My Big Girl Panties

My Mom’s best friend told me once that I’d better, “Put on my Big Girl Panties” and get on with it. I have put on those panties most of my adult life. Which really hasn’t been that long, so it is good that I have had that reminder.

 

E. is about to be 12. So, he keeps getting bigger and more hormonal. There is other stuff going on in the family life – so, I have been taking care of him on my own (which means giving in to his behavior because I am tired). I have always had to make the decisions. It becomes a really huge burden when things get really out of hand.  His doctor also makes me put on my BGP when making decisions. You are the Mom, you tell me what you think needs to happen. You are the doctor (my inner-child screams)! You tell me what to do!

 

Probably most parent’s worst nightmare is their child dying. With E. that is one of them. Suicide. I was late to pick him up from school several times this week. Including yesterday. He had “homework” that entailed listening to different commercials and writing down a description of them. One was a radio commercial. When he got this assignment, he stated that I was not going to help him because I listen to Public Radio that does not have commercials. Sure enough, I had Public Radio on when he got in the car and the meltdown was on before we pulled out of the parking lot. I should have pulled over. I should have gone back. I should have given him his haldol in the morning and before we left instead of letting it slide because the bottle was in my other bag yesterday and The Father was yelling for Elliot to hurry to leave for school.I had had a good day, so I felt optimistic that the rage would subside.

 

I was in the HOV lane of the most crowded highway in our area driving a stick-shift when he opened his door and tried to jump out of the car. Fight or Flight kicked in and I got the door shut. The only physical injury is my thumbnail which got yanked out of the nailbed a little. So, for a few minutes, my worst nightmare was running over my own child and his dismembered body flying all over the highway.

 

What kind of MoronMom doesn’t hospitalize him? I can explain it to you, but you won’t get it. You shouldn’t have to.

 

My day was great, but those two hours were bad.

Which Came First – the Delusion or the Loose Associations?

I can handle bad language. Violence. Rage. Tears. Homicidal threats. Suicidal threats. Playing with feces. Hysterical fits in WalMart. Dirty looks. Open criticism. Isolation. Medication. Hospitalization.

 

My undoing will be E’s deterioration. Today he waa down the street playing at the park near my parent’s house. I leave my parent’s to run to Target.  As I am driving, I see him sort of stumbling down the sidewalk towards me. He will not make eye contact, mumbles that he fell into the lake, and then walks out in front of my car into oncoming cars. He never blinks. It is becoming almost a daily occurrence – this inability or unwillingness to make eye contact. He has always been delusional – nothing new. Now, these bizarre stories or thoughts will come out in the middle of a “normal” conversation. My sister said she’d like to see inside of his head. It would just words floating around and slamming together into sentences.

 

Every single day he becomes unable to control his eyes. He will not look at me in the eyes. He is huge – bigger than I am almost. I have to chase him down and get him back to reality. What happens when he doesn’t come back?

 

His pants keep falling down because he likes to put his belt around his waist but not through his belt loops.

 

He eats a baked potato with his fingers.

 

He keeps talking in a British accent.

 

He is almost 12.

 

It is so fucking hilarious to share his bizarre stories on Facebook. If I don’t laugh, I will fade away. Insanity is funny. How can I do this? How can i watch him turn into a disorganized schizophrenic? What would you do? I would like someone to just tell me what to do. How to fix it. How to not come undone. How to look at my life and not see myself in the nunnery after everyone has gone.  How? Why are all of his delusions centered around Ohio? Do you think if I went there I would find my answer? Do you? Do you? Do you?

Nightmare

I have not been sleeping well. I woke up at 12:17a.m. last night and had all of these revelations at once:

I went to UNT because it had the latest admissions deadline

I got a degree in Theater even though I was a terrible actress

I got pregnant before I even knew how that really worked

I got pregnant a second time on purpose

I have been in parenting crisis mode for almost 12 years

I know nothing about the real world (all of this time has passed while I have been in this insular bubble of my own creation)

I got sick before I knew what it meant to be well

I am funny when I write but not when I talk

I do not cry often – but, have trouble stopping once I start

 

Some Apples on My Family Tree Need ECT

Hold still! This won't hurt a bit!!!

Someone asked me why I think the diagnosis of schizophrenia/Schizoaffective Disorder popped up in E.  Do I think it is genetic or environmental (environmental meaning diet, pesticides, vaccinations, etc.)? No, I do not think those aspects of one’s environment can be the culprits responsibl for a disease of this magnitude. Genetics, yes. How so? I’m not schizo. The Father is not schizo. Where does the “S” factor come into play? Then this person asked me to explain what I thought – I love to share theories!

