Sparks and Butterflies...

But aside from that, she's still completely normal

What the Hell Happened to Me?

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In a word… Life.

I was looking at my blog and realized that I haven’t written consistently since 2016. Wow. And then life went crazy.

Here’s a very short synopsis, and I hope to come back write more specifically.

  • Mom died.
  • The after mom stuff – like what happened to her body and teaching dad how to function.
  • Getting used to dad’s new normal – which includes hording.
  • Getting used to our new normal.
  • Sassy dying.
  • Pebbles dying.
  • Dad becoming more dependent on us.
  • Dad getting sick.
  • Dad dying.
  • The after dad stuff. Like my family being fucking crazy, and death bringing out the very worst in people, and realizing I really don’t have anyone but Jay. Finding out what people really think of you? I don’t know.
  • Joseph graduating – and going from a minor to adult in all services.
  • Jamaica.
  • Lucy
  • The houses – pre-selling. Selling.
  • Moving, renting, the guest house, and more family what-the-ever-loving-fuck.
  • Hysterectomy?
  • Where we are now.
  • What the plans for the future are.
  • Jim. And Jeannette, my dad, and the whole tale.
  • Updates on Jay, Joseph, Logan, the pets, and me, now.

Something You Should Read

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First, I want to say that my son’s issues focus more inward than outward (toward himself rather than others). I don’t fear for others when they interact with my son – but I fear for him. My son suffers from mental illness. He’s 12. We are doing everything… everything in our power to help him. Everything we can think of. We’ve done a good job so far. We have. We are responsible. We watch his triggers. We have him in a special school trained to watch for his triggers before it turns into a crisis for him. Because in full blown crisis, he believes that his life is not worth anything at all. Sometimes he uses the tools he’s been given. Sometimes he forgets to – because he’s 12. Now that puberty has been thrown into the mix, the hormones mixing in with his brain chemistry, it feels sometimes like we’re starting all over again. He suffers. I hate watching him suffer. I worry. Always.

But he’s good. He’s kind. He’s funny and joyful. He’s an incredibly gifted artist, and has NO rhythm whatsoever. He loves to read. He’s discovered Harry Potter (the books) now that we’ve gotten past some of his reading learning disabilities. He’s discovered some other authors, and asks me to put on holds for him at the library. He gladly takes his medication, and he trusts and tries with his therapists and psychiatrist. He cooperates with his own care. He really, really tries. His little brother annoys him, and he worships his father. He has a truly close relationship with our cats (I swear animals are here to be healers sometimes). He asks for affection now. He wants hugs and kisses. And his room is perpetually filthy and smells like 12 year old boy. He likes toast for breakfast, loves ramen noodles, and asked for a Nintendo 3DS for Christmas. And for some odd reason his pants have started hanging off his butt, and I’ve started telling him to pull his pants up.

As I watched things unfold yesterday, I thought to myself, “I am Adam Lanza’s mother. And I’m all those other mothers, who’s children he stole. How, oh HOW do I keep from being Adam Lanza’s mother?” And I kept thinking about gun control. Why is the conversation about gun control? IT’S NOT ABOUT GUN CONTROL. STOP TALKING ABOUT GUN CONTROL. It’s about mental illness. For me, it’s about making sure this child, my child, my 12 year old little boy can grow up to be a functioning adult who doesn’t think “I should never have been born.” He made that statement last week. Thank God he spoke the words, though. He spoke the words and we as his parents, and his therapists, were able to help him through it so he didn’t make the statement a reality. Even a year ago, he wouldn’t have spoke the words. You see the guns don’t matter. If it’s not a gun, it’ll be a knife, or a machete, or a shovel, or pills, or a car, or or or… It’s not about the method. It’s about my son’s beautiful, beautiful brilliant tortured brain.

I don’t know what Adam Lanza’s life was like, or what his motivations were, or what his issues were. But one can logically say he must have been mentally ill to do what he did, right? But by God, I’m trying with my child to make sure that I never have to wonder. The fight is so fucking hard from every aspect.

Another mother wrote a heart-wrenching post. One that felt a little too close for comfort. But truth always is. Please read it. I’m no activist. I’m just a mom trying to her best for her son, and hoping against hope her best is good enough for him to survive. But perhaps the next time someone says “gun control” in reaction to a tragedy and senseless loss of life such as yesterday’s (God, such beautiful lives cut short… families annihilated) you’ll remember this post and think, “OK, but what about helping people cope with mental illness? Could that be a more constructive question?”

I love my son who has social phobia, ADHD (inattentive type), myriad learning disabilities, and clinical depression.
I love my mother who is bipolar (and now has Alzheimer’s).
I tried to love my biological mother who had borderline personality disorder.
I tried to love my brother, who was bipolar and hung himself at the age of 52.
I loved my aunt, who was clinically depressed, and killed herself with a shotgun at the age of 55.
And I try to love myself, I have PMD, and deal with these “episodes of thought” every blessed month, as well as depression.
There are more, but feel I can’t state their stories here. Some got help, some didn’t. None speak of it.

