To the guy at the grocery store...

While I am not a mind reader, I am an expert in reading nonverbals, so don't think looking away quickly excuses you. I saw the looks, the rolled eyes, & the grimace. I cannot be positive as to if your complaint was the electric cart I was sitting in or the multiple cards used to pay for our groceries, so I'll address both. 

Firstly, the cart. I don't want to be in this cart. I want to walk freely behind a buggie, so that I can maneuver through the crowds of people, instead of being trapped behind people. I want to be able to decide how quickly I walk, instead of moving at a snails pace in this cart. (Although I have been reassured by my husband that the cart moves more quickly than I do, even on a good day.) I want to be able to grocery shop by myself, instead of bringing children who cannot anticipate my move and often get run over or a husband who is exhausted from his 60 hr work week. You see, I have fibromyalgia, osteoarthritis, and degenerative disc disease--all genetic, all life-changing and all cause limited mobility--so I am doing the best I can, in this stupid electric cart and could do without your judge mental states. 

As for the debit cards... I'm sorry that my use of multiple cards frustrates you. Here's the thing... While you were unloading your grocery basket full of groceries and pulling out your single card, I was frantically calculating the funds available, as the cost of 2 days worth of meals crossed the scanner. You see, those same ailments that require me to ride in this damn electric cart, also require me to be on thousands of dollars of medication and limit my ability to work a full-time job. My husband works his ass off, but like so many people, we live paycheck to paycheck and the last week of every month is always a stretch. Add to that the fact that child support hasn't come this week and frankly, is never regular enough to be counted on. So what you saw tonight was me using what little was left from child support last week, what was leftover from my makeup sales, and what was in my checking account, to buy my carefully selected groceries. Groceries that will last a couple of days, and aren't especially what the children want to eat, but were on sale. 

You probably will never see this post and maybe I misread your stares, but I cannot unsee the loathing in your eyes and you aren't the first to cross those lines. Tonight, I respond with writing, because I found myself to be speechless in the store. 

What? Everyone doesn't struggle with this?

<I literally never stopped crying while writing this. If it comes off as rude, I'm sorry. If it comes off as whiny, I'm sorry. If it comes off in any negative way, I'm sorry. Blogging is therapeutic for me. I enjoy writing. If there are typos, or grammar problems, please ignore them. It's hard to remember commas when you are a wreck.>

The last two days have been rough.

Like cry every 3 minutes rough. I joked about having myself admitted right along with her, but I'm not suicidal, I just can't stop crying.

I wish I weren't a crier. I wish I could keep everything bottled up, like a wine bottle with the cork tightly in place. Unfortunately, this bottle is open, the cork has been lost and I never seem to reach the end of the liquid, which would be fine, if it were actually wine and not some metaphor for the liquid that is streaming down my face and the snot that is making it difficult to breathe.

If you know me well, you know that I get angry when I cry. So imagine how I'm feeling about losing the damn cork. I. Need. This. To. Stop.

I can do all of the positive self-talk that my counselor has taught me. This will all be okay. Take one step at a time. You are doing the right thing. This isn't your fault. Breatheeeeeeeeee.

And still, the tears fall.

I can even try to logic myself into a state of peace:

LouLou (her nickname since early head-start) will be fine. They will adjust her medicine, she will move back over to Intensive Outpatient and come home at night. I will watch her like a hawk, to the point of annoying her. We will get her caught up in school, even if it means homeschooling. We will get past this.

And still I cry.

I cry for medical diagnoses for both her and her sister. Diagnoses that are genetic. Diagnoses that are life altering and barely manageable.

I will try to keep myself distracted today. Clean a little house, overcome my SPSS brainblock, convince people that their life will be better with Younique products in it (I mean, it's awesome makeup and a way you can help me buy groceries!), and I will use panda pop as a way to distract myself. But I imagine, I will still cry. And that's ok.

I've had a lot of people ask what they can do for LouLou and for us. Um... I have no answer. She wants coloring books and waterproof crayons, these ninja turtle leggings from wal-mart, and fuzzy socks. But I can get all of those things for her. She can't really have visitors and she still hasn't read all of the cards from her first visit to UBH, because she said "Idk why I'm so sad when I'm clearly loved!"

As for us... Jasen, Megan & I. I don't really know how to answer that. I'd like some stoppers for my tears ducts... do they make those? We could always use food or money. I mean, let's face it, all of these medical expenses are starting to pile up and you all know I'm not cooking, if I can't even remember to eat. (I've had 3 meals in 3 days!) And if you realllyyyy want to help, you can come clean my house or mop my floor... anyone? anyone? Dangit! :) But mostly, just the support and love that has been expressed through texts and messages, has been great. We will all get through this, one step at a time.

