RealMental

Periodically I will get a call from my mother with some bit of news that ranges anywhere from “I found your collection of things you found in old cellar holes” to “you know So-and-so, weren’t They in your class?  Well, they died.”  Or there is the very common “In the interest of full disclosure I should tell you that ______ has A. fallen and needs a cast, B. gotten into immense trouble, C. been taken by ambulance, D. is going through great trauma or the ever popular E. has basically nothing wrong with them but “hi!”

My mother does this because I have four sisters and we live in four states.  There are 10 offspring between us.  My parents are divorced.  There are those of us with mental illness (check!), physical illness (check!), developmental problems, chronic risk factors (check!), jobs, no jobs, friends that are old (sorry Mom), and any other thing you can think of.  And my mother sometimes has to be the initial clearinghouse for information because either it happens to or near her or well, sometimes when you have a tummy ache you just want to call your mom.  If the tummy ache is bad enough your mom then has to call someone else so they can check in on you too.  That is a lucky situation when it works.

The thing is that somewhere along the way the lines got crossed and my mother started to lose track of who she had told what and when and because my sisters and I were growing older- we called her on it.  Thus was born the chronic abuse and fodder for sisterly laughter of  “In the interest of full disclosure…”  My mother will call to tell me all sorts of things that start that way and you never know how they will end.

“In the interest of full disclosure…because I don’t want to forget to tell somebody…I fell and broke my hand.”  Very, very serious.  She is a pianist and an author.

“In the interest of full disclosure…because I don’t want somebody to say I didn’t tell them… your Grandfather’s house had a mouse.”  And…?

“In the interest of full disclosure…don’t say I never tell you things…the ice cream stand is closing for the summer.”  That mattered when I rode a bike with a banana seat and stuffed dollar bills in my shoes but now I can get ice cream anywhere.  But she wants me to know.

“In the interest of full disclosure…we should all do something to help because your sister Miriam has been having a hard time and she needs all of us.” Okay- that was good and that was important a few years ago when I broke down after my daughter’s first birthday, succumbing to my secret and severe postpartum depression and re-activated PTSD.  I am sure she made those calls.  There was disclosure no one was ready for and I am sure some wished she was calling about a broken arm or a church fair catastrophe.  I am so grateful for that one and other calls I am confident she has made.  Some of them- I could do without.  I don’t mind knowing things I just don’t always like when they start with “in the interest of full disclosure.”  It has started to feel a bit loaded.

It has become a real sticking point in my head lately as I write here and when I get to writing at my blog.  Disclosure.  Full disclosure.  My blog doesn’t mention my craziness with any sincerity, nor does it reference that I write here.  Here I write openly and honestly but how much have I disclosed?  How much will I?  How much do you want to know and how will I know when I have hit on something that makes you eager for more disclosure?  How many times can I say disclosure before you stop reading??

Many of the contributors here are so free with their thoughts and I envy that some.  I want to just spew it all out and rid the pits of my stomach, heart and brain from the burden they have grown accustomed to carrying.  But I also want to use my name and share with a select few that I write here.  Do I want to share all of this with the PTA I just paid $25 to become a member of (Did I really do that?  What was I thinking?)?  No.  The guy at Starbucks who gives me free coffee because I gave him a few books I was done with and for once didn’t feel the need to covet- does he need access to my disclosure?  Neighbors I am finally getting to know after living on this street for 3 years?  Even my family?

I think I wrote some about this in my first post so I should stop now.  What I am really getting at is this:  My mom has a system that works but has flaws.  She works hard to remember to call everyone (or request a phone tree operation) and begin with “In the interest of full disclosure…” so we kind of know what is coming.  It means that I can keep up with some things I otherwise couldn’t.  It also means I sometimes know useless crap.  And I can never expect her to remember or be able to call with each incident or item worthy of disclosure, so I do miss things.  Despite my rational understanding though- I still get angry at her for not calling.

I need a system.  I need to know what I believe is best and most valuable to write about here.  Full disclosure isn’t necessary but I am guessing more disclosure could be a good thing.  As is always the issue for any writer: a crystal ball that let me see what everyone reading needed to connect with or wanted to get a view of would be helpful.

