mental illness

Childhood Trauma and Mental Health: Guest Post From a Survivor

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Herding Chickens Guest Post:

One of my readers has agreed to share her experience on Herding Chickens. She has been following the blog for awhile. C always has great insight about my children, particularly Mary. This is because C is a survivor of trauma herself. She also lives with a mental health diagnosis she agreed to share with my readers.Enjoy! I think parents like me have a lot to learn from C. This will be written in an interview format. You may leave questions for C in the comments section.

HC:  Thank you for agreeing to do this. I am hoping you can shine some light on mental health and childhood trauma. Can you share your story with us?

C: First, I’ll give some background. I just turned 30 and I am in a master’s program for clinical counseling. I am a trauma survivor. My earliest memories involve trauma. This trauma involves my parents and maternal grandmother. I was never removed from my home. I did not start receiving treatment until I was 12 years old and it was from a guidance counselor.

I had my first psychotic episode around that time as well and began self-harm. I went impatient around that time. I wasn’t given a correct diagnosis at that time. I was too old for RAD, too young for borderline, and too young for bipolar. So they threw oppositional defiant disorder at me.

My parents were very good at acting perfect while demonizing me. They would call me a “bad little girl.”  I was medicated for depression and later Bipolar Disorder. I was discharged with lots of conditions such as limited contact with my father, family therapy as well as psych evals on my parents. I was supposed to attend a day program, and continued individual therapy. I went to the day program and continued therapy.

That therapist saved my life. He saw through the denials of abuse and sent me to a residential treatment facility. I went when I was 14 almost 15 and spent about a year there. By week two I refused meds and quickly became manic. I stayed that way for months. I did make friends while I was there. There were a few adults I came to trust. I  believed that they would protect me and they did. I got my Borderline Personality Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder diagnosis while I was there.

My parents were supposed to go to couples counseling, psychoeducation and parenting classes. They went to the parenting classes my mom went to therapy on her own. They were supposed to decide if they were going to be together to separate. They did not. I was discharged with no aftercare plan. For about 5 years I swung between mania, psychosis and depression. I also developed Agoraphobia. I didn’t go back to therapy until age 19.  I did a lot of talk therapy at first. Eventually I did prolonged exposure and Dialectal Behavior Therapy (DBT), which I think desperately needs to be adapted for children. I wrote a paper and did adapt it somewhat. Then I went back to talk therapy and I still go weekly.

My personal life is depressing. I don’t have many relationships. My fear of abandonment is crippling my need for attention drives people away. Imagine an adult friend having those clingy behaviors Mary is having.  My family can shun me at times. I struggle with attaching to people inappropriately and letting go. I am still intertwined with my parents and am “retraumatized” often. I have no choice right now because I need to keep my medicaid while I’m going to school fulltime. I find strength in my trauma. I am currently in a fight with my previous university for discriminating and stigmatizing me. Since age 15 I have attempted suicide 4 times. It has been 6 years since I injured myself. Self-injury, like cutting, is very much like an addiction. When I was younger I was manic more than depressed, but that pattern has reversed in recent years.

I have always known I am not my diagnoses. I have Bipolar but I am not Bipolar. It’s something I manage. It has both enhanced my life and damaged it. It takes time to develop a very strong understanding of the diagnosis.  Making sure you have the correct diagnosis is so important. Learning how the diagnosis affects my life and not how I affect the diagnosis was important. Also there are many therapists who treat the diagnosis and not the person. That is detrimental. No matter how close a person’s symptoms match a disorder in the DSM, there are always many nuances, differences and uniqueness to each person.

HC: You sound like an incredibly strong person. When did you start reading “Herding Chickens and Other Adventures in Foster and Adoptive Care” What drew you to this blog?

