Stress-Fractured

September 29, 2018

The incessant throbbing wasn't something I could ignore anymore. It underscored most of my waking hours, and it wasn't getting any better on its own. I finally visited a podiatrist and received the diagnosis: stress fracture. This differs from a standard bone fracture in that it is not caused suddenly. Instead, a stress fracture is the result of repeated stress on the bone(s).

This made sense to me.  I had been trying for months to get back in shape for a September half marathon after the Great Plantar Fasciitis Drama of 2017. So recent over-training combined with naturally bad feet appeared to be the culprit. I dropped out of the half marathon and I'll be wearing the boot for three weeks.

I'm told rest will heal it.

This current state has got me pretty blue. While I'd never call myself a Runner, I would say that running has proved to be the very best way for me to feel healthy both physically and mentally. There is no other form of exercise that seems to give me the same full-body healing than running.

Wearing the boot isn't all bad. They say black is slimming, and I'm saving on sock-laundering since I only wear one now. But today I realized something else: this boot has made me slow down enough to think. It's made me deal with something I'd been trying hard to ignore.

This summer, my sons' father died. He was 50 years old.

Some say what killed him was a sudden illness - a rapid decline over a few short weeks before the end. But I know - and his sons know - that what killed him took several years. The organ failure was the physical cause, but the actual illness had been slowly swallowing him for what feels like forever.

Though we had been divorced for nearly 17 years by the time he died, his death still rocked me. He had been my parenting partner, and before that, he had been my friend. He had been the man I married in 1991, fully expecting to be partners for life. But, things change and people change, and our marriage only lasted 10 years. Hindsight allows me now to understand more fully what happened all those years ago. But, in any case, he and I were good co-parents for the majority of our sons' childhoods. We were so amicable in the early years apart that it was several summers of swim meets before the other swim team parents knew we were, in fact, divorced. It was the talk of the snack shack when the news finally broke. All those summers ago, standing beside each other at the end of the pool, we were lock-step, rooting for our little boys with complete, unified devotion. I always thought we'd be that way.

While those swim meet-tandem moments became less frequent as our lives gradually diverged, I never, not for one moment, doubted his love for our sons. Ultimately, for reasons I am only now able to truly see, we became estranged. The recurring theme of our conflicts was always connected to the subject of his drinking. This hadn't been what ended our marriage. It was what ended our co-parenting partnership.

Repeated stress.

Today, I look down at this boot and can identify the root cause of my current condition - this stress fracture. It wasn't over-training. That was just the symptom, inspired by my yearning to run more, push myself harder and focus on something else, anything else besides the fact that my sons were losing their father and there was nothing I could do about it - the reality that despite our years of trying to get him help, this illness was finally going to kill him.

Repeated stress.

At the end, he didn't have people in his life to help with the details. His family lives across the country and he'd distanced himself from all of his friends. He'd had trouble holding down jobs, so there weren't colleagues either. That left his two sons...and me.

There is nothing that can prepare you for the details surrounding the death of a loved one. And despite everything, despite our estrangement, despite my disgust at his countless rejections for help, despite it all, he was still the father of our sons. So, as his final days approached, our boys, just 26 and 21, the "next of kin," were tasked with all the details of the death of their father. After all this time, after all that they'd been through, that was not something I was going to stand by and watch them have to do alone, so I stepped in. And beyond the mere fact that their dad was dying of an illness we believed could have been prevented, there had been further complications that only surfaced when he became hospitalized and terminally diagnosed. A pending foreclosure, mounds of debt, and unpaid life insurance premiums just added to the emotional torrent.

Repeated stress.

The funeral is now over. And thanks to the incredible generosity of his college friends, our sons and I were able to travel to his childhood home for the service. They got to see their dad's relatives and reunite with cousins they'd seen mostly in photographs. And the night before the funeral, our boys got to meet their dads' college family and were overwhelmed with the stories they heard, stories about a man they hardly even knew. A man who had gradually disappeared sometime during their youth.

The boys are working hard to move forward, each in their own way. I am incredibly proud of them for what they've been through and for their steadfast love for their dad despite everything. They have seen firsthand the fracturing of a man because of addiction. But now that it's over, and I think they are healing.

As for me, sitting here with this boot on, I'm finally getting some rest. And I think I feel myself starting to heal, too.

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.

