Examining Fear

Nov. 4, 2018

Today I dug up an old post from six years ago. Looking back, I still identify with a lot of it, but there are a couple of key differences. First, I claimed that "I am speaking out for all other parents..." yet, at that time, I was still writing blog posts anonymously fearing the stigma. Eventually, I would find the courage to overcome my anonymity. And second, in this post, I am really fearful. I remember, six years ago my son was so unpredictable. He'd already shown that he was potentially dangerous. I lived in a constant state of fear. At the time, he had not yet been arrested, but his erratic behavior was increasing and his arrest was imminent. Of course, I did not know that then.

But looking back, perhaps the fear I expressed here is less about him being dangerous and more about the uncertainty I felt. Not knowing what might happen terrified me. Today, six years later, I cannot say that my son's situation has completely stabilized. But in a way, I think I have. My stability comes from gradually accepting the uncertainty of serious mental illness, not only his illness but mine. That fear came from not knowing. My evolving courage comes from accepting the fact I may never know.

---

Sometime in early 2013


If my twenty-year-old son knew I was writing this, I'm not sure what he'd do. Bipolar disorder can be a dangerous thing when it goes untreated. I am a mother who is afraid of her son, but I am speaking out for all the other parents out there who fear their own children.

First, you should know something about me. I have bipolar II. I was diagnosed in 2011, a year after my world crumbled. A year after my older son walked out my door. With a right-for-now cocktail of medications plus a wonderful therapist, I function well day to day. My colleagues would never guess that I have bipolar II. They probably attribute my high spirited antics to being a creative teacher. They don't know there is electricity tingling underneath my skin when I'm hypomanic. And when the melancholy settles in, I rely on my finest acting skills at work and my peers are none the wiser. From the outside, I seem just fine. But on the inside, I struggle.

Thanks to a proper diagnosis and treatment I manage my life better now than I ever did before. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for my older son. Though his diagnosis came over two years ago, he has refused any treatment. Instead, he self-medicates with drugs and alcohol. He dropped out of college. Twice. And he's usually unemployed. He is trapped by his own apathy and sees no way out. And I am powerless to help him.

His story is my story and I want to share it with you. His story, my story is one of heartache and tragedy, broken promises and last chances. But it is also a story of hope. I am still hopeful that he will get help for himself. I am still hopeful that his life will turn around. I am still hopeful that he will become whole again. I am his mother and I will always love him. But because I fear him, for now, I will have to love him from a safe distance.

This post was originally used as a blogger biography on http://ibpf.org/blog/stillhopefulmom.

"Three Hours Outside Myself" - Another Mother's Story

January 19, 2018

There's nothing like an ambulance ride to the emergency room to help you put life back into perspective. On Dec. 28, 2017, I experienced a sudden onset of symptoms that presented much like either a Panic Attack or a Stroke.

After three hours of terrifying symptoms, including the loss of feeling in my limbs as well as a brief spell of aphasia (speech disruption), my condition improved. I regained full use of my limbs and the ability to speak. It was like someone flipped a switch and turned me back on.

The final diagnosis, arrived upon through the process of elimination, was Migraine with Aura.

I'm not writing this post about Migraines or Panic Attacks or Strokes. Instead, I'm writing about what that near brush with death taught me.

I don't claim to understand what it feels like to truly face death, to be diagnosed with a terminal illness or to miraculously survive a catastrophic accident. Nope, I was just really sick for a few short hours. But the things I thought about, the things that swirled around inside my head for those scary hours, really impacted me. Actually, no, it wasn't the things I thought about. It was the things I didn't think about that really caused me to take note.

• I never thought about how much money I had made.
• I never thought about much I weighed or the size of jeans.
• I never thought about whether my purse or my shoes or my coat were this year's hottest trend.
• I never thought about whether or not any gray sprouts were peeking out of my hairline.
• I never thought about how many followers I had on social media.
• And I never thought about who the president is.
• Believe me.

No, for those few scary hours, I thought only about people, my people, the people in my life that matter most to me and how much I love them.

I thought about how my older son had been through so much and how proud I was of his journey. How much I wanted him to continue his recovery and eventually be out on his own.