I got help. I got my son help. I couldn’t and can’t help my other family members. But, unlike the rest of my family, I refuse to be silent, the secret, the skeleton in the closet. I want my son to LIVE. And so here, I air my dirty laundry. Maybe it’ll help someone out there speak up, for themselves, or for their child. Maybe it’ll prevent terrible tragedies. Maybe it won’t do anything at all. But I refuse for it to be something to be ashamed of.

My Mom Gets It At The End

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My mom and I have a complicated relationship.

I learned all my stubbornness, lack of empathy, tell it like it is, and compartmentalization from her.

It can be good. I get my way because I work hard for it. If someone passes away in your life, I won’t cry with you – but your bills will be paid, your house clean, your laundry done, and food in your fridge. If you come to me for advice, I won’t coddle you. But you’ll know the truth, and you’ll get an objective opinion, you’ll know where I stand. I’m not unkind, but people don’t always see me that way. And I do care, but I don’t express it the same way as you.

I’m just like my mom.

But, it’s complicated. She turned a blind eye to some things when I was a kid. I already had abandonment issues due to Jeannette, and so I played the part of the good girl until my early twenties. But I wish she hadn’t turned a blind eye to some of the abuses I endured. Now that I’m an adult with a family, I know she knew. She has always been generous, but only if I’m doing what SHE thinks is the right thing. I never knew if her illnesses were “real” sick, or “fake” sick. She’s been sick all her life, she really has, but had the uncanny ability to get sick, and then come to whatever function I had as the martyr (“I had to be here for my daughter”). It doesn’t take a fight for her to stop speaking to me. Whatever I do wrong can be just in her head. But that doesn’t stop the silent treatment.

On the other hand, when Poe and I wanted to get married so fast, she was my biggest supporter (although, by golly, we did it her way). When I had Joseph, she drove 350 miles so she could take us home from the hospital. We actually went out to eat (I.WAS.STARVING.) and I thought she would actually really deck the waitress who asked me when I was due. When we were about to leave the hospital, and Logan was suddenly diagnosed with his heart condition, I got on the phone, “Mom, his heart…” She literally hung up on me. She was already on the way. She had no fear in scrubbing into the NICU and touching that little boy, even with all the wires. And I will say this. She trusts my parenting more than I trust it, that’s for sure. She’s never stepped over the parenting/grandparenting boundaries – although with her, that HAD to be hard. Trust me.

I had to be the one to tell her that her son, her real, biological son (I’m her biological grand-niece) had committed suicide. He hung himself. She had to be the one to tell me that my biological mother was dying and didn’t want to see me. And then tell me when she died. But she was at Jeannette’s bedside when it happened.

I have to be the one to make her mad when she won’t eat, or won’t go to the bathroom, won’t go to the doctor. Because my dad’s kindness won’t cut it. She’ll only do it if she’s mad at me, to spite me. (It works. God, that woman is stubborn.) I have to be the bad guy, ’cause when she’s pissed, she’ll fight. If she fights, she’s alive.

She has Alzheimers. Most of the time, she can’t follow a conversation, really. She tries, but she can’t. The last time she was at my house for a birthday, she said to my kids, “who’s that loudmouth bitch, and why do you want to hang out with her?” Wow. But then again – she raised this loudmouthed bitch.

Yesterday, my dad needed to have cancer removed from his back. He didn’t want to deal with her, too, and so I was checking up on her throughout the day. I had girded myself for it. She hates it when I help out. She hates the lack of privacy, and she hates that I know so much. So I had prepared myself for the abuse already. But… Yesterday? Yesterday, she was lucid. I got to have REAL conversations with her. She gave me money for Christmas for the kids, so I could shop on her behalf, ’cause she knew she couldn’t. She actually talked to me – knowing who I was, where dad was, and was okay with me being there.

She asked how Joseph’s really doing. She said, “It must be so hard for you. You must worry all the time. I have no idea what it is like. You never suffered like Joseph does.” I don’t know where that came from, and it’ll probably be the last understanding I get from her ever. But I’ll remember it. I’ll remember her coming to Logan’s bedside. I’ll remember the time she walked into a party when I was a teenager and gave the kids there what-for ’cause they ran me off saying I wasn’t invited (I was horribly horribly embarrassed, but as an adult I recognize that she was standing up for me). I’ll remember that she took me in. I’ll remember that she loved Joseph anyway. I’ll remember that she watched Logan like a hawk. I’ll remember her fighting for me (even while fighting me). I’ll remember that she loved Poe like a son, and fiercely too.

I’ll remember.

