"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

"Why We Fall Down" Runner-Up Essay written by my son Luke about his older brother Jake

 August 17, 2015

My son Luke wrote an essay about his older brother for a scholarship contest. He was awarded Runner up. Here is his essay.

Who's Holding Your Invisible Strings?

July 20, 2015

If you've ever struggled with a mental illness or cared for someone struggling, you know how unpredictable life can be. The only thing certain is uncertainty.

But for me, there has been a secret weapon that has silently, invisibly kept me afloat all this time: the love of my life, Tom.

We were friends first, having met by chance while working in a community theatre project together, a musical: Roald Dahl's Willy Wonka. I was the director and Tom played Grandpa Joe.

If you are familiar with the story, you know that Grandpa Joe and Charlie experiment with a "Fizzy Lifting Drink" during their chocolate factory tour and they both end up flying. This stunt, as well as a few other flying scenes, were critical to the believability of the show--they had to be done right. Our production team rented an impressive flying mechanism, complete with special flight training for our four actors and four flight crew members. We took every precaution to ensure the safety of the stunts, but even then, we knew that one slight mistake could be fatal.

Good thing I trusted our flight crew. One of the members was my older son, then 18 years old. He was smart, reliable and strong, a perfect choice.

During rehearsals, I remember Tom brought the entire flight crew their favorite soft drinks, a six-pack of Mountain Dew or a jug of Arnold Palmer, whatever they liked. My son was so thrilled that Tom thought to bring him his own special treat just for working backstage.

As the director, I was impressed and thanked Tom. I remember his response: "You have to recognize the crew of any production. They are what holds it all together. They need to feel important because they are."

He was right. Those working in the background often go unnoticed, yet it's their tireless efforts that keep everything running smoothly. And in the case of Willy Wonka, they were the ones who kept our performers alive. In fact, my son was a flyer for Tom, meaning he operated some of the invisible wires that suspended him high overhead while he flipped somersaults on stage. So quite literally, my son had Tom's life in his hands.

A few months after the production ended, my son's world fell apart. He spiraled into a blackhole of mental illness that, ultimately, landed him behind bars. He is still incarcerated today.

It hasn't been easy. In fact, it's been the most difficult time in my life. And at first, I felt completely alone. But then, thankfully, Tom stepped in "backstage" and took hold of my invisible strings, helping me hold it all together, keeping me alive.

I dedicate this post to all those selfless flight crew members out there who are holding invisible strings everyday. You should feel special, because you are.

Thank you, Tom. Happy Anniversary.

*The photo above is of Tom, suspended in the air during a flight rehearsal for Willy Wonka, holding his strings is my son.