I thought about my husband and, although we found each other late in life, how lucky we've been to have shared these years together.

And I thought about my younger son, and how proud I was of the young man he is becoming. 

Luckily, this frightening experience was brief and my symptoms subsided quickly. I had only about three hours to worry that my time was up. 

But it's taken me three weeks to get myself to write this. And it was watching the movie "Three Billboard Outside Ebbing, Missouri" that finally inspired me to open up at all. The mother in that movie was filled with such rage, such regret, such pain. And all she wanted was to feel some sense of resolution. She thought she knew exactly what would fix it.

If you've seen the film, you know if her efforts get her what she wanted. If you haven't seen the film, I won't spoil it for you. I'll just say watching that film inspired me to write about this. 

I'm grateful that I had those three hours, just long enough to remember the things that matter and the things that don't. Sometimes you need a few hours outside yourself to bring life back into perspective.

Happy 2018.

~SHM

A Quiet, Steady Hum: The Background Noise of a Mother's Fear

June 26, 2016

I recently read Kristin Hannah's The Nightingale, a wonderfully rich novel about two sisters in France during World War II. They each, in their own way, become heroes. While I don't have a sister, I could definitely relate to another strong theme of this book, the sacrifices of motherhood.

One part struck me as especially significant:


"The sound of his voice reminds me that I am a mother and mothers don't have the luxury of falling apart in front of their children, even when they are afraid, even when their children are adults."


While I have absolutely no experience struggling with the hardships of war, I do know a little bit about being a mother and being afraid. And I agree. We "don't have the luxury of falling apart in front of our children..."

These past few months have been challenging in our home. The newness of my 24-year-old son being released from prison has worn off. The "settling in" period has faded. And now we are faced with the "getting on with living" part of things.

And it hasn't been easy for him. He's had trouble finding consistent work and he's had trouble readjusting to daily life outside prison. He sacrificed so much and changed so much of himself just to survive almost three years behind bars, but it seems that the man he had to become when he was inside isn't the man he wants to be now that he's outside.

As his mother, it's so frustrating to see him frustrated. And I think that's what he is. Frustrated. He's definitely grateful, sure, because he's not in prison anymore. And he's more balanced, yes, because he's being treated with more effective medication. But he's still, from what I see, frustrated.

And, as his mother, I'm afraid. It's not the same kind of fear I used to have. It's not the kind of fear I had when he was unmedicated, when he was irrational and potentially dangerous. No, this fear is muffled, hushed. It's a quiet, steady hum, a muted background noise, swimming gently just below the surface of my mind. It's always there but I try not to hear it. I try to block it out or maybe even accept it as the new normal.

When I do acknowledge its existence, I ask myself what it is I'm afraid of.

I'm afraid of what happens next. I'm afraid of what may happen and of what may not. I'm afraid of unfulfilled potential, of dreams deferred. And I am afraid I may not see that son I once knew again. I am afraid he may fear this, too.

But, I'm his mother, and although I am afraid, I can't show it because I "don't have the luxury of falling apart..."

Choices

November 29, 2014

My younger son is applying to colleges and the deadlines are looming. The choices about where to visit, what questions to ask, and when to hit “send” are overwhelming. To help him with this arduous process, I offered to proofread his application essay.

The prompt was about identifying an event in his life that triggered his transition from childhood to adulthood. He chose to write about his older brother’s incarceration.

He was not eager to share it with me, assuming that the subject matter would be too difficult for me to handle.  He knows me well. I considered it for a moment. Would I finally be able to get a glimpse inside the iron fortress of my younger son’s mind? The emotional wall he has built over the last few years has grown tall and wide, but in this moment he offered me the lone key to the only door. I chose to step inside.

I took the essay and began to read. In doing so, I learned a few valuable lessons.

First, I realized that I am stronger than I thought. Not only was I able to read this moving account of his fallen hero and how he consequently discovered himself, I was able to compartmentalize my own emotions in order to help draw out his insightful viewpoint about that difficult time. I listened for his unique voice through the din of my own muddied memories, and I helped him shape his thoughts into a well-crafted piece about his personal journey of becoming a man.

