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.
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.
It’s midnight and the crisis team just left our house. We managed to use emergency meds to help calm him down and fall asleep. .
Change is good if you don’t have a mental health disorder. If you do, then change is a monumental, slaptastic, horrifying, nightmare inducing pain in the ass. I started back to school this week. He cannot cope with this change and has turned the family upside down again.
He has not slept since Tuesday night. He stopped eating and now will only drink milk that has 3 ice cubes in it. Three ice cubes that he must thoroughly examine before placing them in the milk.
He has definitely begun a manic stage and we are going straight to the psychiatrist in the morning.
Prayers and good thoughts sent out into the universe needed please.