whiteshrtgrl

Dear Sir(s)

c.c. MLA, School Superintendent, School Trustee, District School Advocate
b.c.c. Step-dad

I’m am writing to you today about my daughter, that is currently enrolled in High School. We are having some issues, and I’d like to give you a bit of background before I ask any questions.

My daughter is 14 years old, currently enrolled in Grade 9. About half way through grade 7, she started to develop chronic stomach pain, and began missing a lot of school. In total, she missed approx. 49 days of the last half of the year – so pretty much all of it. Unknowingly to me, she had developed anorexia, and was suffering from bullying at school. In September of grade 8, she texted her cousin and said this would be her last day. She went to school to say goodbye to her friends, but ended up having a type of nervous breakdown as her brain couldn’t handle the reality of what she had planned. She was taken by ambulance to Alberta Children’s Hospital, where she stayed and received treatment for just over 5 months. I didn’t find out about some other things till January, but once I did, I immediately took action.

My daughter worked incredibly hard to overcome the many issues she was suffering from . While in hospital, she attempted suicide 5 times, was involved in self harm, and her anorexia got worse. Once deeper treatment started, things started to turn around and she rapidly began to improve.

Once hospital was done, she transitioned to ADTP, where she completed 4.5 months of extreme psychotherapy, as well as school classes to complete the core subjects of grade 8. Once she graduated ADTP, she was transitioned to an out patient at YCuSP, where she is still receiving trauma treatment. She has gone through full testing through the specialists at YCuSP, and was found to be “gifted” in many areas, and above average in all the others. Other students averages are her lowest scores. Her diagnoses are: Extreme Anxiety disorder, PTSD, OCD, ADD, and Anorexia with binge/purge tendencies.

Currently, she is at a healthy weight, no longer self harms, is not suicidal, and is bright and optimistic about her future.

Last May she began to transition to high school. The VP was dedicated to her success, and made every effort to help her and make a plan. He assured us that no matter how difficult, the school was there for us and would be dedicated to her success, no matter what. She was given full access to the healing arts program, and the chat room was a great support for her. During the summer, she was tremendously excited to get back to “normal”, knowing there would be challenges, but understanding it would be a gradual transition.

September came, and she was nervous but also excited. She wore some old jeans and a plaid shirt so she wouldn’t bring extra attention to herself. These were kids she’d been with since preschool, and it felt a little weird for her to be back after missing almost 2 years of school.

She started taking a full course load, with flex class for extra help, a guidance counselor as a go to and the chat room for extra support. Unfortunately, there was a new VP as the former one had been moved. The drama teacher took special interest in her, and invited her to participate in his class daily, which took her away from flex. She absolutely loved drama and couldn’t quit talking about it. There wasn’t a single aspect of it that she wasn’t enthused about – but she was missing flex which was an issue. Quite quickly she started getting behind. The exhaustion of a full day of school left her overwhelmed and unable to handle the homework load. I asked the school for a meeting, and we talked strategy for success. Her support teacher made sure that she knew she was to be in flex, and that drama should not be a substitute. It came time for the school play and auditions, and she was elated. She knew her chances of getting a part as a grade 9 were slim, but practiced her audition piece tirelessly, and practiced lines with a friend as much as she could. She did her audition, and was very proud of herself.

Then it started.

The drama teacher posted the part list, and sure enough she didn’t get a part. Other grade 9’s got to work on sets, or lighting, but she was left completely crushed. She went to talk to the drama teacher, and he gave her no excuse. She begged to even mop the floors and clean up after, just to be at practice and watch, but he said no. We could not figure out why, as he took such interest, and then wanted nothing to do with her.

Meet the teacher night came, so I went in to the school to speak with the guidance teacher. My daughter had written a letter to advocate for herself, finished off a huge project, and went to him repeatedly to give her a chance but he just put her off. I waited 1.5 hours to talk to her guidance counselor, and when I did, I was completely shocked. She told me that the drama teacher had heard that my daughter was on drugs, and potentially dealing drugs and wanted nothing to do with her. He’d had a scare the year before with some students, and wanted nothing to do with her. She said her behavior was erratic, and made her think the same. Clearly, they had never seen a teen with her diagnoses.