I will ask that you not use this time to try to sell me things that helped your uncle's cousin's sister. I don't need oils, and I have plexus and no, it doesn't help my fibro. Also, if you need to talk to me, text me. I will text back. I won't answer the phone, but I will text back.

But finally, and most importantly, please don't judge. I know plenty about the lives of those around me and I know that we all cope differently. Some eat, some drink, some smoke, some shop, some pray... and at one time or another, in my life, I've coped in those ways.

But today, I cry.

The Next Step

She's home. 

We've cried. We've laughed. We've eaten all of her favorite foods. I've bought her pretty much everything she's asked for and am not ashamed. 

Life looks normal from the outside. 

But it's not. 

Last night she slept on the couch until her sister got home. Then she crawled into bed with me and she's already asked if she could sleep with me tonight. She hasn't crawled into bed with me in over 6 years. 

This morning, I dropped her off at the IOP facility, instead of her high school. 

When she didn't reply to my text messages after school, it was all I could do not to pack my belongings and run out of statistics class. 

I told friends that I wanted to be a leach parent instead of a hovercraft parent. I want to latch on and never let go. But that is not what's best. I must walk this road with her, but I must allow her as much or as little autonomy as she wants/needs. Just like when she was little, climbing anything and everything. I couldn't keep her from climbing, so I just stood beside her and waited for her to hold out her hand and ask for help. 

When people have asked me how she is, I haven't really known how to reply. 'She's fine' is the answer that I think people want to hear, but the truth is, she's not. We have a handful of diagnoses and prescriptions that tell me that she's not fine and that we have a long road ahead of us. 

The IOP facility sent home a paper that resembles the forms sent home with preschoolers. The ones that say 'Your kid did _______ today". It seems appropriate, because recovery requires baby steps. There will be good days and bad. There will be tears and laughter. There will be times that she asks for things that I won't be ready to give. There will be learning. There will be growth. There will be healing. 

Over the last 10 days, a lot of people have reached out and recounted their own struggles with depression. Their stories have broken my heart, because very few had the support of the people around them. While I can't fix the past, I know that all of our stories together can help change the future. Together we can stop the stigma. Together we can change how we address mental illness. 

8 days...

The hospital called yesterday. We have a tentative release date for Wednesday. 

And by release, we mean drive across the parking lot to their intensive outpatient facilities, where she will immediately begin that program. 

While I am overjoyed that she will be home, the joy is tempered with the fact that this battle isn't over yet. This battle will never be over.

As proactive as I am regarding mental illness and stopping the stigma, I've noticed that I often refer to our looming diagnosis as "mental health issues," instead of mental illness. Why? Why not call a spade a spade? Because internally, I'm struggling with this. "Mental Health Issues" softens the blow. It implies that it will go away. Issues are something that can be worked out. Mediated. Issues go away. This will not. Mental illness is forever. 

And let's be honest, mental illness runs deep within our family tree. I have PTSD, panic disorder, depression. Her sister has OCD, anxiety, depression. Her father... well... Anywho... the roots run deep. But, so does the silence. It's deafening. 

I've had several people tell me that they are proud of me for being a voice for mental illness and for not being ashamed by what's 'going on'... again, softening of language. What is implied is that I am not ashamed of my child's struggle with mental illness. Hey, guess what? This stint in the hospital is killing me, but I am definitely not ashamed of my child's mental illness. This is not her fault anymore than her appendix was her fault. 

We will get through this in the same way we got through her 4 day stint in the hospital, last spring. We will ask questions. We will hold her when she cries. We will stand watch over her, to the detriment of my grades and Jasen's sleep schedule. Jasen and I will sacrifice whatever we need to sacrifice to give her the tools she needs to live with this mental illness. Because that's what good parents do. Because that's what good people do. 

[If your aren't a nerd, you  might want to skip the next paragraph.]

In all of my writing on this topic, I've noticed that I use a lot of 'war' references... "Mental illness is a battle" "[her] struggle with mental illness." I talk about mental illness like it's something to be fought against and won. Unfortunately, mental illness seems to be a lot like our country's time in the Middle East... never ending and not really won. Lives lost. Families mourning. Destruction. Ambushes. Failed attempts. Secrets. Silence. 

As a country, we need to make some changes to the stigma behind mental illness. We don't expect cancer patients to remain silent in the fight. In fact, every single time I see a doctor (which is a lot), they ask about our family history of cancer. I answer those questions with confidence, because I know that history. But if people were to ask about the family history of mental illness, I have only the diagnoses that I heard whispered about in the kitchen at my grandma's house (I was a nosy kid... what can I say?). "She was living in her car? OMG." "I tried to get him help, but the hospital turned him away." "Well, you know, her entire biological father's side had a drinking problem." "That woman is batshit crazy, but no one seems to be able to do anything about it." Ok... the last one might have come out of my own mouth a time or two. 

