quite so impossible.

We’re back, at least a little bit. And the future is bright.

I’m going to have to be quick with this blog, which might be a relief to some, because in 19 minutes we have to leave for my daughters first day back since the event.

We have no safety plan.

Never be fooled by someone suffering from mental health. There needs to be a safety plan. Picture the kiddie section of an amusement park. You see a small ferris wheel, little pink flying elephants, bumper cars, and a small rollercoaster. All of these rides can really represent many stages of the process, but the one that’s the most danger is…….yes, you guessed it. The roller coaster.

The kiddie roller coaster is probably representative of most of our lives. Some smaller gentle ups and downs, perhaps a sharp corner representing a few turn of events. Maybe one small difficult climb and then a quick swoosh down. Slightly horrifying but easily finished without too much harm.

And then there’s the grown up roller coaster. That big green monster that jolts you all over the place for what feels like forever. You go up then down, steep long climbs and then straight down, accelerating as your breakfast rises and hits you in the throat. At some points you even flip upside down, cursing the very moment you came to the park and crying out in anguish that you were even born. Eventually, you get to the end of the ride and see the operator with that big long control lever in his hand. Attempting telepathy, you try sending him messages to stop the ride and let you off, promising you won’t expel your insides till you’re clear of the venue, and then he looks right at you, and says “ONE MORE TIME!!” Every one else screams “YAAAAAAH”, and you close your eyes to pray for a quick and painless trip. You turn and look at the person next to you and say, “wake me when it’s over, I think I’m going to faint!”

That’s how I’m feeling right now. I’m not sure if we’re coasting towards the end, or getting ready for another round.

Safety plans are a must – every single day. We have been writing and rewriting, sometimes on actual paper, and sometimes in the air, but we’ve always had one. Because of the way this whole transition was rushed, the official safety plan hasn’t even been written and won’t be viewed or approved till tomorrow, one full day after. That’s 24 hours. 24 hours too long.

As we drive this morning, I will be trying, in the most delicate, non alarming, nonchalant way to create a safety plan for the day. December 9th started with a great morning and ended in near disaster. We’ve come a long way, but I’m not a fool. Things can turn in an instant.

I’m not done with this yet. Advocating for your child is exhausting but you can never let up. You must follow that gut instinct. If you feel something isn’t right, trust what you feel. Reach out. Insist that the help you need is provided.

The words to me last night after expressing my frustration were, “I’m sorry it’s gone this way and that you’ve been stressed. We hope you can make things as calm as possible in the morning.”

They haven’t heard the last of me yet. On the outside – cool as a cuke, but on the inside? Let’s just say there’s a whole lot that still needs to be said

Hello, Mom?”

“……..Hi!”

“Soooooo, I’m transitioning on Wednesday.”

Two more sleeps. This is the day I’ve been waiting for and wondering about for a very long time. Since December 9th actually. Two more sleeps till our current program at ADTP starts transitioning my daughter in to main stream public school. Even typing out those words makes me shake in my shoes. The last time we tried going back to school, I found myself standing by the river, wondering if I would ever see her again.

The ADTP program is a 3-4 month program, with intense private and group therapy, as well as private and family counseling. There is school work involved, and it’s run by both Alberta Health and the Calgary Board of Education, so they work hand in hand to try and catch up the main holes that have been missing in relationship to school work while treatment has happened. It has been 1 year and 3 months since my daughter was in school regularly. She only attended the first 2 weeks of this school year. Now, we will look at sending her from a classroom of 3 kids (ratio at ADTP is 1 to 3) to a school of 800. She will go back with an IPP, but will that be enough to accommodate her needs?

“What? This Wednesday? I thought we had discussed waiting a little bit longer? I need to prepare. I need to communicate with transportation, the high school, and…”

“Do you want to talk to my teacher? Maybe that would help?”

“Yes. Yes please. I think that would be a great idea”

“First, one more thing. Can I take the bus?”

“What? Really? The bus? Is that really a good idea?”

For the last 3 months, transportation has taken my daughter directly from the door of my work to the program, and then has picked her up and delivered her in to my view. Without fail, I have known where she is the entire time, and that has been a tremendous burden removed from my shoulders. She’s basically had her own private chauffeur, and now, she wants to ride a bus with 45 kids on it.

“Ok, let me talk to your teacher.”

“Hi. So we have a start date of this Wednesday.”

“Is there a reason why you made it earlier?”

“We thought that was the date set in the transition meeting.”

“No. You were supposed to get back to me after the new program met with you, and after we would decide the exact dates so I could arrange transportation, and time from work. I don’t feel good about just doing this without being prepared.”

