Today- An Unlikely Day for Hope

November 2, 2015

Today is a strange day. 

So many things are happening and not happening today.

I wrote a YA novel called A Brother's Oath and it's part of an international writing contest called PitchWars hosted by Brenda-Drake.com. Today, well tonight at midnight, my "pitch" and the first page of my book "go live" on a website to be viewed by literary agents looking for new talent. For the next couple of days, the agents will peruse the "pitches" and select some to pursue for potential representation. So, basically, I may get an agent out of this. Even if I don't, I still won because I was matched with Trisha Leaver , YA author extraordinaire. The impact that her guidance has made on my book is immeasurable. I am humbled by her kindness and wisdom.  

So, yes, today I am grateful for her help. I am hopeful for the possibilities of landing an agent, but today I am also incredibly sad.

Today was supposed to be the day my son came home from prison.

We had first thought it would be Oct. 8, 2015, a date he was given by prison personnel in error. Then, it was changed to November 2, 2015. Today. 

Only, the conditions of his release were called into question.  We had been under the assumption (because my son was told this) that he'd qualify for "house arrest" instead of "work release halfway-house" placement because 1) the halfway house is full and 2) his home is "a good one".

We took the steps required to file for our home's clearance in the program. My husband brought documents to the designated office and signed commitment letters stating we were willing hosts for my son.

But we were wrong.

One week ago, they told him he was going to the work release halfway-house after all. Oh, and they told him he can't get a job while he's there because "they don't do that anymore." 

It's a good thing I stopped trying to make sense of DOC operations and "regulations" long ago. Their "procedures" are nothing more than moving targets of arbitrary rules, random dates and times, contradicting policies and ambiguous practices. 

So we took more lumps. We acknowledged the facts of the situation. He was NOT coming home just yet. He was going to live in a halfway house for up to 6 months before he could come home.  We called our attorney and asked him to do what he could, and he will, though he's been honest that the odds of changing his placement are grim.

It took the weekend for me to stop crying.

Then today came. The day he was to be transferred to the halfway house facility.  The day I would get to see him, touch him, hug him, without a thick bulletproof glass jammed between us.

According to his official documents, his Level 5 time (prison) expired at 11:59pm last night. He was told the Level 4 time (halfway house) began at midnight.  He expected to be moved this morning. So did we. Seemed logical...

But this morning came and went. 

I made my run to Target to pick up some more things he'll need, like shaving cream and socks. I held my phone in my hand all morning but it never rang.

Finally, he called me at 1:00pm today.

He had just been told the following concerning his transfer, "Oh, we only do runs to the Plummer Center on Wednesday mornings. That's when you'll go."

Um, ok.

THAT would have been nice to know sometime BEFORE NOW. On the day my son was sentenced, our attorney said something to me I'll never forget. We were talking about when he might possibly, actually, realistically be released and our attorney said this, "I'll never understand prison math."

Neither will I.  

So here we are again: in the perpetual state of WAITING. In the strange, familiar place of happenings and non-happenings where things may be predicted but should not, can not be expected, or God-forbid assumed.

Where 

even the 

littlest 

sense 

of hope 

slips 

through 

your fingers.

The Wait Is Almost Over and Yet Has Only Just Begun

Oct. 7, 2013

Through blurry eyes streaming with tears I type this today. Gasping for breath, nearly vomiting with nausea, I struggle to manage my fingers on the keyboard to spell out my thoughts. Maybe I should have waited to post something once I calmed down? No. I need to share this now. While the pain is still fresh, ripping me open. I need to document this agony.

Waiting. That's all we've been doing for months. Waiting for news about my son's potential sentence. Well, the news has finally arrived.

All we've wanted to know for 7 months is what time will he actually have to serve for his crime? This first offender with a history of mental illness. This man-child who has been nothing but cooperative from the start, confessing to everything and asking for help with his substance abuse and bipolar disorder. This boy. My boy. What kind of time will he be away from society unable to make positive contributions of his talents to the world outside cement walls?