I will give it a try without talking too much about immediate family.  I do not really need to, which is the basis of my theory anyhow. My diagnosis according to my psychiatrist would be Cyclothymia – even though that term is not used anymore. Major depressive episodes followed with mild mania. I also have scarring in my frontal lobe from MS. I have too many factors to really have an accurate diagnosis that could be responsible for E.’s diagnosis.  All of my immediate family members have some form of depression. (sorry guys) MI is lurking around.

Then I can branch off up and sideways in the family tree. That is where the crazy really is. The Father has an Aunt who is schizophrenic. I have one that has no diagnosis from a doctor – but… I might give her a similar one. My grandparents. They are fine. Their parents and family were not. My grandmother’s mother had a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized in Timberlawn (ahhhhh. We have a long history around these parts) and had ECT. Her father died a crazy crazy crazy man. My grandfather – whew. His family lived in the hills of Arkansas. So, there are many stories of craziness. Apparently there was an aunt who could levitate furniture. Nothing against levitation, but it seems doubtful and sort of makes you wonder why so many people saw her lift the heavy oak dining room table.

My theory if psychosis emerges in your child and you wonder why? why? why? – start looking for some familial skeletons in the closet. Those skeletons will most likely have a story to tell.

 

Marriage Minesweeper

I used to play Minesweeper. I never read the rules, I do not know the point, and I always lost. But, I liked to play. I do not talk about marriage to anyone, really. Nobody asks me questions about it and I just do not know what a normal marriage is like. Anyone who has a kid with MI (and I am growing so tired of that term) knows what I mean. Neurotypical kids are probably hard enough to take care of and still be a grownup.

Once in a great while you meet someone who understands you on a level that nobody else would. You do not have to explain yourself to this sort of person. I was having this conversation with said person and lots of people were around. I made some comment about marriage (nothing really, I am not sure what I even said).  My worst nightmare followed.  Everyone around heard and someone started asking questions. Giving suggestions. Pressing the issue. What is the root cause of the lack of communication?

To try to explain is impossible. It is larger than I can wrap my head around, really. What can you say when a child is the cause of everything? The fault of nothing? That I do not really know how to talk at all? I finally started to talk about one of my worst days. My worst day followed days after. When I dropped E. off at this dismal facility and they wouldn’t release him to me because  I was covered in bite marks. I dropped my basket that day. Lost my shit. Almost learned what involuntary committment meant. I was alone back in the ward losing my sanity and child all in the same moment.

This isn’t a comment on The Father. It is just me and the fact that I do all of the decision-making. I have set it up that way. So, it is my own problem with communication. I felt so naked talking about it. No, not naked. Naked would have felt better. Just, it is really better if I do not talk about things. Do not give me advice. For your own sake. ’Cause then I might talk.  For fuck’s sake,  I am the last person anyone should discuss parenting or marriage with.

Psychotic Break (Me or E?)

Psychotic Break (Me or E?).

Psychotic Break (Me or E?)

It is blog everyday month according to the Hallmark of blogging holidays. Or Facebook. Or the Internet.I’ll write.  So, sure. E. is having a psychotic break, I guess. He completely went nuts on Halloween. Thought the cupcakes he ate were poisoned. I had to force him to school today. He went barefooted. He kept licking himself and his brother in the car. He said he has lost control of his eyeballs. He has to hold his eyes still. He started moaning and rocking back and forth in CVS. Then, I noticed he was still barefooted. I got him home. I finally got him to watch a dvd. He hit the dvd player to pause the movie. So he could find his guitar to play the theme song of the movie. It took ten minutes to get that out of him by following him around the house asking what? why? Do I need to add we don’t have a guitar? Sure – there is no f%cking guitar in this house. The UPS man came and mixed up my package with some man down the street. E. wandered from house to house until he actually found the man and switched packages. Barefoot and dirty and half naked. And talking to himself. In the rain. I just watched from the porch. He came back so I didn’t have to call the police. I have to go now. He just asked for a hot dog with chocolate on it.

So… This is How Elvis Felt!

Here is my dignity: Dignity. I am going to put it aside for a bit <———–Dignity. A couple of days ago, I was using the restroom when E. bellowed my name and I knew he was coming to find me. So, I started to hop up and get myself put together to look a little dignified when being given his list of demands. Only, nothing in my body worked. My brain said stand – my body just sat. I had the strongest sense of deja vu. I knew this is just how Elvis felt before he flushed his last flush. He must have thought, “All of these years I have been the King and this is how I am going to go. Out on my throne.” I know that he was surprised and dismayed when he had that last glimpse of insight that he wasn’t getting off the toilet in time. Because in his head and heart, he still felt King. I get it. I know how it feels to think on the inside I am awesome and can do handstands and cartwheels and carry my heavy 2 year-old. There is just a decline in function. It is the nature of Multiple Sclerosis. I could do a handstand 18 months ago. (with my legs against the wall, but still)

 

Here is the CLINCHER. THIS IS THE PART YOU NEED TO READ. E.’s mental decline is matching my physical decline. I met with his counselor of his new school to go over his academic testing. His range was 2.2 to 3.1 in all subjects. The really sad part of me that doesn’t want to face facts actually asked what those numbers mean. It is his grade level, dummy. He should be in 6th grade. Those scores indicate his I.Q. has probably dropped. What will he do when he grows up? This is my question to her. What will happen if I can’t take care of him? Assisted living, “college experience”, trade school, group home, living with family members… Ouch. Unlike Elvis, I do not have a Graceland to give to Elliot.