I started reading this blog about 8 months ago. I think another blog I follow had a link to it on her twitter. I kept reading for three reasons (in no particular order): 1) I am still trying to make sense of my life. I thought if I could read about kids who have experienced trauma and what they are like, I might find a group where I fit in. Also, sometimes I still like I caused so many problems for others with my behavior. If it’s from the trauma I can absolve myself of that. 2) Fostering/adoption is something I am considering. 3) The blog is compelling. It took me a very long time to get help. I want to see the turnout for children who get the therapy, meds, and proper parenting.

HC: Thank you! Can you tell our readers a little bit about your diagnosis? How did this affect your childhood? How does it affect you now?

Currently, I am diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder type 1, Borderline Personality disorder, and PTSD. By the time I saw a professional I was in sixth grade and the professional was a guidance counselor. He recognized something was not right with me. I was too old for a RAD diagnosis but still too young for a diagnosis of Bipolar, Borderline Personality Disorder, or PTSD. At that time (1999) Bipolar was not diagnosed in children. Although, all the mental health professionals I’ve seen in my adult life agree that the bipolar came out in 4th grade. I have very few complete memories before age 15. I will get random snippets of things, but there are very few things I can recall at will.

That being said, I know I was well liked by teachers and peers. I just never knew what to do with that. I knew how to be a friend, but not how to have friends. I got into fights a lot, usually when something was happening that I had couldn’t tolerate and had to stop. This could be teasing or one instance a friend was just playing around. She shoved me a couple of times, even after I told her to stop. I nearly broke her jaw. Physical contact has always been a trigger for me. I had many fears. I was paranoid a lot. I was manic a lot. I was very lonely.

As an adult, fear of abandonment and the need for someone to love me rules all. I attach to people instantaneously. It’s like I am a child and I have wrapped myself around mommy’s ankles immediately. I never would have done this with my mother. I don’t know how I choose these people. It just happens. Then I will do almost anything to keep these people in my life. At any sign that they are going to leave, whether it is real or imagined, I become distressed. It’s like experiencing all 7 stages of grief at the same time. It’s like a hole is burned into my soul that can never be filled except by that person. I haven’t had many relationships romantic or otherwise. I feel pathetic. My chronological age and emotional age are so out of sync, that I can’t make it work. Emotionally I am about 18. Chronologically I am 30! Of all my diagnosis the Borderline Personality Disorder is the worst.

HC: I know that you experienced some childhood trauma, which causes you to feel unsafe in relationships. Many foster/adoptive parents want to know one thing. How can we help? What would have helped you in childhood to know you were loved? Is there anything that helps you now?

These are great questions. I will answer them in reverse. What helps me now is simply knowing that someone is thinking of me. My cousin is great for this. He will text or call me because he saw something that reminded him of me. It could be something we did together, or he could just invite me to dinner. Can you believe it’s that freakin’ simple? Yet so very few people do it. Sorry, but it isn’t about you making sure they feel loved. They have to be able to feel loved. I’ve lived so much of my live believing I’m “unlovable.”

I don’t think that belief was shattered until I was 18 and my nephew was born. A big part of feeling love is being chosen. When my nephew was a baby he chose me over other people. The belief that I was “unlovable” started to peal away. I think that in childhood, having friends would have helped in a major way. If you can get your kids to socialize, and make a friend or two, it would be great. I know getting to that point is difficult because their chronological age and emotional age don’t match up. I did read a study that said kids with anxiety often build confidence and social skills, if they are placed in a group that is a year or two younger. That may be helpful here as well. Creative outlets are also important. I know Mary and Carl are musically inclined. So maybe lessons of some type would be beneficial. This can apply to sports as well. Having that talent and knowing there is something great about them is helpful.  Giving them control over when and where to share that talent can balance the inferiority/badness/out-of-control they feel.

HC: That is really helpful advice. Thank you. Have you ever had violent outbursts during a manic episode, or periods of dissociation? What signs or triggers should parents look for? Since we can’t read our children’s minds, what does it feel like to be out of control?