The Other "F" Word

May 8, 2015

Can you be an extroverted introvert? Or an introverted extrovert? I’m one of those. My moods tend to dictate which “vert” is dominant on any given day or at any given moment actually. As a fifth grade teacher, I have to be extroverted. My job depends on my ability to capture and sustain the attention of a classroom full of eleven-year-olds for 84 minutes at a time. Have you ever seen that dog treat commercial where the pup says, “Bacon!” over and over again? That’s what I imagine is happening in many of my students’ minds most of the time. So, to battle the bacon beckoning, I do my best to put on a good show every day during class. Like I said before, as a teacher, I am extroverted. That’s the “Teacher Me.” But that’s not really who I am. Not really. In truth, I’m actually kind of shy. My bipolar 2 diagnosis came as no surprise when I received it a few years ago. My mood swings were apparent early on. In fact, all my life I’ve had trouble creating and sustaining good, healthy relationships. What I’m about to tell you is very difficult to admit. First: I’ve been married before. Twice before, actually. And second: I could chart my life on a timeline marked not by years, not by jobs, not even by husbands. No, I could chart it by friends. There were the “Laila* Years” and then the “Sharon* Years” followed closely by the “Krysta* Years” and the list goes on. So the fact that I’m on my third (and LAST, thankyouverymuch) marriage is NOT what is most humiliating. No, what I’m most humiliated by is the fact that I don’t have many friends. Not really. If you’re looking at my Facebook page you’re saying, “Of course you have friends! Look at all those friends! Oodles of them!” Sure, “friends” on Facebook. But real Friends? The capital “F” kind? The kind of Friend who turns to you when they need a shoulder to cry on, a funny story to share, or someone to hold back their hair when they’ve had too much to drink. I mean that kind of Friend. Besides my husband, who is by far and away my very best Friend on the planet, my Friend pool is quite shallow. But please, don’t stop reading. This isn’t a “Feel Sorry for Me” post. I promise. Because, honestly, it’s my fault. The pre-diagnosis/medication/therapy “Me” was pretty difficult to be around. There were times I couldn’t stand to be around myself, so I have no idea how anyone else could. I totally get that. I do. And since I’m naturally an introvert, making Friends hasn’t been too easy. But now as my life is settling down, and I have a loving husband, a calming home life, and a solid career, I feel like it’s time to focus on building some Friendships. The capital “F” kind. Which brings me to the purpose of this post. C.S. Lewis said, “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I thought I was the only one.” And I think I may have met that kind of friend today. I mean, it’s a little early to say for sure. But there was that “What? You too?” thing going on. We talked and talked and laughed and cried. Yes, full disclosure: there was a little crying. But I don’t want to jinx it, so for now I’ll just say this: Hey, Friend, if you’re reading this, “I thought I was the only one.” *Names have been changed for privacy.

These Letters Spell H-O-P-E

January 13, 2014

If writing is conveying important thoughts and feelings using words, and words are created by rearranging letters into different configurations, then letters convey important thoughts and feelings when they've been configured accurately. Right?

Letters, when crafted with care and honesty, can spell hope.

My son's attorney suggested that I ask some family and friends of my son to write letters to the judge who will be sentencing him. The purpose of the letters is for the judge to get to know my son through the eyes of those who know him best, before deciding his sentence.

Over the last week or so, several letters have arrived. Each time I read one, I cry.

Not only am I awestruck by the incredible love that envelopes my son from his friends and family,  I am astounded at the accuracy with which each person has described him.  From his gift for working with children and older adults to his talents as a visual artist, writer, musician, and actor, these letters verify what I've known for the past 21 years. My son is a wonderful, caring, gifted human being. My son is not a criminal.

Most letters mention that my son has struggled with mental illness, but not one uses it as an excuse for his behavior. Most letters emphasize his geniune contrition about the events that led him to prison and his 100% cooperation since the moment of his arrest. But all the letters convey the overarching message that my son has amazing potential and, when released, is determined to use his gifts in meaningful ways. 

These letters have served as validation for me as a mother too. I read them over and over again. I just want to be reminded that it's not just me who sees my son as a kind, talented, bright young man just waiting to be given a chance to begin his life as a productive adult. There are others who do too.

I am (still)hopeful that the judge will read these letters and view my son through a compassionate lens, recognizing what kind of man my son will be once he is allowed back into society.

For me, these letters spell H-O-P-E.

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.

These Hands

These handprints in a frame mean more this year than ever.  My son's three year old hands so open to life.  So welcoming to all that lay ahead for him.  Riding a bike, learning to swim, shooting baskets.  Going to school, making the team, meeting a girl.  Going to prom, driving a car, graduating school.

How could I ever know that these hands, these little hands would someday be behind bars?

This Mother's Day, love your babies.  Love your children.  Love your grown up kids.  And grab their hands.  Both of them.  Hold them tight.

This Mother's Day, all I can do is look at this set of handprints.  And remember.

Endurance

May 7, 2013

Today I learned the incredible story of Ernest Shackleton by viewing a film narrated by Kevin Spacey.  It's on You Tube if you want to check it out.