What if we lived in a world where mental illnesses weren't whispered about behind closed doors? What if we weren't afraid to say "_____________ is overwhelming for me and I need help"? What if friends asked how your were doing, without fear you might break with the norm and tell the truth? 

For the sake of my child and for others like her, can we please just stop the stigma? Can we talk about mental illness like we talk about any other illness? Can we be compassionate, instead of telling people to man up? Please? 

One Week...

One week. 

One week of tearful visits, daily phone calls, daily trips to drop off things needed. 

One week of guilt, questions, more questions, and tears. 

One week of praying to God, the gods, the universe. 

One week of fighting my own depression and anxiety in order to be able to function. 

One week since my baby was admitted and I miss her more than I'd ever thought possible. I know she's getting the help she needs and it's just a matter of finding the right combination of medication and therapy to help her dig her way out of the pit of despair. She didn't get there overnight and she's not going to be better overnight. 

There are several observations that I've made during this week, though: 

Friendship. I have her phone and 3 'friends' have texted to ask if she's ok---   she needs new friends. I have a great network of support, though. Friends that I know will be there always. Friends that have texted or messaged daily or semi-daily to ask how she is and how I am. Friends that sent her cards, fuzzy socks and a friend that even collected books for the unit, because she said the other girls were bored. 

Family: I have a large family and maybe it's just that they missed the post or don't want to bother me, but their silence speaks loudly. Her father called the unit once and they told him that they'd call him back, he didn't answer. I haven't heard from him since Wednesday. She's watching and again, silence speaks loudly.

People: I've watched other parents, as we've waited for visitation to start and as a previous medical assistant, but also a self-proclaimed 'expert' in nonverbals, I've learned a lot about people and have bit my tongue til it bled. Here goes... The lady at the desk is simply doing her job and you must follow the same rules that the rest of us have to follow. Yes, coming to visitation is kind of inconvenient, but it's your kid, put your damn cell phone in the locker and attend to your child's needs. Your transgendered child is perfect just the way he is and might be a little less depressed if you'd quit calling him by female pronouns. There is a serious need for family units, where you can check your entire family in and get help, because you sir are an egotistical ass and could use some therapy. There are a lot of parents that are simply overwhelmed by the mental health needs of their child...we should give parents more tools for their parenting toolbox, in this regard. Laughter sometimes helps. Blue eyeshadow has never looked good on anyone.

I could write a book on this topic and she's already talked about us doing that, when she gets out, because writing in therapeutic. This is my motivation to get my ass together and get caught up on my school work today. PhD Jess will have a greater voice than flunked out of school Jess. 

To those that have reached out, thank you. Your words have meant a lot. 

To those of you who are agast that I've put our business out there for the world to see, you are part of the problem. Mental illness is no different than those allergies you keep bitching about in your status posts. 

Mental Illness

I'm reluctant to write this blog, because of the stigma we place on mental health issues, but as with all of my life experiences, I feel like silence doesn't help anyone. 

As many of you know, I was diagnosed with PTSD, panic disorder and depression along with fibromyalgia, osteoarthritis & sleep apnea, a little over a year ago. I have spent the last year in counseling and under the care of numerous doctors. I am in a better place and can finally breathe again. 

With that said, the last year was hell and let's be honest, I checked out. I checked out of my marriage, school, friendships, but most importantly, I checked out of parenting. I simply couldn't cope with the everyday requirements of parenting two teenage daughters. Jasen took over what he could, but the rest got pushed aside. 

I am not passing judgement of myself, it simply is what it is. I did what I had to to survive and my kids got lost in the shuffle. I'm not the first or the last mom who's done this and quite frankly, if blame is to be placed, it would be on the people in my life who abused me emotionally, physically and sexually. A person can only take so much... 

Back to the issue at hand... 

The girls are both at difficult times in their lives. Meg is getting ready to graduate and go off to college. Kali is entering high school with all the social and educational stressors that involves. 

Because Meg is older and has a good network of support, she handled my checking out better than Kali. Meg was able to express her needs and learned when to ask for what she wanted. She also got a part-time job and a driver's license and quite frankly, hasn't needed me as much as her sister. 

Kali, on the other hand, needed me. She had her appendix out in May, along with several ovarian cysts and has had to have medication to help with hormone stuff. She's also had to navigate the social hell that was 8th grade and is now high school, without my words of wisdom. When she would start to talk about drama at school or girls that were bullies, I would check out, and we are now paying the consequences of my own 'checking out.'

Kali is creative, brilliant and beautiful, but she's also always had a tad of a dramatic side. This dramatic flare comes in handy for cheer, but is not especially useful in a house full of anxious people and a mother who is only here physically. After missing cheer tryouts, because of her appendix, we started to notice that she was floundering. 