Comments on Bipolar Disorder: Anything can happen during a manic episode. The longer the episode goes on the greater risk for losing control, becoming psychotic, and dissociating. Be aware that mania in children and adults look very different. I was often violent during mania, complete with crazy strength. I once picked up a wooden coffee table with 4 panes of glass measuring about 24×24 inches, and threw it across the room at my brother. He was calling me names and teasing me. I had no other resources to make him stop, because of the mania. I also flipped over a sofa with my dad sleeping on it. I would bang my head on things punch things. This evolved into cutting and burning. The self-injury was almost always an effort to escape the dissociation. It was so scary.

Comments on Trauma: Dissociation is so much more that not being in control. It’s not knowing which way is up. Not knowing what’s real and what is a dream. Who is talking to you and what’s just the hallucinations. Keep in mind that as a child I was not in treatment and my trauma wasn’t over. I ended up in a residential program at age 14-15. My experience was unique. Most kids don’t talk about positive experiences in residential treatment facilities. However, I had one counselor who took care of me a lot she said she always knew I was dissociating/entering psychosis by the way I would look at her. She said it was as though I was looking through her. She also said it was like I was struggling to listen and nothing was getting in. Also I tried any attempt to control things. I had OCD-type behaviors. I wanted to organize having and doing things is a just so manner.

HC: Thank you for sharing that with us. It sounds like that caregiver was very attuned to you. What accomplishment in your life are you most proud of?

During undergrad I was in the Social and Behavioral Sciences Club. We were looking for a cause, and I suggested having an out of the darkness walk. Those are walks that the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention has to raise awareness about suicide, suicide prevention, and stigma surrounding mental illness. So another student and I made it happen, and we had our first campus walk. Over the three years I was there we raised about $20,000. We also brought people together to talk about this issue. We remember those who have been lost, the survivors, attempt survivors, and those who are struggling. We also had events leading up to the walk.

HC: That’s quite an accomplishment! If you could have changed anything in your childhood, what would it have been and why?

I wish my mother would have taken my side just once. She chose my father over and over again. She participated in the infliction of pain upon her children. Til this day she doesn’t take my side or acknowledge my pain. However, she will for my brother.

HC: That’s terrible. I’m very sorry about your mother. No one should have a childhood like that.  What would you like parents of children with mental health disorders to know?

It can take a long time for anyone living with a mental illness to come to terms with it. They can feel like there is something inherently wrong with them, especially kids. Keep your kids age appropriately educated and let them have a say in their treatment. Listen to them and make them feel like they have some control. They will have to deal with this on their own one day, so prepare them for that. Also, let your kids see that mom and dad or grandma and grandpa, or insert adult role model here______, are also flawed. Adults make mistakes too. Let your child’s disorder be part of them, but let them know everyone has differences and no one is inferior to anyone else. Beware if they are idolizing and glamorizing someone. Talk them about how there are things that they don’t know about the person they idolize. The danger is in creating an idol that they can never live up to.

Aside from the trauma, I think dealing with the Bipolar Disorder is easier because it’s always been there. I know what to look for, when to call the doctor, and all that jazz.

HC: How is your life different because of your condition? In what ways are you flourishing despite your struggles?

I can’t imagine having a career, a family, responsibilities, and then losing everything. My social life suffers most. I don’t have friends, and I don’t drink or party so that doesn’t help. I drank once. I was of age (23). I didn’t get drunk. I had 2 beers and 2 shots of vodka and I got manic. I even checked with my psychiatrist before I went to the party. She said it should be fine, it would only increase the effects of my Klonopin. Never again! I am trying to start a photography business, and I do great in school. I am pursuing a graduate degree in psychology. I hope to do something to help the community mental health system and eventually go into private practice.

HC: Your story is an amazing one. You are such a survivor. One last question: when are you starting your own blog and where can we find it? Lol

Not sure. Let’s see how this goes first lol.

 

**Our guest poster, C, is open to answering reader questions. You can leave them in the comments section.

 

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adoption, mental illness

Mania and Matricide: It’s Not OK

cdadlock

Installing deadbolts

It’s not OK to hit me. It’s not OK to bite me. It’s not OK that I have a scar on my head from where you split it open with a high heeled shoe three years ago. It’s not OK that our son has to live at my parents house because he isn’t safe here. It’s not OK for you to plan on stabbing me and stabbing your brother. Not with a kitchen knife OR with a bottle opener.