Normally, history is not my thing and certainly would not be a subject of my blog, however, this story affected me so much I wanted to share it with you.  I'll give you the very short version:

In 1915, Shackleton led a team of adventure-seeking men on the ship Endurance trying to cross Antarctica via the South Pole.  During the journey, the ship became trapped in ice.  Most would think all hope was lost.  But not Shackleton.  He took his men onto the ice and they camped there for months waiting for spring when the ice would thaw.

Unfortunately, while they waited, the Endurance wasn't freed by warmer weather.  Instead, the ship was crushed by ice and sank.  Luckily, before the ship was completely engulfed, the men were able to go aboard once more to retrieve their belongings, their sled dogs, and their life boats.  Though their situation appeared dire, they didn't give up.  They remained optimistic and journeyed on.  Their story is one of 635 days of survival.  But let me get to my point.

My point is Endurance.  Shackleton and his crew had incredible endurance.  They would not have ever survived without it.  Six hundred thirty-five days.

Sometimes we need to be reminded that we, too, have endurance.  We may not feel like we do, but it's there.  In fact, sometimes we may feel just like that ship wedged fatefully in that ice and we may just want to give up.

But we mustn't.  No, we mustn't give up hope.  I remain hopeful.  And you must too.

We each have a journey.  Probably not one that involves a ship and the ice of the South Pole, but we have one.  And our endurance will sometimes feel like it's frozen dormant inside of us, but it's there and we must find it. Dig deep for it.  Find it and use it.

Six hundred thirty-five days.  That could be the length of time my son is incarcerated.  Endurance.  I'm digging deep.

An Open Letter to the Hater

May 4, 2013

Dear Hater,

I know who you are.  I know what you're doing to hurt my family and me.  I won't let you continue to do it anymore.

My son is not a monster.  You do not even know him.  Your life is not in the least affected by his choices.  So stop making this about you.

You can only hurt us if I let you.  And I won't let you do it anymore.  I've shed my last tear because of your hatred.  I've spent my last moment worrying about what others think.

I am done with you, hater.  I am done.

~SHM

Tell Them You Love Them Especially When They Don't Want to Hear It

February 19, 2013

The following is an edited version of a letter I wrote to my 20 year old Bipolar son last summer.  He'd moved out of my house Dec. 31, 2010. If you've read my other posts, you know the troubles he's had, we've had.  But I post this letter now because it may benefit you, Dear Reader.  If you need to reach out to someone you love who is troubled, DO IT NOW.  Let them know you love them especially when they don't want to hear it.

July 14, 2012

Dear XXXX,

I suppose you see that I have decided to write you a letter. Two reasons: first, because when I text or call you, you rarely reply or answer. And second, because this will give me the opportunity to share with you some of the things that have been on my mind for quite some time.

The most important message I'd like to convey to you today is that I love you. Yes, I say that to you and I text it to you and you reply the same to me. But, seriously take a moment and think about it: I. Love. You. What that means is that I will never forsake you. I will never turn my back on you no matter what you do or say or don't do or don't say. No matter what. I. Love. You. A mother's love for her children is the most unique and selfless kind there is. And in my case, it is my love for you that is the deepest rooted love I carry in my heart. Here is a poem I think that explains my feelings toward you. Since we both love poetry, I think it's appropriate to share with you:

i carry your heart—ee cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

So, my Son, as my first born son you hold a very, very dear place in my heart. Carrying you for 9 months, giving birth to you, nurturing you the best I could is only the beginning of the love I have for you. As a young mother, I know I made mistakes. Lots of them. But one thing I know without hesitation is that I will always love you. It's just like that book I used to read to you about a mother's love for her son: how she crawled across the floor to rock him back and forth, back and forth and while she rocked him she sang:

I'll love you forever.

I'll like you for always.

As long as I'm living

my baby you'll be.

Now that you know the most paramount reason for my writing to you, let me move on to some other thoughts I've been having about you...and they are in no special order.

I feel guilty when I think about how things are for you right now. About how school hasn't really worked out and about how you don't have a car and perhaps not even a job. In all this misfortune, I have never given up hope for you. But I feel guilty when I think that's what you think. Basically, I worry that you think I've abandoned you. And I don't ever want you to think that.