This may be our last Christmas. I’ve already made arrangements on my father’s behalf. I’ll try to continue to be the stubborn, know-it-all, can-do, tell it like it is daughter she raised me to be. I’ve learned lessons from her of what not to be, what not to do. I practice those lessons every day.

But yesterday? She understood what I go through as a mom, and she really got it. I’ll remember.

At What Point Do I Get To Lose It?

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So, I lose at NaBloPoMo. I really did try, and then real-life kicked my ass in ways I’ve been unable or unwilling to talk about to this point.

First, my parents decided to usurp my parental authority. THAT WAS FUN. That’s a new dynamic I’m not used to – they’re usually very good at letting us be parents, and letting them be grandparents, and not blurring that line. It’s a pretty significant line seeing as how they’re together with the kids a lot, and we live right next door, so boundaries in the relationship are important.

So Thanksgiving. Yeah. My parents were no-shows. So, that was fun. Because of my mother’s health issues, AND my mother’s mental health issues, I have no idea if “mom’s sick” is actually, “mom’s sick,” or if it’s “we’re pissed off at you and so we’re going to pull the martyr/passive aggressive card to punish you.” Because my emotional maturity surpassed theirs about a decade ago, I truly, truly do not know which is the case. Yes, my mother is very aggressively ill. But has been so for the last 6 years. And because of her alzheimer’s she has a tendency to revert to past behavior (ie what made my difficult childhood difficult) there’s really no telling. I feel like a total bitch for not taking “mom’s sick” at face-value, but there it is.

Topping that – I made end of life arrangements for her on behalf of my father. Nothing like saying, “Yeah, she could go tonight. Or she could go 5 years from now. What do I do?”

And then Poe didn’t get an important promotion he really wanted, and I lost a client. I didn’t totally lose it, so I’m making progress in terms of how financial security plays a role in my own anxiety. But! The person he relieves is leaving and he’s stepping into the role, so it looks like he might be getting an inadvertent promotion anyway which is a good thing. It hasn’t happened yet, so we don’t know for sure, but if it happens, that’s a good thing for us.

And finally the big one.

I don’t talk too much, anymore, about my kids on my blog. At a certain point, their stories become theirs, and my mentioning them is really an invasion of privacy. I’m not totally sure where the lines are actually drawn, so I’ve just been going with my gut. But the latest “episode” in the saga of Joseph has really effected me, and so I’m sharing. Technically, he had 3 diagnoses. ADHD Inattentive Type, Social Anxiety, and “Mood Disorder.” The mood disorder was really depression – except that he didn’t fall into the time constraints to be diagnosed as such.

Well… Until he expressed suicidal thoughts.

There’s nothing quite like the gut-punch that is a 12 year old wanting to commit suicide because he feels like he’s too much of a burden to you.

He, however, has a tremendous team around him, and quite frankly, good parents who give a shit. And so, with further talking and testing, he’s no longer diagnosed with “Mood Disorder” but with Clinical Depression. We think it was probably always there, but a more mild form. Enough that his current medication helped with it (although he’s on it for other reasons). But puberty has hit with a vengeance, and we think that’s what finally tipped the scales into full blown Clinical Depression. Since his issues are of a brain chemistry variety, and Clinical Depression has to do with brain chemistry as well, adding hormones to the mix just blew the whole thing up.

He is safe – always was between us and the team – thank God. But as his mom… Dear God. A burden? God. We are, actually, very careful with our words around here. Always honest, but always, ALWAYS with the knowledge that words wound, and especially wound people with sensitivity and anxiety issues.

I’m so glad he was born to us, as opposed to anyone else in our families. Our families are rife with mental illness ranging from anxiety to Depression to BiPolar Disorder. Our family is rife with suicides. But also – our family is rife with not speaking about it, not getting help, not medicating where actually necessary, ignoring the symptoms, and labeling as “Bad.” I thank God that Poe and I decided we were not going to continue on our families’ path. It means we’re pretty much ignored and ostracized. Too much truth telling is scary for them.

But if we weren’t who we are? If we didn’t make that decision? Would Joseph be dead?

While I’m am grateful for us and his team catching it fast, and I’m grateful there is help for him, and I’m grateful we don’t stick our heads in the sand…

Some days I just want to scream. I want to scream and bury my head and not get out of bed. I want to get drunk and forget everything. I want to be alone and not have to deal with anyone or anything.

I can’t do that.

I’m responsible.

I care.

I advocate.

And everyone else expects that from me too.

But really… At what point do I get to lose my shit?

Thanksgiving Bust

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And so. I started cooking Sunday. I was so organized. It was huge. It was going to be lovely. It was a ton of work.

And my family didn’t show up.

It was just the four of us. Which, I love them, and it was good and all but…

Family sucks sometimes. Hard.

I’m still processing this.

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