I yearn for the feeling I had yesterday of not knowing. That hope of hearing, "Time Served" or something equally as positive. That feeling of hope that maybe they'll see the boy I know and realize that he doesn't belong there.

But instead, when his attorney calls today to tell me what is likely on the table at this point, I hear "3 years." There were more legal details discussed explaining that they have to go before the judge who ultimately hands down the final sentence, but all I remember were those words: 3 years. He entered prison almost 21 years old. He will be nearly 24 before he is out. A third of his twenties will be gone.

I'm trying to wrap my head around this news, trying so hard to find the good here. It could have been much worse and I realize that. His attorney did a wonderful job and got some other charges dropped or brought down to lesser charges.  My brain sees that. It's my heart that is so very broken.

So the wait is just about over and a new wait will begin.

Hypomania: The Catalog Sweater That Doesn't Quite Fit

February 16, 2013

Those of us who have battled Bipolar II long enough know the signs of hypomania. And since a hypomanic episode happens so rarely compared with depression, when one does occur, it feels like receiving a beautifully gift-wrapped present. We unwrap it with frenzied anticipation, knowing the gift comes with an expiration date. Just what we've hoped for, just what we've wanted, but it may not be exactly what we need, like a sweater ordered from a catalog that doesn't fit quite right. We love the looks and how it feels, but it just doesn't match the rest of our emotional wardrobe. The gift of hypomania, enjoyed while it lasts, ultimately must be returned.

For me, the gift of hypomania feels like electricity fluttering through me, like an endless tickle with a feather just below the surface of my skin. When hypomanic, I have no desire for sleep or food. My eyes are opened wider and my senses feel heightened. Remarkably jovial and talkative, talkative to the point of interrupting sometimes, I feel like I need to comment on everything. Those closest to me say they like me hypomanic, but they are more than ready for me to calm down. Hypomania creates a caricature of myself. Invincible. Bigger than life.

One benefit of hypomania for me is productivity. Once my boundless energy is bridled, I can tackle just about any project. At work, my desk is organized, papers are filed, and exciting new lessons are developed. I never slow down and neither do my students. For middle schoolers, a hypomanic teacher is quite a treat. I talk a mile a minute, cracking jokes and pacing about the room, and we bounce from one activity to the next. Not many papers get graded, and tangential thoughts may invade my lessons, but ultimately, my hypomania, in small doses, benefits my students. Back to School Parent Night, while hypomanic, is a bit dangerous, however. One year, while flying high, I gave a multimedia presentation to parents about my course. I hoped the buzz I was feeling translated to teacher enthusiasm rather than wild-eyed crazy. Luckily, there was no fall out from that evening. No parent complaints, but I realize now that there could have been.

At home, my productivity may take the form of organizing every closet in the house, or cleaning out all of the kitchen cabinets. My family finds this helpful yet annoying, since I see no reason why everyone can't unload all of their clothes from their dressers and get organized too. My hypomania once even inspired me to paint my office. Now that was a mistake. Not only did I choose a yellow the shade of an egg yolk, I painted with such unfocused energy and lack of precision that once completed, it looked as though the sun crashed into the corner of my house and splattered all over my office walls. Needless to say, I had to hire my ex-husband to come and repaint it. Talk about humiliating.

One of the most prominent symptoms of my hypomania is this incredible urge to create something and follow it through to completion to the exclusion of anything else. For example, I may sit at the piano for hours composing a song, and until I am satisfied that it's finished, I will not get up unless I am forced to by the demands of family or work. Even then, while begrudgingly meeting my commitments, I feel a magnetic force pulling me back to the piano. It takes all my strength to fight it. Confession: there have been days where I have gone to work and instead of going straight to my classroom to prepare for the day, I've snuck into the music room and spent my half hour prep time playing the piano before the music teacher arrives. Being creative becomes my primary focus. Then, on those same music mania days, I will return to the music room during my free period and see if the piano is available. Again, I'll play until I have to return to my own class.

