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You’re a mean one, Mom!

I raced home today to catch the last half of our son’s telephone conference family therapy session.

I was hopeful we would solidify our December 20th discharge date.  I need’nt have bothered, his therapist informed us that he had refused to come to therapy.  He told his therapist “I know my rights you can’t make me go.”  The next conversation was that Damian had chosen a $100 Christmas gift provided by Coastal Harbor.

Some background….Two weeks ago (in our supposedly last family therapy session) we found out that our son had refused to work at school for a whole day while he constructed a 3 page Christmas Gift List for us.  When we shared that each child in our family was being given $50 to donate to a charity of their choice and not writing gift lists this year, our son became silent and refused to finish the therapy session.  The next several days he told staff he “would be staying at Coastal Harbor for Christmas” and “when was he going to make his $100 gift purchase”.  He began self harm statements intentionally so he would not be discharged.  I told his therapist under no circumstances should Damian be allowed to “choose a gift from Coastal Harbor”.

They (The Coastal Harbor Administration) felt this was unfair and this past Sunday let him choose a gift.

He hasn’t called us since Sunday and today refused our family therapy session.

Remember when he came home from the Crisi Stabilization Unit with a cup full of Gummi bears?  We are here again!

So now my son has turned in another ticket to ride his lonely carousel.  But hey $100 sneakers are more important, right?

I have surely been nicknamed “The Grinch” by nameless, faceless people who think they know more about me son than me.

I am unreasonably furious and so deeply tired.

The magical mind

December 13, 2017.

He is set for official discharge.

Our therapy session ended today with him telling us “I won’t be home long”.

I can’t argue with that.  I have learned the hard way that there is literally nothing I can do to make him stay.  So I answer from the newly created space in my brain “Okay.  I hope you can enjoy your time while you are home.”  His reply is silence and then a flash of words meant to cause me pain, “So you don’t want me to stay.  You just want me to visit and then go back?”

Before I can react emotionally, the new place in my brain responds without hesitation “I bought you some new jeans and those soft long sleeve shirts you like.  I put them in your dresser last night.”

Silence, then more silence. As I am about to speak before I should, he makes a half hearted attempt to encite again.  “You just don’t care and you are done with me and I don’t want to come back at all.”

Your turn, your turn my brain screams.  It’s your turn to respond.  Literally out of nowhere comes the freakin song from Vanilla Ice, and all I hear in my brain is “Stop, collaborate, and listen.”  People my mind has been worked hard in therapy the last two months.  I started out the gate running and then this , this is what my brain gives me.

So, Vanilla Ice spoke to my son.  “Listen (son) we need to work together during therapy and you ARE coming home so I will listen to whatever you need to tell me.”

I work for two months on 2-3 times weekly therapy and a disgraced rapper saves our therapy session.

Soon

We have received the phone call that lets us know that medicaid has decided that our son is “well enough” to come back.

He has not met a single therapy goal but has not tried to kill himself or anyone else in 3 weeks so he no longer requires residential treatment.

The insanity carousel just keeps going round and round and the same song keeps playing.  It’s only rider knows how to get a never ending supply of tickets.

Sometimes he lets us ride with him for a week or two, but soon he is holding back his tickets and rides alone once again.

Our son is coming back, but he is not coming home.  He will cycle through our house like a tornado and then disappear again and again.  All we can do is batten down the hatches and pray that the tornado only harms our hearts and does not destroy itself.

Patience is learning that what will be cannot be controlled, only mitigated.

How not to be a mom…

It has been a long while since I have posted about my son.  He is still at the Coastal Harbor Psychiatric Residential Treatment Facicilty in Savannah, GA.  As he always does in residential care he is doing wonderfully.  He thrives on; the down to the minute constant structure of his day, the 24 hour round the clock care, never having to attach or become emotionally involved with the constant change of personnel or kids, and the constant individual attention.

I have been seeing my psychologist several times a week traveling the road of grieving for the living.  Trying hard to create new spaces in my brain to accept the loss of motherhood for my son.  I am working to accept the hard truths of the last 2 years.

He doesn’t want or need a mother, he needs a caregiver.  He doesn’t want or need my concern for his future he needs food, shelter, and affection on his terms.  My mothering love that has been essential to all of my other children is smothering my son, he needs me to be supportive and affectionate but to keep my distance.

So I am working hard to learn how to be my son’s caregiver and not his mother.  My needs must be closed off as I work to keep this kiddo alive.  For whatever the universe’s reason my son does not want to live as part of a family.  So we will have to learn to be just the family that cares for him.

Chasing hope on a circular path.

It will be three weeks on Tuesday that our son has been at Coastal Harbor residential treatment.  He has had no major issues since he began.  He is still managing to follow basic commands and routines.  The big “however” here is that he is again refusing to communicate with us during family therapy sessions.  He knows just how much he needs to do to “get out” of there.  He knows that family therapy effort is not counted as a factor in his release so he chooses not to put effort into them.

He could possibly be discharged in 3 weeks.  I used to get obsessive and perseverate about his discharge dates.  I now know it is pointless.  This circle of madness will continue… PRTF, home with IFI and CBAY services, crisis-hospital,  home, crisis-hospital, refer to PRTF, home, back to PRTF.

I cannot pretend, pray, or hope that anything will change.  Our son’s happy ending will be years from now, if at all.  All we can do is continue walking this circular path with him.  Praying everyday that he does not seriously injure himself or someone else.