A few things I haven’t yet disclosed: *I know postpartum depression backwards and forwards (and would love to hear from anyone else who does- please comment or email) and yet still I want more babies.  *I am on Facebook but there are so many people from my youth who know me as being “sick” that I get stressed out just writing my status.  *I just created an amazing organic heirloom tomato and apple salsa and gave it all away but now people want the recipe and I don’t have one.  *I have blue eyes and can’t afford to fix my hair color which should be (and is about 3 inches down) a crazy rich red with blondish-goldish highlights at the crown.  It looks awesome when it is done and I never compliment myself so…good hair dresser.

In the interest of full disclosure- I sat down to “start” this post and never thought I could finish it without losing steam or getting distracted.  My iced latte now has no ice and I missed two calls.  Plus my feet are a little tingly from poor positioning…  Each word I write here is a form of disclosure because my name is attached and I picked the word.  I hope I am picking the right ones and trust that with time will come clarity.

“Human salvation demands the divine disclosure of truths surpassing reason.” – St . Thomas Aquinas

You know that essay that’s floated around in the past couple decades, that one about planning your trip to Italy, and being greeted upon the landing of the flight with “Welcome to Holland“?  Mostly, the analogy is used when you find out that your child has Down’s Syndrome or some other physical developmental disorder.  But I’ve been thinking about it lately.

Having a child with behavioral or mood disorders is a different kind of challenge than having a child with Down’s or MS or whatever.  No one thinks you’re a bad parent if they see your epileptic child have a seizure.  Folks don’t look at the wheelchair and say your child just needs to put his mind to walking instead of you making excuses.  Giving insulin to your diabetic child won’t make anyone accuse you of taking the easy way out, of asking the drug industry or the doctors to give you a quick fix instead of you doing your duty as a mother.  On the other hand, sometimes I get the chance to forget that Hoss (and even Princess and Little Joe, in their own ways) is anything other than mainstream.  I don’t have to change my house’s layout or the foods we eat or what activites are acceptable to accomodate a physical impairment.

Having a child like Hoss makes you appreciate small courtesies.  When you see a rage outburst strong enough to cause a hole punched in the wall from someone who is barely 4 feet tall, it makes the sight of that same little body tangled up in Disney bedsheets more peaceful and innocent.  Hearing him call me “Mommy” when he’s upset, instead of the more grown up “Mom” that he has reverted to as of late or the more untypable words he calls me in the heat of a meltdown, reminds me of how he is still my baby boy.  I no longer hold out hope that he’ll be an angel in the classroom; I just consider it a victory when he goes a full day without lashing out at his teachers or classmates.

We’ve started a new medication this week, one which the doctor tried to downplay the scariness of somewhat by calling it an “anti-manic.”  When you live with a child like Hoss, you’ve long since learned to gird yourself against terms like “anti-psychotic” or “behavioral intervention plan” or “special education tag of severe emotional disturbance.”  You prepare yourself to hear those things, and you learn that they are only words.  You stop caring what the problem is called, as long as you have a path to mitigate the problem.

I arrived a bit late to the conference to discuss Hoss’ re-entry into school following his recent suspension.  The front-office woman who took me to the conference room greeted me by saying that she was glad that he was back, and that he said he had missed her.  The adults in the conference spoke to Hoss as much as they spoke about Hoss.  Everyone has a job as we determine the best way to get him through his day, from home to beforecare, from beforecare to class, from class to aftercare, and from aftercare to home.  We talked about the common language we would use, and the open lines of communication we would have to keep the cycle moving and alert everyone else to any changes or disruptions.  We do this because we all care.

Today it finally hit me that I was hearing “Your son is smart” or “Your son is funny” or “Your son is charming” and the sentence did not continue with “but…”  When you have a child with emotional and behavioral disorders, a standalone compliment is a tulip.  Maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to adjust to Holland.

I wrote that post on my personal blog on March 13 of this year.   On March 16, barely two weeks after his eighth birthday, Hoss had a break that caused him to feel the need to run away from school, resulting in a search by the county police and his admittance to an inpatient psychiatric facility.   My husband left for a business trip at the same time, so I was on my own to handle the ramifications of signing the intake papers, and on my own to keep the family from falling apart emotionally.   I guess I don’t know Holland so well after all, but I’m trying my best to learn.