Secondly, I remembered that we do not live in a vacuum. The choices we make do not only affect us, they affect those we care about, those we hold dear. And, because of those first choices, more choices must be made.  It is a ripple effect. Four years ago, my older son made the choice to ignore his bipolar disorder diagnosis. Eventually, he paid the price: he is now a convicted felon. My younger son, who is guilty only of being born into a household affected by mental illness, has faced difficult choices too. He could have easily played the victim. He could have allowed his brother’s illness and incarceration to destroy him too. Instead, though, he has made the choice to embrace the challenges in life as opportunities to become a better person every day. His brother’s choices have affected him, but he has chosen to use them for good.

Lastly, I discovered that my younger son is going to be okay. I see now that he is healing. While internalizing his feelings was his natural coping mechanism, in his own way, he has dealt with them too. He has sorted through his disappointment, his anger, and his despair and he has resolved to thrive despite them.

Delete

July 29, 2014

I have typed this first sentence more than thirty times.

But instead of deleting it again, I will continue describing what I am experiencing right now. Maybe you have felt this way too.

I feel anxious, incredibly anxious. I am worrying about the little things like the eye doctor appointment I need to reschedule and the weeds in the flower bed that just keep reappearing. And I am worrying about the big things like what job my older son will be able to get when he's released from prison and how I will afford to pay for my younger son to go to college next year. And I am worrying about worrying. And that worries me.
Seriously, it does.

I am unable to focus on any one task for more than a few minutes. Typing this blog post is going to take me all day. And I don't have all day. This summer is zooming by and I haven't got much to show for it. I had big plans for this summer: finish some home projects, start a second book, plan for my upcoming school year...But I'm finding it hard to focus at all.

As the calendar approaches August, the stress increases. I know I have important things to accomplish before I return to school in a few weeks. Right now, though, all I can see is a daunting to-do list and nowhere to begin. Would crawling into a hole and sleeping help at all? Because that is seriously an option right now. It's what I'd like to do, honestly. My logical side knows avoiding the workload is only going to make it worse, but it doesn't seem to matter. This anxiety is crushing me.

How can I be a good mother, a good wife, a good teacher, a good friend, if I feel this way?

After re-reading this post, I am tempted to just delete it all. My ramblings make little sense. But instead of wiping the screen clean and starting over, I will post this as is in hopes that someone else out there has felt this way too.

So I'm avoiding one more thing today: the DELETE key.

The Gavel

May 21, 2014

This Friday at 9:30 am EST, my 22 year old son will stand before a judge and receive his sentence for crimes he committed over a year ago. He has been incarcerated since March of 2013. I will not share the details of his arrest. I will only say the crimes were committed while he was heavily intoxicated, he did not harm anyone or himself, and he made a complete confession upon his arrest. I am past the point of blaming him for what he did. Or at least I think I am. At this point I just want to know what his sentence is. I'm just so tired of waiting.

But now, the wait is almost over. In just a couple of days we will know how long my son will have to sit behind bars before he can begin the next chapter in his life, before he can really begin his young adulthood in earnest.

Nausea has settled into the pit of my stomach. My hands and legs tremble. My mind darts from one worry to the next. The anxiety I feel is growing more intense each day. I know my son feels it too. He has called me nearly every night. He talks about his fears. He tries to remain hopeful without setting himself up for a great disappointment. Instead of dreaming of the best case scenario, he is trying to prepare himself for the worst case scenario only that's not easy to do since we really don't know what that is. Our attorney has given us as much information as he knows which isn't that much. What can a defense attorney really say to prepare a defendant for sentencing? What can he tell a defendant's mother? I do not blame him for the tension I feel. And I do not blame my son. I just want some resolution.

To say I am ready for the gavel to strike the judge's bench is not exactly true. I don't think I will ever be ready to hear a judge announce the sentence my son face, but it's time. And I am doing all I can do to prepare myself and my son for what that sentence may be.

My Secret

February 8, 2014

Electricity pulses just underneath my skin, racing from my fingertips to my toes and back again. I tremor. My legs and my arms betray my will to remain motionless; instead they shake uncontrollably. Thoughts of varying lengths and value flash in my mind one after the other. Anxiety creeps behind my eyes and rattles my brain.

I am suffering withdrawl.

