RealMental

I’ve always skirting on the fringes of mental illness, I think.  My first panic attack was when I was in eighth grade, but no one was talking about panic attacks then; it was just “nervous about public speaking.”  But I kept my over the top reactions to having to do presentation or speeches under wraps well enough that no one realized how nauseated I was, or how swollen my tongue felt as I tried to squeeze the words out, or how the ringing in my ears drowned out every other sound in the room.  And, eventually, I learned how to pretend that my speeches were coming from someone other than myself, as though my real life was the same as what I did with the drama club.

I remember cutting myself in high school, not enough to do any lasting damage, but just enough to see what the blade would feel like.  But only a few times, not as a habit.  The throwing up was the same thing- every once and a while, I’d lose control and eat a pound of Oreos and stick my finger down my throat in response.  But never enough for anyone to notice and never enough for it to be a “real” eating disorder.

There were days when hauling myself out of bed and facing stuff took all of my energy.  But everyone kept telling me how charmed my life was, so I tried to convince myself that I was just being selfish or whiny, and after awhile, I found reasons that I had to fight past the fog.  I did therapy for a couple years, but my therapist was saying the same things that my sister had been telling me, and I decided to save the co-pay and listen to her advice.   Affirmations and cognitive therapy seemed to address the anxiety and depression that was identified, so I should have been fine at that point.

I reacted to problems and stress in my life by drinking too much sometimes (but nothing like the “too much” that I saw from my uncle before he hit AA, or my college roommate who let loose once she was not under her dad’s thumb), or by seeking attention from guys (but not to the point of being considered at all promiscuous), or by binge eating (yeah, I think we may have covered that one already…)

And now my children have…issues.  It’s probably self-centered for me to think all of those issues have to do with me, but every time one of the professionals asks whether there is a family history, my husband’s “Well, no one on my side of the family has been diagnosed with any mental disorders,” feels like a slap in the face and an accusation.  I’m not crazy enough to need help and medication any more, not I’ve never been quite right either.   And I don’t know how to put my own worries about whether I’m OK enough to do the right things to help the children to whom I may have passed on the crazy genes.

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.