I remember the first time I met her.
I was so alone, so isolated that I had turned to my social worker to find me some friends. "Please," I begged, "give my number to another parent like me so I can go have a drink with somebody who gets it."
Nobody gets it when your kid behaves like mine did. If your kid fell out of a tree and broke his leg, you could share that story with anybody. When my kid beat me up with a water bottle while I drove 60 miles per hour down the highway or when he attempted to jump right out of the truck--while it was moving-- , or the relief I felt when the doctors told me the cause was likely a serious mood disorder; those are things you can't share with anyone and everyone. Most people can't relate to that.
All our friends and family were so excited when we brought our boys home. Slowly, over time, most of our friends and family backed away or disappeared completely. Because when your kid comes home from his bike ride with someone else's bike and half his clothes missing and you have to call the Police to help calm him down--well let's just say the friends who were cooking out with us that day have never been back.
It's not their fault, either. I don't hold it against anyone. Everyone experienced losses during that time. It caused so much isolation for me. I was so very alone.
But my social worker....she heard that there was a meeting in my county. Some moms were getting together. That's where I met her.
She was so sure of herself. She carried a big tote bag full of binders of information. She was on committees and she knew all about how the county worked and how to get services for our kids. She was articulate and you could tell she had influence. But the thing that struck me most was that she was happy.
Happy.
What the heck? It's possible to actually be happy again??
I knew I had to be her friend.
But, I could not muster the courage to sit in the coffee shop and say, "Would you be my friend?" So, instead I asked about her committee work. Maybe I could come to one of those meetings? She immediately jumped in her seat, "You can be on the committee!", she said.
I followed this woman all over the county.
She went to committees, I went to committees. She went to NAMI parent resource groups so I did too. She is my friend. She is like a sister. Our family's even celebrate Thanksgiving together every year. And you know what's even better than that?
She is only one of them. Now, our little group has grown into hundreds of parents who have joined us over the years. For every friend I lost, I have at least 10 more. And any one of them would take my 2 am phone call. They would celebrate my kid not losing his ID and they understand the grief of a normal life lost. They are Drama Mamas.
My people.
On Saturday there is a walk at Minnehaha Park to raise money for NAMI Minnesota. The organization that funded our little parent resource group. The same organization who now supports parents with 4 groups in Dakota County alone and one on one parent to parent support through the Experienced Parent Program.
If you're a parent, alone and afraid--you come down to the park on Saturday around 11. Look for the beautiful ladies dressed in black and hot pink. Join us for lunch and then we will walk with you--not just that day in the park, but forever. If you're a parent like I was--you don't walk alone anymore.
Parent to parent support changed my life. I don't know where I'd be without NAMI. You can donate and support our team--The Drama Mamas--here.
See you Saturday!
when homeless hits home
He is 22 and homeless. He is hungry and cold and from his persepctive, even the suburbs are a dangerous place. He keeps walking. He has no particular destination, but he has decided to stay on the move today. He takes medication to quiet the voices in his head. He hates the voices because they make him afraid. He hates fear. It is weakness and he will not tollerate weakness. Being tough is how he survives. So, he takes his medication. And when that doesn't provide enough relief, he turns to something a little stronger.
He lives hard. He is tired. Some days he thinks he's used up all the life he's got. He can't understand the way most people choose to live...working to pay the rent and spending weekends shopping for more stuff. Thinking about it makes him chuckle and shake his head. People just don't get it--what's really important.
Freedom. He is free. No one tells him where to be and what to pay. This makes him proud so he streightens his shoulders and lifts his chin. His life. His terms. This is how he chooses to live. He's not about to change.
He steps on a bus and picks a seat near the front. It's safer to sit closer to the driver. He looks out the window and watches the suburban people as they go about their lives. A mother pushes a stroller. He watches. He has a mother. Not the woman who gave birth to him. He refers to his birth mother by her first name. He doesn't have any hate for her. She had the voices too. He shakes his head hard, wishing the bad memories would fall right out. He watches the stroller mother as she checks the buckle to make sure her toddler is safe. He likes to see kids being taken care of. A smile crosses his lips. The bus lurches forward.
He has parents he claims. He gave them hell for a long time after they took him and his brother in. He smiles as he remembers all the ways he tried to get kicked out. Even when he had to leave--when the social worker sent him to work camp--his parents kept showing up. These are the good memories, the ones that make him happy. He knows his parents saved his life. He thanks them for it all the time.
He knows his family wishes he would get a job and an apartment. But, he doesn't want thier life. He tried to explain to his mom the other day. He told her that being homeless isn't a bad lifestyle. He can't remember all the things she said back. He stops listening after ten words.
************************
She hasn't heard from him in 2 days...the street kid she claimed as her own. She sits out on the back steps and prays for his safety. It's not something you can share with your friends and neighbors--"my kid has decided that homeless is a lifestyle". It's not something people would understand. She doesn't care what anyone thinks of her and her parenting. What breaks her heart is the fear that people would judge him harshly. She wants people to look beyond the surface of his situation and see what she sees. A survivor-strong and courageous. She wants people to recognize the illness-how it morphs and changes in it's attempts to destroy him and how he keeps adapting and moving on.