Handcuffs Save Lives

Nov. 3, 2013

So much media attention has been given to the connection between crime and mental illness, but I am not here to join that fray. I am simply stating a fact: my 21 year old bipolar son is in prison.  Though he had no criminal record, he may serve more than 3 years for the crimes he committed. 

There are days when I barrage myself with questions, aching with anxiety over my son's new reality. Why him? Why us? Where did I go wrong? What did I miss? Why did he do it? And, Why didn't I just bail him out? Was I too upset? Too hurt? Too angry? Too frightened? Why didn't I just bail him out? 

There were so many factors involved in my decision not to bail him out. Not only was his bail set so high it exceeded the value of my home, I was standing behind something I'd been telling him—“If you get arrested, I am not bailing you out.” Tough love they call it. I'd been telling him this for over a year, “If you get arrested, I am not bailing you out.”

Today, seven months after his arrest, I definitely go through pangs of heavy guilt for not trying harder to gather the bail money. I probably could have done it with family and friends' help. But when I am really honest with myself, I know the truth: 

Being arrested saved my son's life.

During the time leading up to my son's arrest, he was a ticking time bomb. He self-medicated with drugs and alcohol, unable to hold down a job. He no longer lived with me, a choice he made when he refused mental health treatment the year before. Instead, he planted his belongings at his dad's house but more often than not, slept wherever his head hit a pillow or even floor. More than once, he was even kicked out of his dad's house for stealing, something he'd done to me too.

And the lies. The lies he told us just added to our pain. He had himself convinced that we didn't know about his lifestyle, but we knew. We all knew. In his own words, now seven months later, he calls himself “a lying, cheating, piece of sh*t con-artist.” I can't disagree. That's who he was. That's what his illness left untreated allowed him to become. So back then I was living day to day with this reality: I will someday get a phone call telling me one of two things—either my son has been arrested or my son is dead.

When I received the call in March, there were no theatrics. I didn't cry or yell. I simply sat down in a daze and thought, “At least he's not dead.” There were no tears that night, just a thick fog in my mind and a sick feeling in my gut, neither of which have subsided since.

These past seven months have been filled with a lifetime's worth of pain for our family. And the pain is not over yet. There will be years of it. But there is hope. Yes, there is indeed hope. On the day of his arrest, my son told the officers that he was bipolar and that he'd been off his medication. He asked if he could go back on it. So after a short bout of detox the hard way, cold turkey, my son began to take a prison prescribed regimen of bipolar medications. While these aren't the desired ones that his doctors would have prescribed, they are at least something in the right direction. His mania and depression are somewhat treated, though not completely. But in prison, mental health care is subpar, or at least that's what we've experienced.

Today, though, my son is a new man. Yes, he wears DOC whites and speaks to me through glass when I visit, but he is completely a brand new man. He has accepted the consequences of his actions. He is seeking forgiveness from all those in his life that he wronged. 

And he is himself again. He is the articulate, curious, clever, creative, witty, charming lover of life I knew before bipolar disorder took him from me. My son is back. And when he gets out of that cement hell, he will be a man whom people will respect and revere. 

Being arrested saved my son's life.

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.

Just Look at That Face

July 30, 2013

I began writing this post telling you about my son's early years, about what his strengths and weaknesses were. It was a clinical description, much like one a teacher, doctor, or educational diagnostician would give. I'd posted a picture to go along with my icy words.

But then I re-read it and deleted everything on the screen but the photo. Too cold. No heart. So I started over, thinking about what I really want you to know about my first born son. And I looked at that face. That face posted here.

Here's what I see: HOPE. It's in his eyes. Look at that face. His eyes sparkle as if he's looking into his own future and he knows it will be bright.  His baby round cheeks hide a hesitant smile suggesting a waggish way about him. Doesn't he look like he's planning something mischievious? Something funny? Well, he probably was...something delightfully funny. That's who that little boy could be, who he sometimes was. And that's what this picture lets me remember. Not the difficult impulse control issues. Not the temper tantrums. Not the sleep problems. Not the tears, his or ours.

Look at that face. Just look at it.

When he was that age, he was into telling jokes. Knock Knock jokes and real groaners. And they were complicated jokes that he couldn't really remember completely. He'd get knee deep into telling one and then stop, forgetting it, and say, "Oh, well, I'd better work on that one!" and he'd run away laughing, cracking himself up.