I went home confused, and very worried, so I immediately called YCuSP to discuss the situation. We set up a meeting quite quickly with the school, in which myself, the team from YCuSP, teachers and administration, and eventually my daughter attended. Her practical nurse explained how not only had she passed every drug test – and she’s had many – but she has never even registered on one. A discussion was had between YCuSP asking why the school had never reached out to YCuSP, and there was no answer. Eventually, the VP asked my daughter to come in to the room, and was fairly insistent on pulling her from the FI program, and aggressively told her she had to start attending. No apology was ever given for the drug accusations, which unfortunately spread to many of the teachers, and other kids in the school.

She couldn’t do anything without someone being suspicious. Stories began to spread about her acquiring crack, that she was sleeping in bank vestibules on weekends, and how she must be using. When I asked for proof of any of this, the VP just said to me that kids had texts, but she had never seen them.

Eventually, my daughter became more and more disheartened, and got further and further behind. She was tremendously lonely, and the kids she had grown up with avoided her in class, hallways, and outdoors. She spoke to me about entering her English class, and being insulted by the teacher in front of everyone, or pointed out in another class how far behind she was, which was terribly embarrassing.

Shortly thereafter, the VP forbid her to use the chat room for support, saying it was only for successful kids that had their work done, even though they had never told her this. The room was presented to her as a support place, not as a place for successful kids. I remember walking in to the office, and seeing the vp with a huge box of smarties candy, and she told me “smartie day” was her favorite day, because she got to hand out treats to all the smart kids. This didn’t sit well with me either. My daughter was forced to sit in the classes, even though she was behind, and was not allowed to be in a separate situation. When I addressed this with administration, she had no answer as to why this was happening, but agreed it was being enforced.

At one point, the counselor, told my daughter that if she maybe changed her appearance and tried to blend in more, she would be more accepted and wouldn’t feel so alone. She came home crying that day. With the bridge burned with her counselor, with teachers and students giving her a hard time, and no support from administration, she would go to school, but sit in the library or hide in the bathroom to avoid feeling bullied and embarrassed.

Approximately 2.5 weeks ago, the school reached out to me to set up a meeting and talk about things. My daughter had made a plan with her science teacher, and was invited to come catch up at the school during exams. I arranged transportation for her every day, and she went to the school and worked. I did not consent to PAT’s, so it seemed like a great plan. On the Thursday of the first week of exams, she had gone to the school and was sitting in the chat room working. One of the school aids came to the class, and in front of the other kids, told her she had to leave the school immediately.

My daughter called me immediately and said they were making her leave the school, and could I come pick her up – she was crying and very upset. None of this made any sense to me, so I came from work as quickly as I could. I went in to the office towards the VP’s office, and she was standing outside of it and threw her hands up in the air when she saw me. They had been in a fighting match, and my daughter had used a swear word in the process, making her even angrier. I asked if we could sit down and talk, and she said no – that she had to run exams. Her support teacher was in one of the offices finishing a meeting, so I insisted we sit down and talk, rather than wait another 4 days.

I asked why we were asked to make these catch up arrangements and then was being asked to leave the school. The VP said she wasn’t done enough work to be at the school, and I argued that that was the reason why she was there. After going back and forth, we found out that administration and teachers had not communicated with each other, causing more embarrassment and stress.

They agreed that they felt my daughter was getting worse rather than better. She had lost her spark and the spring in her step and was acting more and more withdrawn. They told us they didn’t feel they could do anything for her, and that she wasn’t sick enough to attend YCuSP for school, but wasn’t able or ready to attend their school or any other school either. When they asked my daughter what she wanted, she cried and told them how much she hated it there. She described the treatment from teachers and administration as prejudicial and judgemental. She spoke to the fact that just because kids smoke, have pink hair, or dress differently doesn’t mean they’re bad people, and yet they’re harassed and treated as criminals. She was on a modified program that started later, however she was repeatedly confronted in the hallways accused of skipping class, when someone next to her that was a “good student” was not spoken to at all.

The VP suggested we go look at the Learning Center, and suggested she’d do better there. As we left the school, my daughter asked me if she had been expelled, and I answered, “I really don’t know. I don’t know if they can really do that?”