To survive is to continue to live. That's a lifestyle choice. He chooses each day to live and she is thankful to God for the opportunity to be a witness to his life.
He lives hard. He is tired. Some days he thinks he's used up all the life he's got. He can't understand the way most people choose to live...working to pay the rent and spending weekends shopping for more stuff. Thinking about it makes him chuckle and shake his head. People just don't get it--what's really important.
Freedom. He is free. No one tells him where to be and what to pay. This makes him proud so he streightens his shoulders and lifts his chin. His life. His terms. This is how he chooses to live. He's not about to change.
He steps on a bus and picks a seat near the front. It's safer to sit closer to the driver. He looks out the window and watches the suburban people as they go about their lives. A mother pushes a stroller. He watches. He has a mother. Not the woman who gave birth to him. He refers to his birth mother by her first name. He doesn't have any hate for her. She had the voices too. He shakes his head hard, wishing the bad memories would fall right out. He watches the stroller mother as she checks the buckle to make sure her toddler is safe. He likes to see kids being taken care of. A smile crosses his lips. The bus lurches forward.
He has parents he claims. He gave them hell for a long time after they took him and his brother in. He smiles as he remembers all the ways he tried to get kicked out. Even when he had to leave--when the social worker sent him to work camp--his parents kept showing up. These are the good memories, the ones that make him happy. He knows his parents saved his life. He thanks them for it all the time.
He knows his family wishes he would get a job and an apartment. But, he doesn't want thier life. He tried to explain to his mom the other day. He told her that being homeless isn't a bad lifestyle. He can't remember all the things she said back. He stops listening after ten words.
************************
She hasn't heard from him in 2 days...the street kid she claimed as her own. She sits out on the back steps and prays for his safety. It's not something you can share with your friends and neighbors--"my kid has decided that homeless is a lifestyle". It's not something people would understand. She doesn't care what anyone thinks of her and her parenting. What breaks her heart is the fear that people would judge him harshly. She wants people to look beyond the surface of his situation and see what she sees. A survivor-strong and courageous. She wants people to recognize the illness-how it morphs and changes in it's attempts to destroy him and how he keeps adapting and moving on.
To survive is to continue to live. That's a lifestyle choice. He chooses each day to live and she is thankful to God for the opportunity to be a witness to his life.
The Devil and his Advocate
"I...I really, um..."
I couldn't seem to get any words out. I was dizzy and I wondered why. Did a single question send my brain spinning? Oh, I was so thirsty. Where did that come from. Is it possible that words have the power to drain all the moisture from my body? I was sure my heart was beating but everything inside me felt hollow. My face must have been red. I was hot. My voice didn't have any power. I struggled to answer the question posed by a professional working with my adult son. He said nothing as I stammered. He was waiting for my answer.
The truth is I've asked myself the same question millions of times. But it sounded different coming from the face of another person. Oh my God! My heart started to race. Maybe it really is my fault. Maybe I could have tried harder, done more, loved more completely, been more determined. Why didn't it occur to me to do the things that must be obvious to everyone else? Oh Dear God, did I miss it--the action I could have taken that would have made everything better?
"I...I really think we did all we could."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wish it wasn't true. I wish this was someone else's struggle. It's not fair for my kid to have to fight this fight. Oh, it was predictable enough. Lots of people have said for years that it might come to this. He has an addictive personality. He is so intense. There is a biological family history.
My husband and I watch helplessly as our son's life crumbles around him. We talk about the situation every night. We search for a solution. There must be something we could do that would help without enabling. If only it were that easy. We strive to maintain the connection we have as a family. We pray. We ask God to protect our kid-to be with him in this struggle and bring him through it.
.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Oh, you're going to hate me for this question," the professional said. "you're going to think I'm awful. But just let me play the Devil's Advocate for a minute here."
The longer I am the mother of children with intense mental health needs, the more I resent the position of Devil's Advocate. It seems no more than permission to say the worst possible things. The Devil is a gutless, spineless coward who specializes in shame, guilt and promoting the easy way out. I cannot fathom why anyone would take the position of his advocate.
And there I was, at the mercy of the Devil's Advocate, waiting for the dreaded question. The question the professional said would inspire hate. I wonder how long he has wanted to ask me...
"Why didn't you do more for him when he lived at home?"
I couldn't seem to get any words out. I was dizzy and I wondered why. Did a single question send my brain spinning? Oh, I was so thirsty. Where did that come from. Is it possible that words have the power to drain all the moisture from my body? I was sure my heart was beating but everything inside me felt hollow. My face must have been red. I was hot. My voice didn't have any power. I struggled to answer the question posed by a professional working with my adult son. He said nothing as I stammered. He was waiting for my answer.
The truth is I've asked myself the same question millions of times. But it sounded different coming from the face of another person. Oh my God! My heart started to race. Maybe it really is my fault. Maybe I could have tried harder, done more, loved more completely, been more determined. Why didn't it occur to me to do the things that must be obvious to everyone else? Oh Dear God, did I miss it--the action I could have taken that would have made everything better?