“Oh, well you’ll have to talk to the counselor about that. In the meantime Wednesday is the day. So the plan will be all day, and then Thursday afternoon.”

If there is one thing that drives me bonkers, it’s lack of communication. During this entire process, there has been time and time again where communication has broken down, and I have been left not knowing what the real agenda is. I have made it very, very clear, over and over again, that I am an involved parent, and need to be in the loop with what is going on. A transition means so many different things and I really don’t think wanting to be engaged in the process makes me a control freak. It makes me someone who likes to be prepared.

We continued to discuss the plan, and the teacher assured me that I would be sent an email outlining a safety plan and details that were being discussed.

“Hi there, this is the Vice Principal at the new school. Is now a good time to talk?“

“Yes, it’s fine. Thanks for calling.”

“I found out news that your daughter will be joining us on Wednesday. We’re looking forward to having her.

“I don’t really know what to say. This is happening faster than I expected, so I’m still a little shocked.”

“I think the plan is just to have a calm, quiet day, and not overwhelm her with anything too much.”

“We haven’t even had a tour yet. She doesn’t even know where the safe spots are. She says she feels like just throwing herself in to it and seeing what happens. That really makes me uncomfortable.”

“Actually, that makes me really uncomfortable as well. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think we need to have proper safety plans in place. I would prefer if you brought her to the school. She isn’t even in our system anymore. We had to transfer her to the CBE system, so you’ll have to re-enroll her. There will be a lot of forms to fill out”

“I just don’t know how this is going to work. How do we take a girl who can’t even motivate herself to walk up the stairs sometimes to do a whole day in a school? ”

“What is the thing that scares you the most?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if my fears are realistic. I don’t think she’s a runaway risk, however I never would have thought she was then either.”

“Does she have a phone?”

“Yes she does”

“What are her triggers.”

“I don’t even know. It could be anything. This is just so unknown. I can’t picture what this will be like. Do you have a nurse at the school?”

“What kind of nurse? Mental, or first aid?”

“First aid. What if she cuts and needs help?”

“Yes. We have people trained in first aid that could help.”

“What if she panics and leaves?”

“We will put a plan in place with her phone. How easy are you to reach?”

“I work 4 minutes away. I don’t want to wait 20 minutes this time before I’m even notified if something happens. She made it to the river last time.”

“I can assure you, we don’t want that to happen either.”

We continued to talk for a few more minutes, and left it at being cautiously optimistic for a trial day with plans in place.

Two more sleeps. I’m scared. Terrified actually. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t want to end up back at the hospital, or at the river for that matter. I don’t want to go through it all again. I don’t want her to cut or self harm because she can’t deal with the pressures of everyday life. I know sometimes I have a hard time dealing with every day life, and I haven’t gone through what she has.

At the end of the day, this is her battle, and I can only fight along side. It makes me feel helpless and wildly out of control. I really don’t like that feeling at all.

Two more sleeps.

Not to many months ago, one of my boys decided to get a tattoo.  Ever since he was younger he had been designing ideas for what would be his first permanent marking.  He would come home from school, covered in designs up his legs and arms, and my only thought other than potential blood poisoning from the ink and lack of complete school work was, “thank goodness they can’t do this on their own when they’re kids”.  Can you imagine?  If he would have been allowed to just go get anything done, (despite the money factor) he would have come home with all sorts of crazy stuff permanently etched in his skin.  He went to a concert once, and the artist signed his arm.  He begged and begged for me to let him have a tattoo over that signature on his arm, and wouldn’t even shower until I gave in.  Despite his stubbornness, I won that battle and we took a picture of the autographed arm right before he showered.

The 18th birthday came, and off he marched to the tattoo parlor, money and design in hand, ready to be inked. ” How hard could it be? ” The question he should of asked him self is “how painful will this be?“  He texted me a few times while I was at work, all excited.  It was the actual day of his birth, and he was fulfilling his dream.  Little did he know how much pain that dream would bring him.

It’s a very difficult thing to watch someone be in pain, even when it’s self inflicted.  It would be a lot easier to be detached and say “It’s your own fault”, or “You should have thought of that first”, but as an empathetic person, it’s pretty hard to watch someone suffer, let alone a mother watch her child suffer.  I came home from work, and there he was, sitting on the couch, holding back the tears.  I took one look at him and knew it was going to be a long night.  He hadn’t decided on the first one being a small symbol – he’d covered the entire calf on the back of his leg.  To make matters worse, a relative had called leaving a message on his phone that was upsetting, and when getting cream for his leg at the local grocery store, a secret shopper though he’d been shoplifting and tackled him in the parking lot, dragging him back in to the store.  (He ended up with an official apology from the market owner, a $25 gift certificate and a job after I was done complaining, but that’s a different story).