I've been in therapy for a while now and I've been diagnosed Bipolar II. During my sessions with my counselor, I express to her how much I miss “the old XXXX” and how much I wish I could have done something to alter things. She tells me over and over that you have made choices that have led you to where you are. She says I need to remember that. And I do. But I can't help to feel guilty too. (Perhaps it's that old Catholic thing.) In any case, just know that I've been “battling my demons” so to speak over the last year and a half.

In getting diagnosed, I've begun medication too. This has helped moderate my emotions tremendously. I can't tell you how helpful it has been to learn more about Bipolar II and why I feel the way I feel sometimes. And to know that there are other people who feel this way too. And there is medication that helps. After some trial and error I've found the correct dosage for me. I tell you this because I want you to know everything, Son. I want you to know that I've been battling things too.

OK I just re-read that last paragraph and as a writing teacher, I'm horrified. The lack of organization is horrific. But I mean every word and I'm not revising it to make it perfect because I'm not perfect. I'm just your mom. And I miss you. And I love you. And I want to have a relationship with you again.

I'd love to see you on a regular basis. I'd love to talk to you weekly, daily, whatever suits you. You know I keep up with most of what's going on with you, though I'm sure I don't know everything. I respect your privacy. But I want to talk to you again. And I want to be a part of your life again.

Now this wouldn't be complete if I didn't mention the next subject, so brace yourself:

Your Future.

I'm not going to harp on you about what I think you should do. I'm not even going to list the ideas I've had (both old and new) regarding this topic. Instead I'm only going to say that I'd like to help you get Your Future started. I know you're scared. I know it's terrifying to be “a grown up”. But it's also quite liberating. And you deserve that.

So I'll come to a close with just three little words: I. Love. You. If you gain nothing else from this letter, I hope that I have convinced you of that.

Love Always,

Mom

Just Lucky, I Guess

January 21, 2013

People from work or from my community who hear my story often ask me questions like, "How did you make it through?"

"How did you not fall apart?"  

"You seemed fine even though you were going through so much at home.  How did you not let it affect you?"

My response is usually something like, "I don't know.  Just lucky, I guess."  

But in all honesty, the fact that I was able to maintain my poise at work and continue volunteering with my younger son at our local community theater actually embarrasses me. 

About a year after my older son left, I talked to a psychiatrist (referred to me by my therapist).  Among other topics, this ability to keep going through anything came up because it concerned me.  I worried that I was flawed deeply. But this trait which one may call "resilience" is actually something he used to help diagnose my condition: Bipolar II.

Apparently, we Bipolar IIs are able to "keep going" through lots of emotional stress.  We can drive right through the rain, so to speak.  For me, it felt like if I let myself cry, I may never stop.  Having so much stress at home was enough.  I refused to let it interfere with my life outside of home.  I just wouldn't let it.

But yet, it did.

While my employer would never have suspected anything was wrong, I felt the stress.  The pain. It lay dormant underneath my skin.  I always knew it was there waiting for me. It was a conscious decision to not let it eat me alive.  I felt I had to continue going for my younger son's sake, if nothing else.  What I wanted to do was fold up into a ball and rock on the floor.  To go away to some scenic, peaceful therapy center somewhere.  To check out on some heavy meds.  To acknowledge the pain somehow.  

But I held it together through it all.

So when I finally let myself feel...it all came pouring out.

In fact, one of the first times I really let it all out was when I wrote my first blog entry just a few weeks ago.  I actually relived that horrible experience completely and let myself feel all of it.  I let myself acknowledge the pain.  And it hurt.  A lot.

But I'm healing.

My therapist and my psychiatrist are both very proud of my progress.  The "Sacred House" helps a great deal.  So does the fact that I'm seeking help with therapy and medication.  I try to maintain a regular sleep routine and I exercise often.  I'm finally taking care of myself and letting myself feel again.  I'm also very lucky to be in a loving relationship with a supportive man who doesn't judge me.  He accepts me, flaws and all. So, thankfully, I am healing...