It’s not OK that we’ve installed cameras with motion sensors and night vision in all the public areas of our house. It’s not OK that we have combination locks on the cabinets where we keep all the “sharps.” It’s not OK that we had to install deadbolts on the doors to our bedrooms. It’s not OK that the motion sensor alarm goes off to wake me up at 12:30 AM when you are wandering the house in search of a “stabbing weapon.”

It’s not OK that you told your therapist today that “Mom has to die!” and then threatened to kill yourself and your brother. You’ve been planning this ever since your last few hospitalizations. Last time they called you “depressed” and started a course of SSRI medications. Not OK!

When you came home your depression became a manic state. You became a child with pressured speech so fast that you stopped using consonants. You started your “hyper phase,” which means you never sleep. You laugh harder and harder until you are screaming and then breaking things. It is not OK that we had to “toss” your room and remove all of the hard furniture and sharp objects. It is not Ok that your service dog found a jack-o-lantern carving knife and gave it to us (well, actually it’s very OK with me that the service dog probably saved our lives.) Did you find it during a night of wandering around the house? Your hand was always holding things under your blankie, ever aware of the cameras. This is not OK.

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Dakota Blue, the service dog

You want to know what else is not OK? It’s not OK that the inpatient doctors refused to call your PHP, your psychiatrist, your trauma therapist, or your in-home service team. It’s not OK that they sent you home with an active murder plan and a spiraling state of mania that escalates into more grandiose and diabolical schemes. It is not OK that the state’s voluntary services program we applied for does not consider planning murder to be “clinically acute” enough for a short-term residential placement.

There are some other things that are not OK. It was NEVER ok for you to be neglected as a baby. It wasn’t OK that your pediatrician never reported to anyone that you were in the 12th percentile for weight and selectively mute. It is NOT ok that DCF had been involved with your bio family for 10 years before removing all of you. They were getting hotline calls before you were ever born! It is not OK that any attention you got from your bio mom often became abusive. It is not OK that you lived in terror and learned how to survive the ever-rotating bevy of strange men in your home.

It is NOT OK that I wasn’t able to be your mom in the beginning, when the bad things were happening. It’s not OK and it is not your fault.

Here is what is OK. It is OK that we knew about your mental health concerns when we adopted you. We chose you because you are more than a diagnostic label. You are an amazing girl. You are OUR girl. It is OK that you need to be somewhere safe right now until you stabilize. It is OK to need medication to help you do that. It is OK to grieve the first mother you ever had. God, I wish I could give some of that back to you. The good parts at least.

Our family is going to be OK. It isn’t easy getting there. Yes, we “chose” this life. But I still say we chose the best children. Nothing in life is easy. The best things are hard. I’ve seen parents with profoundly disabled children flourish. I’ve seen severely autistic children learn to read. So yes, we will be OK. It is OK to decide we are not going to try for a biological child. It is OK to stick with the family we have.

it’s OK that it takes an attachment-disordered child a long time to overcome the fear of love. It’s Ok that you inherited some of your bio mom’s mental health concerns. It’s OK because you will never struggle on your own the way she had to. It’s OK as long as we can all stay safe. And I pray that we can. We have done everything in our power. The rest is up to you, sweet girl. Don’t doubt yourself. Mental health can be a manageable illness. Love will always be there for you. No matter what.

ycameran

night vision camera

 

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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adoption, mental illness

Where There is Hope: Psychiatric Service Dogs

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“I don’t think I can be safe at home.” These were the heartbreaking words of my 10-year-old daughter. Overhead florescent lighting blinked in and out, highlighted her face as she stared dejectedly at the linoleum floor.  We were spending yet another night in the emergency department at the local children’s hospital. A clinician was determining if we were safe to go home. We weren’t. Mary would need another inpatient stay in the children’s psychiatric unit. The questioning always goes something like this:

“Why aren’t you safe at home?”