Being hypomanic has its benefits but it certainly has its downsides too. The biggest negative hypomania brings is the dread of its inevitable end. We know it won't last forever, but we want it to. We want to feel that electric energy and invincibility just one day more. The dark days of depression glare us in the face too often. We don't want to look at them again. We are willing to risk just about anything to keep that hypomanic euphoria, even if our symptoms lead us to do dangerous or careless things like shop too much or drive distracted or worse. We crave that sense of elation so much we are willing to risk it. Nothing bad will happen to us, right? We are invincible!

But eventually, we know the gift of hypomania must be put back into the box and returned and our days must turn back to the darkness that is depression. We'll wait patiently for the next gift-wrapped package of hypomania, while flipping through the catalog and dreaming of that perfect sweater.

(originally posted February 11, 2013 at internationalbipolarfoundation.org.)

Finding Solace in Song

January 9, 2013

I write music and lyrics.  It's therapy for me.  Here are two songs that I've written for my son.  I have videotaped a part of the first song.

A Letter to the Universe

Hey it’s me 

trying to sleep the whole night through

Well you see 

dying to see his eyes so blue

I’ve been trying not to think about him

trying not to cry

I’ve been trying not to blame myself 

but then why shouldn’t I?

I could hold his hand much tighter

I could sing him one more song

I could paint his world much brighter

give him reason to go on

so I’m calling out to you

can I try again?

Try again

let me...try again

I know...I know it’s been a while

I..I really miss his smile

Hey it’s me

trying to sleep the whole night through

Well you see 

dying inside, well wouldn’t you?

All I do is think about him

All I do is cry

All I do is blame myself 

but then why shouldn’t I?

Didn’t hold his hand near tight enough

Didn’t see he was afraid

Didn’t paint his world near bright enough

And I let him slip away

for my baby 

can I try again

Try again

let me

Try again

I know...I know it’s been a while

Oh...I really need his smile

Still Here

Just the other day, while driving home

I saw you on the street, but I looked away

in that winter coat I bought last year

your eyes they still looked cold, just like that day

and I wonder do you ever think of me?

where’s that little boy you used to be?

is he gone for good?

‘cause I haven’t given up on you

I haven’t seen those eyes so blue

are they gone for good?

‘cause I’m still here

‘cause I’m still here

In this quiet house, your empty room

cobweb reminders nagging me

if I’d only let those shadows die

your silence; your eyes that didn’t cry

and I wonder do you ever think of me?

are you still that boy you used to be?

don’t be gone for good

‘cause I haven’t given up on you

I want to see those eyes so blue

don’t be gone for good

no I haven’t given up on you

just let me see those eyes so blue

I’ll be here for good

yes, I’m still here

I’m still here

yes, I’m still here

The Mind and the Heart

Dec. 26, 2012

I couldn't sleep last night.  The holidays are filled with joy, right?  So why does it feel like a brick is sitting on my heart?

This Christmas Eve was the first time my older son had slept over at my house since he walked out into the cold on the morning of Dec. 31, 2010. His visit did not end well.

I'm not sure what I was expecting.  I knew he'd try really hard at first, and I knew it wouldn't last.  I knew that he could only maintain a pleasant persona for so long.  I knew, and yet, I hoped.

Two years ago, Dec. 30, I had arranged for him to be an inpatient at a mental health facility about an hour away.  After speaking to the intake nurse on the phone for nearly an hour, I was sure this was the place that would help my son, so they were expecting him. Because I was fearful that he'd rage out of control once he heard the news, I asked my brother to come over and help me tell him.

At first, probably startled that my brother was here, my son agreed to go.  He even packed a bag.  Then, as we were getting ready to leave, he started having second thoughts.  He asked if he could wait until after New Year's Eve because he wanted to go to a party.  (Substance abuse had been a part of his problem.)  We said no.  This escalated into a full on rage ending with him walking out of my house.

The image of him vanishing out my front door still haunts me.  What could I have done to convince him that getting help was the only option?  Nothing.  I know that.  But yet, I still feel incredible guilt that I let him leave.

Isn't it funny how the mind and the heart can disagree?  While I know there was nothing I could have done to change his mind, I still feel like there is a brick sitting on my heart.