Seeing his face, I immediately went in to action.  I had to help.  First the pain killers – lets get on top of it. Next we talked about the phone call and the message, and I dispelled his thoughts of feeling guilty about not wanting to call that relative back.  Next, I let him rant about the grocery store incident.  I let him just go on till it was out of his system, and then went and found the cream he needed for his leg.  When I came home, I sat with him, had some dinner and just reminisced about the last 18 years and how special he is.  The next couple of days was hard for him, but he got through it.  I would have taken that pain for him if I could, but it was something he had to get through while I watched.

When my daughter first started having stomach pain, I figured it was just a regular stomach ache caused by constipation. Eventually as time passed on, the pain got worse and worse, bringing us to the emergency center 18 times in a span of 5 months.  She was treated with Acetaminophen, Ibuprofen, Naprosyn, Naproxen, Toradol, IV Toradol, Buscopan, Morphine, Demarol, and even Fentanol.  The Fentanol worked, but then I learned what it really is and insisted she never have it again.  Despite that, they gave it to her on a second occasion – 3 doses – and I was very upset.  She never had it again after that, but of course, it’s all she asked for. There was nothing else I could do to stop the pain.  I was so incredibly frustrated, desperate for anything that could help.  There were many nights I sat with her, massaging her legs and back, warming hot water bottles, covering her in blankets, and then massaging her legs again.  We would put on some kind of movie, and with the combination of all of it, she would eventually fall asleep, only to repeat things the next day.  The morning would start off at a 2 or 3 out of 10 on the pain scale, and as the day progressed, by night time we would be at and 8 or 9, and sometimes a 10.

One day, I was posting my frustration on Facebook, and an old friend of mine from high school, now in the US, messaged me about some alternative methods for dealing with pain using essential oils.  Quite truthfully, he could have said rub banana pudding all over her stomach and make her dance and I would have tried it.  I eventually met up with his mom, and purchased a very small bottle of peppermint oil.  Sure.  Why not?  It wasn’t going to hurt her.  We met up in a parking lot, and got the oil.  My daughter was in the car, crying from the pain.  I had her expose her abdomen and we rolled on some peppermint from this tiny bottle.  Within about 20 minutes, her pain had significantly subsided.  We were both stunned.  Perhaps this would be worth studying a little more.  (I did study more and came up with great info, but that will be saved for a different blog).

Months of counseling, a long hospital stay, and even more therapeutic work along with consistent use of  poly ethylene glycol (PEG), and  Peppermint Essential Oil (medicinal grade is the only one that worked well), helped her stomach pain subside. For months it was completely gone, and I can’t even begin to express my relief.  To not have to see the miserable pain in her face every day anymore was enough to make me twirl and dance and sing.

Pain and mental health really go hand in hand.  Feel sick, or in pain for any duration, and soon you feel frustrated.  Eventually you start feeling down, and hopelessness can set in.  Over time, depression sets in and you can’t see your way out of the fog.  I have come to learn through my daughter, that the best help I gave her through some of those darkest days was just sitting with her, and being there.  That was probably the hardest part for me, because I’m a do-er by nature – not a sitter.  A hug, reassurance, and just being there for someone can be the ultimate act of love.  We can’t necessarily rescue someone, but we can definitely be there to help them through the journey.

My daughters pain is back, and some days it’s not pretty.  I have refused trips to the hospital, and instead I run a hot bath, get out my oils, find a good movie, some cozy blankets, and some hot tea and we sit.  Sometimes we don’t talk and it’s just quiet, but she knows I’m there, and that’s what’s important. Don’t get me wrong, if it was a safety issue, we’d be back there in a flash.

I won’t lie.  My frustration and exhaustion are very close to the surface, especially when I thought we were past this, but I’m reminded that this is a journey, not a trip.  More research.  More listening.  More counseling, and Dr.’s and programs.  Our journey ahead might be long, so it’s a good thing that my well of love is so deep

I’d like to sit down and have a talk with the world. I’d make sure there were lots of comfy chairs, and tea and cookies so everyone would have a bit of a snack. Snacks always seem to make people feel better.

After everyone had tea, I would bring out blindfolds and have people make their way to a seat. No one would be allowed to see who or what they were sitting next to, and everyone would get to just talk. No questions could be asked about race or religion, and everyone would be given the same 3 questions to ask.

1. What do you value most in your life?
2. What is the most difficult thing you are facing right now?
3. How can I help you?