“I throw things, I hit things, I run away. I’m afraid I will hurt Mommy.”

“Why do you think you will hurt Mommy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you remember what happened tonight?”

“No.”

“Do you usually remember what happens?”

“No. When I get scared I don’t remember. I get really mad and scared.”

So she was admitted for her fifth inpatient stay this year. Luke and I answer the same questions every time. Yes, she has an amazing trauma therapist. Mary has completed TF-CBT (Trauma-Focused Cognitive Behavioral therapy.) It was a huge success. It erased her specific, most intense, trauma triggers. Her therapist is always available by phone if we need her. My husband and I work with her partner to better our trauma parenting super-powers.

Mary has also had many, many other therapies. Partial Hospitalization, Intensive Outpatient Treatment, talk therapy, family systems therapy, art therapy, OT and many more. She has a sensory diet, we parent therapeutically, and we now have intensive in-home services. She is taking a multitude of medications because the one that worked, stopped working when she began puberty. Now she is having intense flashbacks and short periods of psychosis. She runs away from an unseen enemy into the woods or onto a road.  Mary has scabs all over her scalp where she’s picked off the skin in anxiety.

Right now she craves my attention with ferocity. She needs attention, she must have attention, she is terrified of losing the love that she has found. So we make art projects. We cuddle. We play endless board games together which she mostly lets me win! She tells me, “Mommy? I wish we could love each other more than any other type of people.”

But human relationships are tricky. They have nuances, and nonverbal cues, and require space at times. Mary cannot navigate these tricky things. Is Mom happy with her? Mad? About to abandon her forever? At times, Mary honestly cannot tell. She will alternate between being my shadow and then kicking me away or screaming at me for being a “Skank a** be-otch (sp?)”  I have, in fact, checked my rear end in the mirror. I assure you that I found not a trace of skank!

If primary caregiver relationships are so hard, might there be another way? If we cannot keep her safe at home, is there another way? If fear hijacks her brain so often that she blacks out, is there a way to help? There is. I just don’t like it. She may be safer at a short term residential facility. Or a long term clinical facility focused on trauma. I hate this way down into my very bones. The thought of not tucking my daughter in at night leaves me in a cold sweat.

So I found another way. Because that’s what parents do. We find a way. Maybe I can’t catch the onset of her panic attacks in time to “ground” her. She never knows when one will hit. We are often scrambling to pull her back from the memories of trauma and into the here-and-now. Psychiatric service dogs are trained to alert their human before the panic attack/dissociation occurs. We don’t know when she has intense nightmares, so we can’t wake her for deep-pressure calming techniques. But a service dog would. I can’t run after her when she bolts into potentially dangerous places where she may get lost. I’m not as fast. But a service dog is.

Enter “Blue.” After seeking a service animal large enough to help Mary, we found Blue. We were just plain lucky to stumble across this perfect dog. Right now Blue lives in Tennessee. She has a few more weeks to train while hanging out with Mary’s dirty clothes (to get used to the scent. Hopefully she doesn’t pass out from the socks!) A psychiatric service dog has to be trained specifically for the person they are working with. Enter an amazing trainer in Connecticut who is ready to privately train us all, humans and dog alike. Let’s face it, we all have a lot to learn. This trainer had a child who died years ago. She was touched by our story. In order to keep our family together, she is willing to provide Blue’s “finishing” privately. For free.

With Mother’s day coming up, I want what every mother wants. I want what is best for my child. So, Blue? I’m counting on you! Keep my daughter home with us. Keep her safe. Please. That is what I want for Mother’s day.

 

*If you like this post you can vote for it at https://fulltimetired.com/roundup/

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved. Except for Blue the dog. She should be famous for all of the hard work and bonding she’s about to do!