Worries taunt me. Tease me. Strings of endless ramblings chant inside my head. Stuttering, stammering I try to overcome them, attempting to be the old me. The good me. I do not want you to know what is really happening to me.

It was my fault. I had accidentally been taking the wrong dose of sleep medication for weeks. When I discovered this, my doctor prescribed a replacement with little concern. I thought my mistake was easily corrected.

But after a week I began to shake. It was minor at first. Just little tappings and rattles. But they became more and more intense over the next few days. With the tremors came fears. Anxiety beyond anything I've ever experienced. Worries about the future, the present, the past. I've even wondered if I was becoming psychotic.

All along, over the last two and a half weeks, I've gone to work. I've fulfilled my responsibilities as a daughter, a mother, a lover, a friend. But secretly I've been suffering. And now I need to tell you I am afraid it won't go away.

My doctor says it is just a reaction. Temporary. It is my body missing that medication. 

But how long will it go on? How long will I tremor? When will I be able to write neatly on the board at school again? When will I be able to focus on just one thought at a time? How long will I drive without seeing the road, instead, seeing only glimpses of "what ifs" flash before my eyes? How much more must I pay for my careless mistake?

When will I be the old me again?

The Not Knowing

November 17, 2013

Do all mothers worry when they haven't heard from their adult kids in a while? Do they jump each time the phone rings? Do their imaginations run wild with the possibilities for not receiving a call?

Or is it just me?

It's been a week and I haven't heard a word from my incarcerated, twenty-one year old son. This is very unusual--we speak almost everyday-- so I am quite worried. After checking in with his dad, I've discovered he hasn't heard from him either. This has me doubly worried. Why no call?

My son was scheduled to have his wisdom teeth removed--all four--sometime this week. We didn't want him to do it behind bars fearing the quality of the health care would be subpar, but his pain had become unbearable and the prison dentist insisted on taking immediate action... but he wasn't told exactly what day it would happen--only that it would happen this week sometime.

What they did tell him was he would not receive the anesthetic typically used in this kind of oral surgery. He was terrified and so were we.

Now, today marks one week since we've heard from him. We've called the prison and received no assistance.

So not only am I worried about my son's well-being behind bars (like I am every day), now I'm worried that his oral surgery has gone wrong and he's suffering terribly. I can't get this vision out of my head that he's writhing in pain and no one is there to comfort him. Though he's twenty-one years old, he's still my baby.

When he was younger and skinned his knees, I cried when I cleaned his wound. After he tore his ACL in a high school basketball game, I actually passed out in the ER as they examined his injury. I feel it when my sons are hurt. Isn't that part of being a mother?

This time, though, I don't even know if he is hurt. I don't know if he's had the surgery, and I don't know if he's recovering well.

This time I don't know anything at all. So for now...I just wait.

I Wonder How Much the Commissary Charges for My Heart

October 29, 2013

We made it over another hurdle in my son's case today. The plea.

This has been such an arduous, gut-wrenching, not to mention expensive seven months. All the waiting, all the crying, and all the costs. The attorney's fees are one thing, but the prison system gouges inmates left and right with unreasonable commissary prices. $1 per envelope, $2 for a bar of soap, and $4 for a single dose of Tylenol.

And it's not over yet.

But today we made it over an important hurdle. Now the sentencing date has been set...it will be Valentine's Day. Yes, that Hallmark-hyped, over-priced flowers and mediocre chocolates day will be the day we will finally hear the legal consequences of my son's actions last March.

It's kind of ironic. I never liked that holiday much anyway, but now and for years to come, it will remind me of this long, painful process we've been enduring for seven months. And the day will come just like the Valentine's Day flowers--late and overpriced.

Yes, today we made it another step of the way. A bittersweet hurdle. We now have a timeline--we're no longer left wondering when the sentencing will come. And, best of all, thankfully, it seems we have a judge assigned to the case who is said to be fair and kind. Finally, some good news. Finally.

So now we wait with our wallets and our hearts. Just like waiting by the mailbox for our Sweetheart's Valentine, we wait. Just like hoping for those $15 chocolates, those $45 flowers, that $5 card. Only this time, we're hoping for something that won't melt, or wilt, or fade on a shelf. This time, we're only hoping for a fair sentence. One that will allow him to be a healthier, better version of the boy he was before. How much do they charge for that?