Imagine being blindfolded then sitting next to people you don’t know. Would you feel comfortable? Would you be scared? Would you be able to say something about the people around you without seeing them? Without knowing race, religion, body size, gender, or sexual orientation, would you be able to say something judgemental or would you have to start out kind?

My point is, and I’m going to be brief, is that when we live in a small box and don’t open our hearts up to possibilities, we rob ourselves and others of happiness and joy. Because we are taught to make judgements based on what we see at such and early age, it’s almost impossible not to form immediate prejudices. With a staggering statistic of approximately 3 seconds to decide that first impression, it feels like we just don’t stand a chance.

Imagine being able to have a relationship with anyone? I don’t mean a romantic relationship, I mean friend or business, even mild aquantance, without what you see as being “good” or “bad” interfering with your decision.

Why are we scared when we see tattoos and piercings? Why does a fat person gross you out? Why does another religion make you feel like you have to defend your own, rather than understand and be accepting of theirs? Why is someone a bad parent because their kids make stupid decisions without taking in to account consequences? Why does sexual orientation make you approachable or not?

Imagine if we could ask those 3 questions, without our own judgements getting in the way. Maybe we could all be friends.

“Of all the days to be running behind!  Why did they have to pick today?  I swear, of all the days they picked the busiest one of the week, but who am I to complain.  Shoot – there’s a stain on my shirt.  I wonder if they’ll notice?  I could wear a sweater….nah….it will be cooking hot in the room.  It always is.  Construction?  Seriously??!!  Of all the days to do construction!  There’s not even a worker on the road!  I didn’t count for 50km/hr.  I can’t walk in to that room late!”

As I hurtled towards the school in my little yellow bug, a million thoughts were crossing my mind.  Today was the treatment evaluation for my daughter.  Time to see where things are at, talk about a discharge “graduation” date, and make a plan going forward.  I knew there would be a lot of people there, so I really didn’t want to be late.  My daughters former principle and guidance counselor, the vice principle and guidance counselor along with the transportation lead from the school division, her current counselor and teacher, and a psychiatrist and counselor from a potential new program.  The room would be full, and I would be there with my daughter, ready to gather information and make a plan.

“Crum – no parking.  Of course not.  No matter – I’ll park on the street.  I’d better downhill park incase my parking break lets go.  You never know with this thing.”  I ran to the door and rang the bell, but no one answered.  Finally one of the school psychiatrists answered the door and let me in.  I walked up the stairs and saw the counselor standing with a woman I didn’t know.  They hadn’t started yet, so I must have gotten there in the nick of time.  Behind a locked door I could see teachers talking while they waited for us to enter.

“Wow, this is a lot of people.  Which chair should I sit in.  I guess here is better then anywhere.  Who do I really want to look at is the question?  I dunno’.  Just don’t cry.  If nothing else, don’t cry – they’ll think you’re a baby. No reason to be emotional – stay strong.  Breathe deep.  My foot hurts.”

The current teacher started off the meeting, talking about the work they were currently doing, and how hard they’d been working.  He emphasized the fact that she’s not unmotivated, but her current state is keeping her from regular school work, and they’d been spending more time on “the human condition”.

“Human condition?  Hmmm.  That’s an interesting way to put it.  Everyone else seems to understand.”  I sat and continued to listen to more of the conversation.  Teachers and counselors chatted and discussed dates, timelines and possibilities and then a question was asked of my daughter.  “How do you feel about the idea of going back to school?”

She began to talk.  I was very impressed at first. “Well, she’s well spoken.  There are 10 adults in this room, and she has complete control over the situation and what she is saying.  Her message is coming across clearly. Don’t cry – seriously – hold it together.   Ok, she’s saying home is safe – that’s good at least.  Seems to be no issues there.”  She continued to explain what her life is like.  How coming to program is the only thing holding her together, and that she lays on the floor and cries for hours every day.  “Really, when?  When does that happen, and why haven’t I noticed.”  She tells them about how accepted she feels at program, and that ultimately, her entire focus for the last year has just been staying alive.  Her message is very clear – she is comfortable where she is, and feels that sometimes it’s not even enough.

My turn to talk.  “Can I say something?”  All heads turned my direction.  “At this point in time, I feel very uneasy.  Tension has been mounting for the last few weeks, and is only getting worse.  We spent her birthday at a restaurant with her crying in the corner, and I declined a trip to the hospital that night.  I feel it was all we could do to get through the weekend.  For whatever reason, she does not feel comfortable talking to me about it, and needs more support.  I do not know how it would be possible for her to go from this to a regular school environment.”