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adoption, mental illness

When It’s Not Enough: Adventures in Getting Help

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It’s not enough. I’m not enough. All of the work we have been doing for the last 3 years is not enough to help our Little Bit. 10-year-old Mary is starting puberty. She is also starting to unravel in terms of her mental health. She is back inpatient again at the psychiatric hospital. So, yes, I feel like I am not enough for our girl right now.

During her last meltdown she locked the door to her room and then jumped out of her window. Barefoot. Mary then got into a fight with our outside garbage bin (she won) while screaming at me. I couldn’t stop her. She ran a mile to a friend’s house in bare feet screaming that she needed the police because her mom was trying to kill her. Of course the police came with the ambulance. But they came to take her back to the psychiatric hospital.

We have used up all of the local resources. We have In-Home Intensive Child and Adolescent Psychiatric Services (IICAPS.) She’s been through trauma-focused cognitive behavioral therapy (TF-CBT,) Family Systems therapy, ongoing trauma work, Intensive Outpatient Treatment (IOP,) Partial Hospitalization Placement (PHP,) medication management, and many inpatient stays. Was that all one sentence? We’ve also read every book, checked all of the research we could find on developmental trauma, and parented therapeutically using the Trust Based Relational Intervention model (TBRI) No matter how many acronyms we throw around, she is still stuck in a downward spiral.

I am helpless to heal the deep wounds she carries from trauma. They will never be entirely healed, let’s be honest. But we want to get her to the point where she is functioning at home, as opposed to being in fight/flight mode most of the time. I think puberty has started to re-trigger some of the trauma that she had already come to terms with.

Our entire goal is to keep her safe. We want her safe at home, not inpatient. I did find a great model for attachment and trauma work done in the home. In-home services are the most effective for our daughter, but most programs are not specifically  trauma-focused. Even if they are, it is not for complex, developmental trauma. Thank goodness I found the Attachment, Regulation, Cooperation model (ARC ) through The Justice Resource Institute (JRI.)

JRI is dedicated to helping children and adolescents mental health. They are one of the leaders in the field of research on developmental, complex trauma. (Often referred to as C-PTSD. More letters, I know!) Unfortunately, they won’t take insurance. They won’t take cash. They only contract through the Department Of Children and Families (DCF.)

So we are asking begging for their help. We are in the process of applying for voluntary services. I’m not sure what will happen, but I’m hopeful. We are in the fight of our lives right now. It isn’t us against our child. It’s us fighting with our child against the trauma of her past. The question is not if we will continue the fight. The question is whether or not the state of Connecticut will join us.

So here I sit, typing away my jumble of letters and acronyms. Since when did the alphabet take over my life?! All that’s left to do is wait. And hope. Will you hope along with us?

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**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

**If you want information about ARC or JRI you can go to www.JRI.org or www.traumacenter.org to learn more.

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family, mental illness

She’s Back! : Transitioning Home From Inpatient

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She’s back! In true to Mary fashion she is as stylish as ever. Ever the dramatic celebrity-in-training, she bursts through the door shouting, “I’m here!” Photos are snapped, even though Dad and Mom are a poor substitute for real paparazzi.

She bounds up the stairs, two at time. “I’m coming for you, Mama! I’m here!!!” She has promised me during our last phone chat that I may squish her and kiss her and squeeze her for 60 full seconds. Luke feigns starting his iPhone timer and I attack! I hug and I squish and kiss her cheeks and her head and her hands and even her stinky little feet. My Mary is home!!! She rolls her eyes in mock annoyance but then offers me another full minute, “if I need it.” I do.

I look into her eyes and it’s all I need to see that Mary is back, really back, mentally and physically. I don’t mean that she is “cured.” Not by a long shot.There is no such thing. What I mean is that she is stable and safe. She has switched over to a new medication altogether, and she should be at the therapeutic dose. She’s had a lot of therapy.

She is ready to be home with us. I am choking back tears looking at my daughter’s face after 2 weeks away from us. After all the medication adjustments, the family therapy sessions (I had to FaceTime in), all the paperwork, our family is together again.