But I often worry that another tragic experience would just tip me right over.  Set me off.  Knock me out for good. 

Then again, no, I don't think it would.  

I am resilient.  

And I'm just lucky, I guess.

Hindsight

January 16, 2013

When my second son was born, I thought there was something wrong with him.

I remember going out to dinner with my parents one night when he was about 8 or 9 months old.  I was sitting there with him perched upon my lap, his healthy rolls of babyhood peeking out of his Osh Kosh overalls.

"Mom, I think he's, I think he's...simple.  I mean look at him.  He just sits here.  He's actually letting me eat my dinner."

My mom laughed and assured me that he wasn't simple.  He was just a happy baby.  She told me he was fine, but I wasn't so sure.

All I had to compare him to was his four and a half year old brother, who, at that dinner outing, was playing "try to touch everything on the table".  Even though we'd brought a bag filled with books, action figures, crayons and coloring books, he insisted on the stimulation of new exciting silverware and glasses, salt and pepper shakers, napkins and ketchup bottles.  My husband and I ended that evening as we usually did when out at a restaurant...one of us took him out for a walk, while the other got to finish the meal.

My older son's babyhood seemed normal enough, or at least we thought it was at the time. We knew he was coordinated since he was running, not walking, by the time he was 9 1/2 months old.  He could throw a ball with dead aim at your face (his preferred target) at a little over one year old, and by two he was hitting a ball off of a T like a pro.  And he spoke clearly, articulately, thoughtfully very early on.  Developmentally, he was on the money.  In fact, with most developmental stages, he was ahead according to the baby books.

Basically, we thought he was brilliant.

Hindsight is what it is.  Looking back I see his early years were not typical.

Like the fact that to fall asleep, most nights we had to take him in the car for a ride. But taking him out of the car seat risked waking him and doing it all over again.  This lasted until he was almost three years old.

Like the fact that he didn't sleep through the night until he was nearly four.

Like the fact that he didn't sit still long enough for us to read him a book until he was in pre-school.

Like the fact that his temper tantrums would last so long that he would physically exhaust us.  These remained routine well into his school-age years.

Like the fact that we had to hide scissors from him because he cut every fabric item we had in our house:  curtains, clothes, bedding, you name it, he cut it.  Scissors were just fascinating to him.  This was at about age six or seven.  An age he should have known better.

But he exhibited many signs of intelligence as well as an amazing athletic aptitude.  Despite the fact that to be read a book he had to be moving around in his room and listening, looking at pictures on the run, he learned to read at five years old.    His hand eye coordination as well as his large motor skills were very well developed.  He began to swim competitively at age five and at age six he won the State Championship for his age group!

So, in comparison, the new baby seemed, well, simple.  He wasn't as active.  He didn't roll over as soon or walk as soon or talk as soon as his older brother.  He had little interest in athletics and hated to swim.  By comparison, he seemed less gifted, less talented, less extreme.

As it turns out, both boys are very intelligent, though the older one didn't excel academically like his younger brother does.  The older boy swam competitively and played basketball until he tore his ACL in high school and developed a psychological aversion to competitive sports.  The younger one, never much of an athlete, became an actor on stage and screen at the age of eleven.  He's appeared in television and film, though he prefers to perform in local theater productions.  He is what they call a triple threat:  a singer, actor, and dancer.

Both boys have AD/HD.  The younger one has never needed school acommodations, but the older one needed them from age six through high school.  He never finished a semester of college, though he tried twice.

Oh, and the older one.  He's got Bipolar Disorder.

Looking back on things now, it makes sense.  The temper tantrums, the impulsivity, the irritability, the destructive behaviors.  The extremes.  Looking back, I think he showed symptoms of bipolar as an infant.  Of course, hindsight is what it is.

And what I thought was a simple baby, was really just a baby without the raging waters of bipolar disorder swimming through his veins.

If I had only known what we were dealing with, maybe I could have altered what ultimately happened with my older boy.  But how could I have known?