The room was silent for a moment.  A few murmurs and mumbles.  “Seriously don’t cry now.  It’s not a good time for that – don’t cry”, I thought.  I began to bite the inside of my lip to try and choke back the tears.  There is nothing imminently horrible here, so I don’t know why I would cry.  My daughter began to talk again.  “The hard thing here is that unless I’m suicidal, no one takes me seriously, but I don’t need to be on the cliff to be in danger.  If I go to the hospital, and I haven’t run away then there is nothing they can do.  I’m not serious enough.  These programs only think it’s serious if you’re ready to kill yourself.  I’m not there, but I want you to know, this is serious”.  She made her point very well, and as she spoke, I was pretty sure someone in the room stuck their hand in to my chest, and started to rip my heart out, very, very slowly.  “Don’t cry.  You’ve made it this far.  Stay strong.  Don’t be weak.  For crying out loud, suck it up.”  I bit my lip harder.

Different people in the room interjected feelings and opinions, stressing to my daughter that they were hearing her, and that a full and total transition would not be necessary.  Different ideas were thrown out on the table, but inside I knew this just wasn’t going to work.  She couldn’t make it through one evening at the school, how possibly would real life work?  As people talked, I noticed how her body language had changed.  Her knee had started bouncing quickly – first one, and then both, and she had started chewing on her thumbnail.  She was hunched over and was now not making eye contact anymore.  She was folding her hands over her legs, trying to hide the visible cut marks that showed below the line of her shorts.  If I tried to say anything she got very defensive.  “She never chews her nails.  She’s starting to unravel.  Perhaps not a great day to wear shorts.  Next time I’m going to say something.  Hold it together girl, you’re doing great.  This is too much.  The pressure of this meeting is just too much.  Man, it’s really hot in here.  Is there no window?  I guess not – mental health and all.  Seriously, they need a/c in here. I should have brought someone with me.  I’m never going to remember all of this.  I should be writing this down.”

Finally the psychiatrist spoke up.  She talked about a brand new program starting at the beginning of June.  It has 6 bed for kids that would overnight, and 6 more spots for other kids, 1 of which was being held for her.  The program is so new, they couldn’t really even tell us a lot about it, except that a spot was being held for her.  The program, unlike all the others, has no definite end date.  My daughter asked over, and over again, if she’d be able to come there for night.  “Why is she so determined to stay over night?  Can’t she handle it at home?  What’s making it so bad?”.  Finally I spoke up one more time.  “I think I need to emphasize, that we’re on the edge here.  I think you can hear the desperation here.  It’s not really getting a whole lot better.  She needs extra support”.

I couldn’t hold back anymore.  As they all continued to talk, and started to wrap up the meeting, I felt the tears starting to run down my cheeks.  First, one on the left hand side of my face, then one on the right, and then before I knew it both eyes were leaking, and the tip of my nose was burning.  “Good grief.  Stop it.  I need a Kleenex.  Just pretend this isn’t happening.  Don’t bring attention and they won’t notice.  Just wipe the tears and it will stop.  Ok, maybe one more time.  Damn it!  Stupid eyes.  They’re going to notice.  Seriously, just stop!”

I managed to quickly pull myself together without attracting too much attention and the meeting began to wrap up.  The teachers and counselors left the room, and the ADTP team stayed behind to set follow up dates and plan a family counseling session.  My daughter went to gather her things so we could leave.  I quickly took advantage of her absence to stress my concerns with the psychiatrist. “At this point I don’t even know if we could go to the lake for the weekend.  Can I even plan a summer vacation with her?  Am I stupid to think taking her to the lake for a couple of days would be a good thing?  I need you to tell me if I should forget planning anything this summer or not.”  We agreed to keep in touch.

As we left, her counselor remarked, “You did so good today.  You spoke so well to all those adults.  I couldn’t help but notice you seemed uncomfortable, trying to cover your legs.”  They talked for a few moments and my daughter said, “I was fine.  I don’t care if people see, I was just uncomfortable.  I don’t care – I’m fine.”

“She’s fine.  Right.  She just spent an hour convincing everyone she’s not ready, and she’s not fine. She’s definitely not fine.  This is never going to be over.  I just see no end.  She doesn’t even want to be at home.  I’d better make a plan.  I need to keep work clothes in town.  I’m going to need to stay in town and not have to drive home late.  I can’t miss work.  I need a break – seriously, just a small break.  Wow, it’s warm outside.  I wish I didn’t have to go back to work tonight.  I just want to go home.  My foot hurts.”

We got in the car, and drove away.

“Are you ok mom?”

“Huh? What?”

“I said are you ok?  You seem upset”.

“I’m fine – just tired.  I’ll be fine”.

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?