This is my chance to shower her with all the love and delight she deserves. She immediately sets about showing me all of the work she’s completed at the hospital. She got school work, and an anger thermometer with coping skills. She’s made these type of rating scales a million times over the last several years. She really wants to show me how ready she is to be here. I am so proud of her that I say it in 3 different voices and burst into spontaneous, ridiculous song. She beams

The next day is Saturday, and she begins the day with her trauma therapist. (Bless this amazing therapist for seeing my child on Saturdays!!!) Everyone is ready for her routine to resume. Her Partial Hospitalization afternoon program will resume on Monday. Her school is ready and notified, and we’ve had a meeting to discuss a safety plan  (if necessary.)

She spends the weekend cuddling me, cuddling her dad, and attempting some “team work” with Carl. He is pretty upset that she is home. Not because he doesn’t love his sister. It’s just hard to share the attention again. It triggers his fear that their won’t be enough love to go around. That his caregivers might get so caught up in Mary we leave him in dire straits.

You don’t have to be perfect, honey. Just be here. Be my Mary.

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

 

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mental illness, parenting

Having a Child With Mental Ilness: Adventures in Living on a Prayer 

yme

I love this little girl all the way down to her little pinky toe. I love her to the moon and back. I love her like a jelly bean at Easter. These are the things I have to say to her over the phone. So far away. “I miss you major,” I tell her.

Unfortunately Mary is back at the inpatient unit in the psychiatric hospital.She only made it home for about a week. I am just home from 5 days in the hospital after having spinal fusion surgery. We had a few days together before it just got to be too much for her.

Maybe my surgery was a huge trigger. Maybe the onset of puberty is like a freight train running us all over. Maybe her medication just isn’t there yet. There are so many pieces to this complicated puzzle, that is part of our daughter.

Mary slept over at a friend’s house one night and told her friend’s mother she was too scared to sleep upstairs. She claimed she could see her biological parents waiting for her up there. Her visual delusions have been increasing.

Friday at school she had an outburst, yelling at a girl who was absent (presumably for being absent.) After school she has another tantrum at her Partial Hospitalization Program. She was screaming and kicking and generally unsafe.

When calm, Mary was able to tell them she hears more voices than she admits to anyone. The voices tell her to kill me and she is afraid of them. She has drawn and written a lot more about my death lately. She is so afraid her mommy will die. After all, her biological mother left. I am sure these are all fears pertaining to her trauma that are flooding back now to take control of Mary.

Over the weekend, she had another melt-down. Papa wouldn’t let her touch something dangerous in his workshop, she was defiant. When he raised his voice and repeated his direction, she lost control. She ran out of the house to the road. She wasn’t wearing shoes or a coat and it was winter. 

My husband was able to pick her up and bring her home.  I was locked in my room, my parents had Carl, and Luke was keeping Mary safe.I Face Timed her from my locked room to talk her down, and try our deep breathing together. Luke was able to give her a PRN to calm her. She fell asleep in her room still adamant that nothing was wrong and she didn’t need to wear shoes. Ever.

As Mary slept, the crisis worker gave us a safety evaluation. We reviewed the safety plan we had with him.  We explained why we locked up our knives, removed  sharps from her room, and activated the locked door plan when she was triggered. He looked at us for a long time, silently, and then asked us if we felt safe. Not, “Do you feel safe with the plan?” But just, “Do you feel safe?” 

The answer is no. We mulled it over until the next day, but truthfully, we weren’t safe. Mary has not been physically violent or disassociating since 2014. Her medication isn’t working anymore. Therapy is an ongoing process, but without the right medication, she is trapped inside this cycle. We made the decision to send her back to the inpatient  unit while her new medication continued to be titrated. We will not take chances with her safety. We cannot take chances with mine. This is nonnegotiable.