My Sacred House

Dec. 28, 2012

There is something I should tell you.

I have Bipolar II Disorder.  

After years of thinking (and hearing from my ex-husband) that I was just plain crazy, I was finally properly diagnosed in 2011...a year after my older son was diagnosed with Bipolar I.  A year after he brought a gun into my home for the purpose of suicide.  A year after he shamed me into keeping his secret.  A year after I missed the opportunity to have him hospitalized and properly treated.  A year after my nightmare began.

Since then, I've done my homework.

I know that parents with bipolar disorder are more likely to have children with bipolar disorder.  I am learning more about my condition and realizing there are things I can do to keep myself well. I can maintain a solid schedule of appointments with my psychiatrist to check my medication and discuss symptoms. I can see my therapist regularly too. And, I can do things for myself: "self-care" they call it. Things like playing the piano, going for a run, reading a book, or getting my nails done. These are luxuries that in the past I may have overlooked, considering them self-indulgent and not as important as my family. But actually, they are critical for me and for my family. Taking care of myself IS taking care of my family. I can't care for them if I'm not healthy myself. It's not at all selfish to practice self-care.

I wish my son would let me share with him what I have learned. The fact that he has chosen the path of Denial causes me great pain. Through therapy, research, and reflection I have found some relief knowing that he has chosen this path. I am trying to accept this as a possible reality. But are the choices he has made actually symptoms of his illness - thus, not really choices at all?

Over time, I have learned a new way to cope with our estranged relationship.

I consider myself a sacred house.

I have a front gate and a manicured lawn.  I have an inviting front hallway and a warm living room.  My sacred house has a quaint kitchen and cozy bedrooms and there is one room only for me.

I can invite people into parts of my sacred house as I see fit.  Those who I trust and feel closest to are invited inside all of my house and can wander the rooms freely--except the one room where I alone may go.  And those I barely know are not invited into my sacred house at all.  Those who have betrayed me or who I fear are not allowed into my sacred house.  I must keep my sacred house safe.

My older son is at the front gate.

This does not mean in any way that my love for him has diminished in the least.  As the days turned to months and then to years, my love for him remains true and full and real.  It only means that for the physical and emotional safety of my younger son and me, he is not invited inside my sacred house.

He cannot hurt me from the front gate.  Or at least, he cannot hurt me too much.

I'll Be Home for Christmas if only in a dream...

Dec. 25, 2012

There are little miracles now and then.  And one happened last night, Christmas Eve.

After six months of not speaking to me--literally no contact, I managed to get my older son to come over for Christmas Eve--it took lots of coaxing, but he showed up.

We were both nervous.  He wore a grubby t-shirt and beat up boots with jeans sagging low, tattoos plainly visible.  He needed a shave and his hair was disheveled sticking out of a black stocking cap.  This was the shell of a boy I've known in the past 2 years.  

Things were awkward at first, but I extended the olive branch by offering him a couple of early Christmas gifts that I thought he might like.  I gave him new clothes and he immediately put them on--thrilled to be "dressed up".  (He used to be quite the snazzy dresser in his early teen years.)  Then he borrowed a razor from his little brother, and he ran a comb through his hair.

A transformation before my eyes.  With his new "look", he loosened up and began to joke around with me and his brother.  Before long we were all laughing and teasing almost like it used to be. Almost.  But the elephant was still in the room.

I've been through this before with him, though so I didn't let down my guard completely.  I know his moods come in waves...I know that he stole half glasses of holiday punch all evening.  I know he took a beer from the fridge and hid the bottle in the laundry basket.  I know that he changed his Facebook profile to a picture of himself in his dressy clothes flying the bird into the mirror...I know he's not the same boy he used to be.

But for just a while, as he and his brother played video games together and munched on Christmas cookies, I was able to bask in the boy home for Christmas if only in a dream.  And I feel like one lucky mom--still  hopeful indeed.

It's the best Christmas present I could ask for.  

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