Poor sleep habits, horrible diet choices, Netflix binging, mood swings, depression, self-chosen isolation and anxiety on top of her well documented ADHD made summer difficult and the start of school hell, this year. She's been struggling emotionally and educationally and once I woke up from my own depressive fog, I realized that she needed help. 

I took her in for a psych eval and another symptom was added to the list of symptoms that I had already noticed--suicidal thoughts, with a plan. The therapist, Jasen and I decided that an in house treatment plan would be best and she will stay, until they've figured out all the ins and outs of her specific mental health needs. 

Now here's the thing: When she sat in the hospital for 4 days, in excruciating pain, I posted frequently about her pains and her needs. She got cards and visits from her friends and it helped. But all of 10 people know where she is right now. Why is that? Why was it easier for me to post and ask for healing thought and prayers, when something wasn't quite right in her abdominal cavity, but I don't feel that I can do the same when the subject is mental health? Something about this isn't right. 

Kali will be fine and we will get her the care that she needs, but unless we break through the stigmas associated with mental health, she won't get the social support from loving family and friends that she also needs. If we don't aid our children in articulating their mental health needs, we create the perfect storm that has brought us to where Jasen, Meg, Kali and I are today. 

Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day! I've gotten better at handling this day (read this as not laying in the fetal position sobbing all day). But, there are always a few tears shed. Last night, I looked at Jasen and asked why my mommies didn't love me enough.

And that's really what it boils down to... Each of my mothers would likely say they loved me... But in all honesty, they didn't love me enough. 

While my bio mom would likely say that she wanted to give me a better life, the truth is, she didn't love me enough to get her shit together and be a mom. I get it. Self-esteem and self-worth issues, health problems, likely some PTSD herself... I get it. I really do get it, but getting it does absolve her from the tears I cry every Mother's Day, because my mom didn't choose me. 

My adoptive mom did her best too. Her life didn't exactly go as she had planned either. She fed me, clothed me, paid a shit ton for my screwed up mouth and sat up with me night after night as I passed gallstones. She did all the 'things' a mother was supposed to do. She was the opposite of my bio mom. She was strong and independent, with a 'I will be right attitude' and a stubborn streak. I needed those traits modeled for me, but I also needed love, compassion and forgiveness. Traits she probably had, but showed very little of to the outside world. Had I not divorced my ex, it's likely that my adoptive mom and I would have continued a cycle of 'me doing everything I could to please, but it never being enough'!  But I did get a divorce and what is, simply is. The truth is, at the end of the day, she didn't love me enough to move past my choices. 

Every week, I sit in counseling and we process my life and try to get me back to a highly functioning individual again (PTSD can suck it). But, what I've realized during my weekly sessions, is that I did 'learn' things from each of my mothers and not all of it was bad. I am strong. I am independent. I am emotionally accessible to my kids and husband (ok, ok, this is a work in progress)! 

But most importantly, I've stopped the cycle that was started generations ago. My daughters don't sit in dressing rooms crying, because I called them thunder thighs or some equally body shaming term. They don't tremble in fear, that there will be some outburst of yelling, when they have to tell me negative news. They come to me when they are scared and hurting, instead of hiding. We laugh and we love and we have an honest relationship, because I've stopped the cycle. 

They will be different mothers than I am, but I hope that when (and if) they have children of their own, they will continue to break the cycle. I hope that they see this meme and think positive thoughts about me and that they never doubt my love. And I hope they never have to question if I love them enough... 

Grief

One of my closest friend’s mom died today. She was diagnosed with lung cancer only a few months ago. She had been a smoker, but had stopped over 20 years ago. She died, not from the cancer, but because of the chemo and the weakening immune system that comes along with trying to kill the cancer within her body. She lost her battle. She fought hard; she still lost the battle. She leaves behind my friend (her only child), she leaves behind her husband and she leaves behind hundreds of people whom she touched with her kindness and generosity. Even I am grieving her loss and I barely knew her. I know that my friend is strong enough to deal with the death of her mother. She has people around her that love her and will hold her up. I want to be there, but I can’t. I have responsibilities to attend to here in Denton. But it doesn't lessen the heartache I feel for my friend or my desire to throw some clothes on and drive to Abilene for the week.

As I sit here sobbing, I think of my husband, who smoked for 20 years and still uses a vaporizer to get his nicotine fix. I think of his grandmother who died from emphysema and probably COPD, although he says it was working in the tanning factory and not the smoking that caused it. Will I be standing beside a hospital bed 20 years from now watching him take his last breath?

I also sit here sobbing, because I miss my mom. Would I even know if she were in a hospital bed crying? Would anyone think to inform me? When she chose my ex-husband over me, I wonder if she considered these things… or was she just stuck on being right and nothing else mattered. I wonder if she thinks of me now. I think of her often, especially since the pending fibromyalgia diagnosis and the difficulties that has caused and there are days that I simply want my mom. I don’t know how to fix any of this, though. 

Sigh.