The Give and the Take

[Originally posted on http://internationalbipolarfoundation.org August 13, 2013]

August 18, 2013

Recently, I went to my first mental health support group meeting. I must admit I was nervous. What would people talk about? What would people think of me? Would I have to talk? If so, what would I say? Though I've never been afraid to speak my mind, this was different. I was actually nervous to tell my story. That is, until I started hearing the other stories. I quickly realized that there are a lot of people right here in my community who live with bigger challenges than mine.

The meeting was held in a nearby church inside a small conference room. Chairs and love seats were turned inward surrounding a coffee table filled with mental health pamphlets and a strategically placed box of tissues. We were a circle of solemn faces, some young, some older, some in pairs, some alone. And we were united with one goal: support for the mental illness affecting our lives.

There were tragic stories of loss as well as inspiring stories of hope. Mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, friends. Each of us, in clockwise order, took our turn guided by the encouraging kindness of our group leader. Some had lots to say, while others uttered very little. It was obvious who had told their stories before. Theirs were told with stoic poise and sometimes slightly uncomfortable humor. Those who were new to this were obvious too, as tears streamed down their faces as they spoke of their suffering.

Since I sat nearest to the group leader, I didn't share until last. Secretly, part of me hoped we would run out of time so I wouldn't have to say anything. But another part of me was anxious to speak, to share the grief that clouded the room.

“I'm here because of my son. In the fall of 2010 he wanted to kill himself...” I began to tell my story aloud for the very first time. Sure, I had told it in pieces to my loved ones and friends over the last couple of years. I'd written many posts on my blog, too, but never had I laid it out so openly, so raw, to a group of total strangers. I told them everything. My voice quivered as I told them about the gun my son acquired at the mental health hospital. Tears swelled up when I confessed the fear I felt for my very own child. My stomach clenched as I spoke so freely. My story just told itself.

My listeners were more than kind. They hung on my every word. They nodded in recognition of my feelings, my experiences, my story. They chuckled at my attempts to lighten up such a heavy topic. And they shared the tissue box.

When I'd poured out everything, I was surprised at how I felt. It wasn't a void of losing something I'd been secretly harboring so long, but instead, a renewed sense of strength that had grown inside of me. I'd emptied my heart into the laps of strangers and in return, I'd gained hope and understanding from them. I was even marked a “success”, a “survivor” a “model of strength”. The people there listened to my story with hope of learning something from me. That's what was the most surprising. While I attended the meeting hoping to find support, after sharing, I discovered I actually provided support and hope to others. That was the best part of all.

Unpacking Bipolar

August 12, 2013

All summer long I've had little trips to anticipate. First it was the beach, then Las Vegas, NYC, the Pocono Mountains, and then the beach again. I'm so grateful to have had these opportunities spread across the summer months. Family and friends have been so generous and I'm so thankful. I've been given the chance to rest and recover (somewhat) from the worst spring of my life. These trips have helped distract me from the stresses and unknowns here at home. But the summer is coming to an end and I'm not ready yet.

Because, well, I'm not unpacked.

Sure, my suitcase is empty. I've put away all the cute little bottles of shampoo I've been collecting and my laundry has all been cleaned, but I'm not really unpacked. Not really.

See, my bipolar mind is still away, far away, still packed for the hustle and bustle and constant distraction of travel. It's still chock full of beach sand and slot machine receipts and big sunglasses. I've still got sundresses and swim suits and subway tickets shoved inside here. My bipolar mind is packed with a loaded Kindle and Candy Crush on my ipad. The alarm clock hasn't been set for weeks and I've got Facebook, not Outlook, opening when I log into my computer. I am not unpacked, not really.

And there's something else.

My mind hasn't room for the nonstop tears and the anxiety that come with worrying about my imprisoned son day in day out. Not to say I haven't been worried. Just scroll down through my posts...I've been thinking of him constantly. But that's just it. My suitcase had room for that worry when I was away on vacation-I had plenty of free mind space for that worry because I didn't have work stresses loaded in there too.