All of this happened as I lied helpless in bed. I felt like we were suddenly back in 2014, watching her fall apart all over again. To be honest, I felt a bit defeated. She’s had ups and downs but she hasn’t had these kind of meltdowns in years. She’s been living a relatively normal life (albeit with a the help of medication and therapy.) It’s very hard for me to admit that things have been spiraling with her for a short while now. It’s just that she’s overcome so much. She’s living such a full and happy childhood. For the last few years she’s been so in control of her moods.

As I hobble around in my walker, or lie prone in my bed, I get a sense of helplessness. I need to recover. I need to be strong enough to be the mom she needs. Lying helpless in bed behind a locked door is all I can physically do for now. So here is where I pray.

“Please,” my prayer starts, “Please let the medication help her. Please don’t send us back to the starting line. And please, please, let me be strong enough to be the mom she needs.”

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved

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mental illness

Thank Hospital Vacation?

hosp

 

I must be the weirdest mom ever to think that my major spinal surgery seems like a vacation. Trust me, a little fusion surgery was nothing compared to the chaos Mary was experiencing at home.  I had some complications, and needed a cat scan. They found one of my vertebrae was actually fractured. I sobbed in pain while they gave me every narcotic pain killer intravenously they could. Finally strong muscle relaxants were administered and I calmed down. I clutch Luke the entire time while he whispered soothing things into my hair and stroked my arm. Vacation, right?

I had trouble breathing so I went to the ICU for a day. I had an oxygen tank sort of plugged into my nose in order to help me continue breathing. Vacation, right?

I am in constant, excruciating pain. However, my meals are brought to me, and my daughter Mary isn’t attacking me here. There is significantly less screaming here than Mary is doing at home. I feel deep pain at the incision sight where the doctors cut so deeply into my spine. It doesn’t matter.  I’m safe and safe feels good. Yes, even with the deep and unrelenting pain, this might be a vacation.

Everyone smiles at me and offers to bring me things at the hospital. They help me use my walker (really hard for me to walk right now.) I get to order my meals from a menu. No one yells at me. No one is throwing things. And I haven’t seen one tantrum since I’ve been here. Not even from the patients! This MUST be some form of vacation.

The truth is I’m doing very poorly. The Physical Therapist came to see me and opened with,”I’m not trying to be mean” before helping me to a chair. That is where she wanted me to try and sit for an hour. I couldn’t do it.

The pain was so unbearable that I clutched the chair arm and  sobbed for a half an hour straight. I had an ice pack. I tried the PTSD calming strategies we use with Mary. I grounded myself by what I could see and hear. I sipped water and counted my breaths, trying to breathe in and out slowly. I tapped my fingers in a method I learned at a trauma workshop. I tried to picture the happy place I keep in my mind. I counted to 100 and back. I asked for a stress ball, in between giant, hiccuping sobs. There was mucus everywhere. Tears soaked my hospital gown I just couldn’t stop sobbing. .

“Stop crying,” they kept telling me, “You’ll hyperventilate.” 

“I’m trying!” I gasped, “I’m using my coping skills!”

Did it work? No. They ended up peeling me out of the chair after 30 hysterical minutes. I even had them close the sliding doors so I couldn’t disturb the other her ICU patients. I wanted to be so strong and finish the full hour sitting in a chair. I wanted to stop my sobbing hyperventilation and soldier through. I wanted to be in charge of my own body! But I was basically locked into an adult form of out-of-control behavior. I didn’t yell or throw things. I was very polite when I could get a word out. “Please,” I’d say, “I’m trying!”

I just couldn’t do it. They put me back in bed and administered strong pain medication and  more ice packs. My doctor was baffled. She didn’t know why it hurt so much but she was very concerned that I was adamant to keep going.

My doctor and the PT were concerned with my pain. I wasn’t. Here’s why: my pain is physical. When Mary sobs uncontrollably, tantrums, or panics, her pain is emotional. We can’t administer more pain medication and send her back to bed.

Her trauma is as real as my surgery. Her emotional pain is as real as my physical pain. I’ve made it home now and all I can do is be grateful. That was the absolute worst vacation ever.

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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