I’ve been to speak to the VP about the program at the learning center, and we’re both concerned it’s really not suited for her at this time of year. Grade 9 is treated as junior high in their program, and all classes are full year. They are also home based, self lead, with heavy reading and writing requirements. She would have to finish 4 core subjects in full within 4.5 months, basically on her own.

I have asked the VP to provide a letter giving reason why they can not accommodate my daughter, and why they have suggested somewhere else for her, but they are saying that this was all our idea. They have told us bridges have been burned, and the VP admitted that she looks at the “parking lot kids” as different. Her statement to us was that she’s an administrator, and when there’s a problem, she has to get rid of it.

The learning center asked me to write you an email, and explain the situation we’re in. Both of us agreed that it may not be the best choice. She needs some support, and to feel some success. She has stated how much she wants to succeed, to graduate, and to move on to post secondary education, but is terrified that no one will take her. if you spoke to her you would see that she’s a bright, well spoken young lady.

With other high schools not being a possibility for various reasons, our high school burning their bridges, and with the learning center not really being set up for grade 9’s, I am at a bit of a loss with what to do. My daughter desperately wants to be given a chance to succeed, but after 2 years out of the system, and the first half of grade 9 being disastrous, I need help to find what another alternative would be. I’m a single mom with no support, and definitely can’t home school – plus home school is definitely not recommended by her counselors and psychiatrist.

Right now we are in a state of limbo. My daughter does not feel welcome, and the paperwork has not yet been done to withdraw. I don’t feel I can honestly advocate for the learning center like the high school wants me to, as I don’t think it will set her up to be successful.

Can you please let us know what options are available for us? The high school has not helped or provided any other suggestions, and as time passes the situation gets more serious. I don’t have the money to just plunk her in to a private school situation. She does not want to be grouped with kids that have been expelled, or doing drugs with behavior issues. Although they may be great kids still, she wants the chance to be serious and surrounded by supportive, caring, positive influences.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read our story. I’m hopeful there is something that can be done, and very determined to find out what that is. She really deserves a chance.

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Kind regards,

P.S. some details have been left out…..for reasons I can’t say…..

February 3, 2016 0

Ready or Not…

“Hi, mom?”

“Hey Sweetie, what’s up?”

“Can you come pick me up?”

“Now? Are you done your work?”

“I have to leave now, they said I have to leave right now.”

“My lunch is in 10 minutes. I’ll come right there.”

It’s been a rough school year. The plan was to transition my daughter in to the regular stream and help her feel successful. She was so excited to go back, see old friends, and get back to learning. The plan was to have a modified schedule, with extra time for support at the school, and access to the Healing Arts room whenever she needed it.

Things started out fine. Science was great, and her english teacher ended up being my oldest son’s childhood football coach, so we had a bit of a chuckle about that. The drama teacher was taking a special interest, and inviting her to classes to participate which she absolutely loved. She spent tons of time working on an audition for the school play, knowing full well that new students don’t usually get parts, but she was so excited she was even willing to mop the floor if it meant she could just watch and learn.

Then, it started. A rumour began to spread about the pink haired girl who liked to cross her legs in her desk. She also would stand outside in her bare feet, and would wear colorful flowy clothing. This was no normal girl – she must be up to something. The drama teacher posted the parts list for the play, and as expected, she didn’t get a part. No worries – surely working on sets, cleaning up, mopping floors would be a way to enjoy what was happening, but the teacher said no. Since when did a teacher say no to someone helping with no agenda – just to be helpful?

I picked her up from school, and with tears she told me about what happened.

“Why won’t he let me in? I can’t even mop the floor, and he won’t even look at me. He just says I have other things to deal with – I need to focus on my classes?”

“There must be a misunderstanding. Why don’t you go talk to him, and ask him to explain what happened and why the change of heart?”

“Yeah – ok. I’m going to send him an email, and tell him how passionate I am about this, and how it excites me. He has to know I’ll do anything to catch up – and will work really hard. I’ve got to try.”

The email was written, but the response was the same. No. Absolutely not. Don’t ask again.