The search for hope

For the past 3 1/2 months everything revolved around our son.  His therapist,  psychologist, and psychiatric appointments.  His self harm, crisis intervention teams, and hospitalizations.  His hand crafted daily schedule, his medications, and his school.

Then in the last 3 weeks a flurry of decisions, hours of phone calls, piteous pleadings to any official who had the bad luck to answer the phone, anxious texts at all hours of the day, and fitful nightmare filled nights.

Then came the fast, intense feeling of peace.  Which was quickly followed by the drop to your knees guilt.

Now there is just silence and an empty void.  I had been parenting like I was on fire and now the fire is gone.  Leaving behind a burned out shell, a blackened and charred ghost of the structure it was. Oh how I wish that fire could have destroyed the memories and events that have caused our family such pain.  But our most intense memories cling to us no matter the devastation we survive.

Objects and tangible items were not lost in this blaze, but hope was.

Now I begin the tiresome process of finding new hope.  I have done this many times before with our son.  This time is different.  The new hope I persue is so elusive and fleeting that I cannot hear its beckoning whispers or see its shadows of light.  I have looked in the places where it was found in the past, but for now it is no where to be found.

Now what?

It has been a week and a day since Garrett drove our son to Coastal Harbor Psychiatric Residential Treatment.

We had our first family therapy meeting last Wednesday and it didn’t go well.

The therapist asked our son why he was at Coastal Harbor and he responded with “I didn’t make my phone calls when I was in the hospital.”

I managed to stay silent while screaming on the inside.

Therapist- “You don’t get to a level 6 treatment center for not making phone calls.  Why are you here?”    (Our therapist actually used more “colorful” words but I didn’t want to post them online 🙂 ).                  Son- “I don’t know.”                               Therapist- “Try again.”                       Son- “I didn’t listen.”                           Therapist-“Listen?  You know many many people have shared with me why you’re here.  Now we’re going to listen to your parents share why you are here.”

We shared but I am pretty certain only the therapist “listened”.

No sleep for the weary-Time is not my friend!

Current stats of the past 2 years.
*15 months in Psychiatric Residential Treatment Facilities.
*5 months in Psychiatric Hospitalizations.
*4 months (spread out over the past 2 years) at home.
*13 Psychiatric Hospitalizations.
*4 Psychiatric Residential Treatment Facilities.
*6 different schools.
*17 interruptions in his schooling.
*13 different psychiatrists, each of them made medication changes.
*21 at-home intervention therapists.
*18 inpatient-Psychiatric therapists.
*7 case managers.

Tonight is our last night with our son for what will most likely be many months. Garrett will leave with him at 5:30 AM for the 4.5 hour drive to Coastal Harbor in Savannah GA. I have had 3 other nights like this in the past 2 years and they are like a funeral. Saying goodbye to the child I know now, for when he finally returns he is always different. Changed by time, people, and a life I will have no part in for months.
The grief is overwhelming and I try to sound happy and upbeat while making sure I tell him I love him so many times that it becomes a circulating mantra in our conversation.
I used to remind him to brush his teeth, change his underwear, put deodorant on, write in his journal, and listen to his doctors and staff.

Now I just tell him that I love him and will always be here waiting for him to choose life outside of the hospitals.
I tell him I can’t enable him anymore and that we will not visit him while he is at Coastal Harbor. I will not call him. He will need to call us. I remind him that words mean nothing to us anymore. That only actions can speak to us now. I will not allow him to promise or plead to us at Coastal Harbor. Days of good behavior will not be praised. They will be totaled into weeks and months to receive praise.
We love you but cannot live with you, only your actions can change that.
Make new choices, the old ones haven’t worked.
Good night and goodbye my beautiful and tragically broken son.

A win lose situation

IMG_2338

It looks like we finally “won” the Psychiatric Beauty Pageant.

Our son will hopefully be going to the Coastal Harbor PRTF in Savannah Georgia.

Now before he “won” and was accepted here he was “denied” at 2 other PRTFs.

Denial #1
“Unfortunately ______ is to acute to be served at our facility.”

AND

Denial #2
Unfortunately _______ is too aggressive to be served by our facility.”

No one has been able to explain to me why the CSU could discharge a child that was so “acute” and “too aggressive” back home. But here he has been at home for a week now.
Coastal Harbor was not our choice. It was the only option left for him in the state of GA. If they had not accepted him we would have had to look at placement out of the state. As it stands now Coastal Harbor is 4 1/2 hours away from our family.

We won to lose.

The Gummi Bears are off course

So last night when my son walked in the door from his week long stay at a CSU clutching a large styrofoam cup of gummi bears I wanted to scream.

But I didn’t.
I put him in bed and let it go. Or so I thought.

At about midnight I still couldn’t sleep. My thoughts still aggressively circling what those damn gummi bears represent. I tried some meditation and repeating to myself “the candy is not the issue, the system is the issue.” But my mind wouldn’t let go.

Twenty minutes and an ambien later I was sitting next to my son watching him sleep.

How did this happen? Why? Could I have done anything different? Maybe if I had known the right people to demand more services 2 years ago I wouldn’t be sitting here now. Was there a drug trial we haven’t tried? What if that one day I gave in to one of his tantrums set us on this course. What if?

Do you know why the CSU gave him a huge cup of gummi bears. Because they don’t have the answers. Nobody does. Most of the time there will never be answers.

Do you know what there will always be? Candy. So at 1:00 in the morning I sat on the floor next to my beautiful and broken child. The tears streaming down my face for the hundredth time and I ate the whole cup of gummi bears. Every damn one.