His biting wit is still with him today--when his mood is up. But he doesn't bother telling jokes anymore. Instead, when he feels good, he shares hilarious observations about his daily life. Even while behind bars, he can actually have his brother, his dad and me laughing. He's in PRISON. That's not funny. But somehow he can spin it into something to make us laugh. He loves to make us laugh, but cracking his brother up is probably his favorite thing to do. When the two of them get started, the world is shut out and all you hear is hearty chuckling. The last time I heard that was a few weeks ago. One son was on one side of plexi-glass while the other was on the opposite side, with a telephone between them. I still heard the laughter though. And I still saw the sparkle in those baby blue eyes of his.

So yes, I can look at that picture today and still see HOPE, even now. This "still hopeful mom" will not give up. Even with that baby faced blue-eyed boy behind bars serving time, I can look at that face and dig deep for some hope. Sometimes I really have to dig deep. But I can find it.

Now, in closing, I was going to tell you a joke. But I forgot the ending. I'd better work on that one.

Understanding the Ball of Yarn

June 2, 2013

I posted the following entry originally at the International Bipolar Foundation a few months ago. I found it to be especially appropriate today so I thought I'd share it here. 

Friday night I directed my original play with an audience of 250 people.  It was the culmination of two months of rehearsals and heaps of creative energy, and it was a success!  Saturday I was interviewed by a British filmmaker about mental illness and its affect on families. I told our story.  THE story that brought me here with you. It was gut-wrenching, yet therapeutic.  But now, I'm exhausted.          

I feel like an unraveled ball of yarn.

Those of us with some form of Bipolar, understand how our minds work for the most part. Some of us are gifted with creativity that drives us, especially during manic times. But for those reading this who do not relate, the creative aspect of Bipolar in some of us may be a bit of a mystery.  While there are countless scientific links between creativity and mental illness, specifically Bipolar, I do not intend to cite them here. Instead, I can only speak from my own life experiences, as I am no expert.

I am a teacher, a job which requires a diverse skill set including: content knowledge, compassion, organization, flexibility, and creativity. Beyond teaching, I also write poetry, nonfiction, fiction, and plays; additionally, I compose music and direct musical theater productions as well as plays. These are all outlets for my creativity. They motivate me in all aspects of my life. Teaching, writing, composing, and directing inspire me to wake up in the morning. They are my oxygen.

We creative types understand how this works. Like a colorful ball of yarn, wrapped haphazardly into the most perfect sphere, our creativity can be unraveled into shape after shape, form after form. Unraveling slowly at times, with care and precision, and at other times, rolling at lightning speed down winding flights of stairs; this technicolor orb reshapes itself again and again to bring life to our darkness. The creativity we express is our lifeblood, taking the form of art, music, literature, poetry, theater.

But there is a time to rewrap the yarn. A time to regroup and rejuvenate. After every creative venture, our yarn is strewn across the carpet, sometimes in knots, sometimes frayed, sometimes appearing as though a litter of kittens has toyed with it for hours. We must take our time to rewind it, to reshape it back into the tightly wrapped form where it will lay waiting for a new inspiration. This rewrapping, regrouping time is crucial. For me, it involves rest, solitude, and self-reflection. For those who love us, who yearn to understand us, they should know that once our yarn is unraveled, our creative energies depleted, we need time to begin again. We need time to rewrap our yarn.

Prescription: Down Time in Foreign Tongues

January 29, 2013

The other day my son had a voice recital.  I was actually dreading it because I thought it would be three hours hearing other people's kids for just three minutes of hearing my own.  To top it off, the songs would be sung in foreign languages.  Who needs that on a Sunday afternoon?  Especially when I had papers to grade and shopping to do.

But I went anyway.  I went to hear my son and I went to support his friends.  And I went because I knew I should.

Thankfully, I went because what I discovered was that sitting there listening to twenty four talented voices gave me a gift I never expected.  That recital forced me to stop and listen.  Be in the moment.  Take in what's around me and let go of everything else.

I was forced to stop.  To listen.  To be still.  To let go.

I needed that.  It was like a forced time out.  And I left there different.  Proud, of course, of my son's performance, but also more at peace.  My nerves were more settled, my anxiety was down, my stress nearly absent from my mind.  All because of a voice recital I dreaded...who knew?