No is not my favorite word, and if I’ve learned one thing about myself – I don’t always respond very well to it. Give me an unreasonable no, and I just can’t stand by and accept it. So, I did what any mama bear would do. I went in to the school, and sat in the office until someone would explain to me. I sat there for over an hour, just waiting. Another 30 minutes went by – still waiting. Finally, the guidance counselor invited me in to her office to talk. She told me how my daughter was using drugs, and dealing drugs in school. She told me how the drama teacher got spooked by her involvement as a dealer. She told me she seemed distracted, and bounces from thing to thing at school. How she’s jittery, and can’t concentrate – just like kids on drugs.

“So, where did you get the information that my daughter is a drug dealer? Do you have any proof?”

“Well, we’ve observed her and she has the behaviors of kids that are using. Could you provide us with a drug test? Have you even had her tested?”

I sat and listened in shock. After everything we’ve been through, and now there’s drugs involved? Could it be true? No way. Maybe? Seriously, no way. But I’ve been wrong before. I can’t believe this.

“I don’t believe it. I need proof. She’s been tested repeatedly over the last year and a half. Every program she’s been in tests regularly, and I’ve never heard anything about drugs.”

“Just watch. We’re saying we’re very concerned. Maybe if she changed the way she looked – people might not be so suspicious.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

I went home, and sat down on the couch, and was just honest with my daughter. As the tears rolled down her cheeks, I tried to reassure her that judgement should never be made because of how someone looks, but unfortunately it happens. We made a plan and had YCUSP reassure the school that there had never been even a trace of drugs or questionable results in her tests.

That was the start of the downhill slide.

Fast forward to today. Make no mistake, I know full well that my daughter is very behind in school. She’s missed many classes, sometimes days, and has spent a lot of time hiding in the bathroom. Kids she grew up with have shunned her because she’s weird and abnormal, after all, kids who have pink hair and pierced noses must be trouble makers. Teachers have made comments in front of the entire class and made her sit alone from the rest of the class because she’s behind. Teachers harrassed her in the hall, making her explain every day why she is there later than other kids. And today. Today she was removed from a room of kids studying and doing homework, because she hadn’t done enough work. I had made special arrangements for transportation, we had made a plan with teacher for success, and yet in front of the other kids she was told she had to leave the school immediately.

“I’m on my way. I’m coming in – I want to talk to whoever is in charge. This is ridiculous – we had a plan.”

“Your daughter is not happy here. We feel she is sliding backwards and getting worse. This is the wrong environment, and she can’t be here. There’s nothing more we can do for her until she is better. She’s just not ready.”

That’s what this year was supposed to be about. Transitions. Ready or not, we would work at it and try to make things work. The regular school system has a lot of help for regular kids, doing fairly well with regular grades, regular hair, regular clothes and families, and regular interests. Take a kid who attends regularly, finishes the majority of the work, and feels anxiety in class – there’s no end of sympathy and help for them. Take a kid with colored hair, different clothes, a piercing or two, that shakes from their anti-depressants or ADHD meds, and has enough anxiety that it’s hard to enter the class room, and they get sent to the office for being a dramatic and lazy – just looking for attention. “There’s nothing we can do with you. You don’t do your work. Why do you even come here?”

I sat and watched the tears roll down my daughter’s face today, as she spoke about the treatment she has received over the last 5 months from students and teachers. The Vice Principle sat and listened, and even admitted her job hasn’t been to assume positive intent. She’s an administrator, and if there are suspicions, she needs to get rid of them.

We left the school with their words ringing in my ears. “This is not the place for you. We want you to get healthy and be happy – see a smile on your face. You’re not ready for this school or any really. You need to feel successful before you can fit in to this kind of system. I’m sorry we couldn’t do that for you and wish you the best. You can always come back.”

“Did I just get kicked out of school?”

“I really don’t know. I don’t think they can actually do that, but it kind of feels like it, doesn’t it?”

“Now what?”

“I don’t know – I really don’t know. We have some thinking to do. I’m tired – and I need to think.”

January 22, 2016 0

My Head Has a Heartbeat

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s your daughter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

January 20, 2016 0

Insignificance

“I remember things going dark.

Eventually all I could hear was my heart beat.

Behind my eyes would turn spotted, then red……

And eventually things would go dark.

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

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

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

“Ummmmm. Not great.”

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

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

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

“I cried today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 4, 2015 2

The Walnut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 15, 2015 0

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

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

routerecalculation

mental health blog

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