Haldol… Take Me Away…

I read today that research is uncovering genetic mutations possibly responsible for schizophrenia.  I find myself not the least bit interested.  It does not seem like anything will be produced from these studies in time.  In time for what? I do not really know WHAT.  These years, months, weeks, days, minutes, seconds keep slipping through my fingers with E. It does not feel like anything we do brings him relief.

I would pay a king’s ransom for his violent behavior to subside.  Aggression aside, how does his 11-year-old psyche handle his perception of reality?  He said he feels like someone is following him.  Looking over his shoulder.  He finds himself turning to look and nobody is there.  I can’t imagine how scary that is for a child.  I know that if I felt like that all of the time – it would drive me crazy.

He is so angry with me sometimes.  When he says he feels someone following him, it reminds me that I must not appear to him the way I think I do.  Maybe he is mad because I can not save him. Maybe I look like a monster.

We changed risperdal to Haldol.  E.’s father was at this appointment and the Doctor was explaining why switching from risperdal to Haldol isn’t that big of a deal (I mean, he’s already drooling and gaining weight and really not seeing the benefit of the drug, so we may as well just switch to the ancient atypical and see if it makes a dent in behavior).  I just interrupted and said it is fine.  The Father doesn’t realize why Haldol is a big deal.  I just do not care anymore.  Each pill is as useless and barbaric as the one before it.  At this point in time, nothing seems crazy to me.  My life with E. is surreal.

Tales From the Ward: The Bold Boy*

*Please note that this is a tale loosely based on the happenings of the inpatient floor of the psychiatric unit at the hospital E. visits.  No real names (obviously since I don’t know them) are used or anything other than my perception of the event to tell the tale. Also, take note that this is the benefit of not having an electronic in front of my face: observation of real human interaction.  Well, some might see that as the pitfall of not having an electronic in front of one’s face.  I see it as a bonus.

 

If you are visiting the inpatient floor (houses waiting area and closed/locked unit), your kid is about to stay or has stayed more than once.  We are so awesome and long-term customers that all of the staff know our names and faces.  The family across from us were first-timers about to put their kid in to stay.  They were partaking in the “if we talk loud enough and long enough maybe all of this will go away” waiting room conversation.  In this situation the stress usually gets the parents and the psychological reasons for the stay begin to become clear to even the bystander.  This Father decided to ease his younger (chubby and bespectacled) son’s stay by talking about the older (obviously cooler and not crazy) brother incessantly.  The Father went on and on about this older brother – his phone, his truck, his football practice…  The  Bold Boy at one point sneered and asked why the older brother would need “roll bars” for his truck (I have to say I am in total agreement.  Is this older brother some modern-day  Evil Knevil?).  The Father said it is to make the truck look cool.  The older brother wants these roll bars to make his truck cooler.  The Father (suffering from WordVomit) went on to say it is the same reason The Bold Boy chose to wear his clearly awesome (too tight t-shirt with dorky graphics) shirt instead of a plain shirt *insert awkward SILENCE SILENCE SILENCE*.

 

So, the family goes back with the doctor, then back to the waiting room with The Bold Boy holding back tears – he has met his fate. Then, God bless him, he put up a fight. He decided he was NOT going into the Ward.  He yelled this at his father. He put up physical resistance.  The Father urged him to quit yelling. To which The Bold Boy bellowed (in the same manner a dolphin might), “What are you going to do about it? Arrest me and throw me into a mental hospital?  TOO LATE!!!  You already did that, didncha?”.  Ah, touche’. Way to go, Bold Boy.  You go in there (because I’ve never seen anyone best that 6’7 orderly yet and they’ve called the police again – so you literally have very few choices), do your time, store up some extra resentment towards your older brother – BUT KEEP THAT SPIRIT, KID! You are going to need it.  Learn to direct it in a positive way and you are going to go far.

 

True Greatness might reside in the older brother in his awesome truck.  I don’t know.  I do know that True Greatness resides in those who are met with the unthinkable and learn to survive and then thrive.  I could tell The Bold Boy has that moxie, that edge that will allow him to think just a little bit deeper and a little bit harder.  I have my own Bold Boy- so, my belief and love goes with you guys when you have to go to the Ward. Knowing that you will learn to thrive in your own sweet time.