I think it's my bipolar mind that gives me the ability to compartmentalize these things. Vacation. Worry about son. Vacation. Stress about his sentence. Vacation. Agonize over the call from the attorney. You get the idea.

But the summer is winding down and I'm staring straight ahead at the beginnings of a new school year. I will soon have bright, eager, new faces staring at me ready to learn. The trouble is my mind is an overflowing suitcase of worry right now. And I can't unpack it. The zipper's stuck.

To Do List

July 25, 2013

As I arrive home from a long, much needed vacation, I am greeted by a 10 inch stack of mail to sort. I haven't unpacked yet, but already I know my to do list is growing. The refrigerator is empty, pantry bare. There are messages on voice mail to retrieve and answer, and there is a day's worth of laundry to do.  Welcome home.

So why is it that all I can do right now is stare blankly at the television, muted? Why is it that my full suitcase remains unopened on the bed while I nibble mindlessly at a cherry poptart?

My emotions are vacant. I am numb.

Then it dawns on me. I don't want to feel real life again yet.

Because for me, real life means that my 21 year old is in prison. Real life means that we don't know yet what the length of his sentence is. Real life means more hounding the mental health care facilities for my son's records to help his attorney make a mental health case with the prosecuting attorney. Real life means worrying about something that can't be controlled. Real life is hell.

So I will finish my poptart before I check my email. I will solve this Law & Order episode before I answer my voice mail. I will sit for a while and dream about some other mother coming home from vacation to greet her 21 year old son at the door. Home from college. Juggling a job and a steady girlfriend. This mother has problems of course, but none of them involve the anxiety that comes with the fact that your baby is sitting behind bars waiting to start his life.

A Brother's Time

June 30, 2013

Tomorrow my younger son and I will visit my older son in prison. Though I have been there several times, it will be the first time my younger son has been there. He hasn't seen his brother since the arrest.

Up until now, my younger son has not wanted to go see his older brother at all, though I've given him ample opportunity. I have not pressured him about it though. First there was school work to think about. Then there has been a new driver's license and a job to distract him. But that's been what he's done. Distracted himself from this crazy world he has found himself in where his older brother is in jail and his mother is a trying not to be a total basket case.

It's not a mystery why he hasn't wanted to visit. There has been anger, disappointment, and shame. When his older brother was first arrested, it was posted in the newspaper and online with a mugshot, of course. That was a difficult time for him. Fielding questions and comments at school was even worse. And then coming home to a mother who sometimes can't get out of bed has been pretty bad too.

All in all, he's had a pretty sucky spring.

But now, after three months, he's decided it's finally time to face his brother. I don't know what to expect. All I know is I will be there standing beside him on the other side of the glass.

My Son's Battered Lighthouse

June 15, 2013

My son called me last night from prison.  Yelling and screaming underscored his hollow, shaken, breathless tone.  He was not himself.  It was not his typical, yet forced, chipper voice that I heard on the other end of the line.  He had called to report that there had been a stabbing that day.  He had seen it close up.  "So much blood," he said.  "So much blood, Mom,"  and he shuddered with fear.

And I shuddered too.  Lighthouse.  Be the lighthouse.

Whenever he calls, I must be the lighthouse in the dark storm of his incarceration.  I don't let my voice quiver or weaken in fear.  I don't let him hear my terror, my panic, my anxiety.  I only allow myself to speak in the "mom voice" he knows.  The one with all the answers.  The one who loves him unconditionally, without judgment.  The one with strength and light.

I am the lighthouse for my son in the blackest of his hours.  He knows he can call me and I will illuminate his darkest night.

"You're OK, right?  You weren't hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, Mom."

"Well, did you know the guys?"

"Not really."

"OK.  So these guys are all dangerous.  Just stay to yourself.  Keep your eyes open and be kind to everyone.  You're going to be OK."

"Yeah, I know Mom. Thanks."

And with those quick words, my son's anxiety decreased and his volume increased.  The breathlessness dissipated and he began to sound like himself again.

*SIXTY SECOND WARNING*  This means our conversation must end.  So we said our quick "I love yous" and hung up.

As I turned off my phone, my hand was shaking.  A shortness of breath and quickened heartbeat caught my attention.  I have been battered by another wave of pain, but I still stand.

I am his lighthouse.