So what will make you stop?

And listen?

And be still?


What will bring you a forced time out?  What will bring you peace?

I Miss the Mountains--Diana Days

January 5, 2013

I'm into musicals.  My favorite one is Next to Normal.  I've seen it five times. It's about a bipolar woman named Diana.  Here are a few lines of a song she sings as she's throwing out all of her medications...

...But I miss the mountains
I miss the dizzy heights
All the manic magic days
And the dark depressing nights
I miss the mountains
I miss the highs and lows
All the climbing, all the falling
All the while the wild wind blows
Stinging you with snow
And soaking you with rain
I miss the mountains
I miss the pain......I miss my life


I feel like Diana--I miss the mountains, but the mountains are rare for me.  I'm more a valley girl (like, totally).  Since I have bipolar II instead of bipolar I, my dips into darkness are far more frequent than my sky high euphoria.  My doctor says on average, someone like me is depressed 39 times for every one hypomanic episode.

I cycle quickly from feeling hyper and happy for a while to feeling low and lethargic later.  I'm a teacher, so my hyper attitude tends to channel into the classroom pretty naturally even if I fall flat about 3:00.  I guess I'm lucky that way.  I'm what my doctor calls "high functioning".  Thankfully my job allows me to focus my high energy moments into creativity and productivity.  And I'm wickedly good at acting fine at work even when I'm very depressed.  I just put on this performance for the work day and then come unglued when I come home.  This is another trait I'm told is typical of a bipolar II person... oh, and I'm lucky that my meds work...usually.

I've only had one really true hypomanic episode that concerned my psychiatrist enough to up my meds plus give me one dose of Depakote just in case.  I never had to take the Depakote, but I was supposed to call him if I got any more manic and this medicine was supposed to put an end to it.

CONFESSION:  I liked it.  The mania--or "hypomania" to be exact.  I liked that frenzied feeling of electricity lighting up underneath my skin.  It was like Diana says about dizzy heights on mountains.  I liked the jazzed up feeling like I could do anything.  I didn't need sleep.  I didn't need food.  I just played the piano.  I played and played composing more music than I had since I changed from music major to education back in college.

Now, I've had several near episodes, teetering between being spunky and being downright out of control.  These times are very productive for me.  I write a lot of music and I talk a lot.  A lot.  My friends all try to be patient but I know I'm annoying when I interrupt them.  My mind is just flying a mile a minute and I want to share share share.

My doctors (therapist and psychiatrist) both tell me that I'm a very happy hypomanic.  I suppose that's a compliment?  But here's the thing.  It's been a year since that hypomanic episode and I think I'm due for another one.  I've battled depression enough.  I'm taking a healthy cocktail of medications that are supposed to keep me on a more even keel.  If I complain that I'm depressed, I just get a higher dose of the antidepressant that makes me eat the house.  I don't want that.

I want...another hypomanic episode.  I want some "manic magic days".  Of course, I don't want to be so out of control I drive over our cat (that's in the musical), but I wouldn't mind the electricity under my skin again.  Just for a while.

I miss the mountains.

Healing New Year

January 3, 2013

Why is it we say, "Happy New Year" anyway?  Is it because we're so glad the previous year is over?  Or is it because we are hoping the upcoming year is better than the last?  

What if each New Year is simply an annual reminder of mistakes and regrets?  

What if hearing "Happy New Year" feels like a punch in the gut?

Two years and four days ago, my older son walked out my door and I was powerless to stop him.  He was eighteen years old and hell-bent on proving that there was nothing wrong with him--that he was just fine.  That was December 31, 2010.  

You'd think I'd be healing by now.  You'd think.  But this week has been rougher than I expected.  After two years, I still haven't forgiven myself for letting him go out the door.  I haven't forgiven myself and yet I know in my heart that I did everything I could have done.  He made the choice to leave.  He made the choice to sofa-hop from friend's house to friend's house, eventually ending up on the streets before begrudgingly moving in with his father where he still lives today. Or at least that's where his belongings are.  He may or may not end up there come nightfall.  He makes those choices everyday.  Yes, my son is still out there.  He's lost.  He's depressed.  And so am I.

Two years and four days.

"Happy New Year"?  No, I won't be so ambitious.  How about "Healing New Year"?  

So Healing New Year to you, dear reader.  May your 2013 bring you peace.