"I...I really think we did all we could."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wish it wasn't true. I wish this was someone else's struggle. It's not fair for my kid to have to fight this fight. Oh, it was predictable enough. Lots of people have said for years that it might come to this. He has an addictive personality. He is so intense. There is a biological family history.
My husband and I watch helplessly as our son's life crumbles around him. We talk about the situation every night. We search for a solution. There must be something we could do that would help without enabling. If only it were that easy. We strive to maintain the connection we have as a family. We pray. We ask God to protect our kid-to be with him in this struggle and bring him through it.
.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Oh, you're going to hate me for this question," the professional said. "you're going to think I'm awful. But just let me play the Devil's Advocate for a minute here."
The longer I am the mother of children with intense mental health needs, the more I resent the position of Devil's Advocate. It seems no more than permission to say the worst possible things. The Devil is a gutless, spineless coward who specializes in shame, guilt and promoting the easy way out. I cannot fathom why anyone would take the position of his advocate.
And there I was, at the mercy of the Devil's Advocate, waiting for the dreaded question. The question the professional said would inspire hate. I wonder how long he has wanted to ask me...
"Why didn't you do more for him when he lived at home?"
Because I am his Mom.
Disclosure: (Imagine this part in tiny little print like official words are.)
This article is not written to any particular person. If you are a mental health professional or an educator or a doctor or a social worker or anyone else serving one of my sons, do not assume I am talking about you on the internet. I would tell you to your face first. I'm pretty direct that way. However, if you are one such professional working with one of my sons or someone else's kid, I would appreciate it if you would read this. Several times. And give it serious consideration. Hopefully, I can change your perspective and shed some light on some questions that I am asked on a fairly regular basis. Thank you very much for your time and attention.
Got that out of the way.
Here we go.
I am my son's Mom. It's a role I take pretty seriously. It is my greatest privilege. It is my highest priority. It is my greatest blessing. I'm his Mom and I am going to be his Mom for the rest of my life. I am the one who will be there long after you are gone. So believe me when I tell you...
...I know that kid better than anyone else.
Except God. Since He is the one who created him.
Since my son moved into my home we haven't always had an easy time. It hasn't been all butterflies and sparkily cupcakes. But one thing is certain. I know who my son is. I can see right through all of his behavior and his trauma and his big disrespectful mouth right to his heart. And I see good there. I believe that God Himself showed that good to me so I could show it to you. I am determined to get you to see it too. And I will not waiver in my determination.
As long as you are dealing with my son (or anyone else's, since I am confident enough in my position to speak for my friends and their children too), please be respectful of what he has experienced and survived. Please be mindful of any diagnosis that might complicate things further. Be aware that my son lives with significant skill deficits compared to his peers. He might be a chronological adult, but that does not mean he can manage a task that another young man his age could handle easily.
Please keep all these statements in mind when you write to me or call me frustrated with some behavior. Don't be surprised when I remind you that my son is not "just the age when a kid thinks he knows everything". He is not "trying to use his disability to get one over on you". Please do not conclude that he is simply lazy or unmotivated (he might be--but there is more to it than that). If you and I find ourselves in this situation and you've made some of these conclusions, please do not assume that I am going to completely agree with your assessment of the situation and be on my merry way. It will never happen.
I am my son's Mom.
I am the one who has taken these calls from everyone who has ever worked with him. I am the one who found him in undesirable circumstances and promised him a better life. I am the one who sat at the dinner table one night and listened in horror as he told me all the things that happened to him because he finally felt safe enough to talk. I am the one whose heart breaks for all he endured and survived. I am the one who fought for him. I am the one who knows how far he has come.
It is my role to question and to enlighten your perspective. I expect you to be frustrated with my response. I'm used to being asked, "Why do you always make excuses for him?" when I bring up the subject of past trauma as a cause for current behavior. I expect you to say, "You are really not doing him any favors by sheltering him from accountability." when I suggest a consequence that makes sense given my son's skill deficits. I expect you to be angry. I've gotten used to all this. It doesn't change what is.
My son is not easy to work with. You have to want to be committed. But there is a reward. There is gold in that kid. Your role is to find it and bring it out. My role is to help you see it. I've got big enough shoulders to take your criticism.
"Which son are you referring to?" You ask.
Either one of them.
Forever.
Because I am their Mom.
This article is not written to any particular person. If you are a mental health professional or an educator or a doctor or a social worker or anyone else serving one of my sons, do not assume I am talking about you on the internet. I would tell you to your face first. I'm pretty direct that way. However, if you are one such professional working with one of my sons or someone else's kid, I would appreciate it if you would read this. Several times. And give it serious consideration. Hopefully, I can change your perspective and shed some light on some questions that I am asked on a fairly regular basis. Thank you very much for your time and attention.
Got that out of the way.
Here we go.
I am my son's Mom. It's a role I take pretty seriously. It is my greatest privilege. It is my highest priority. It is my greatest blessing. I'm his Mom and I am going to be his Mom for the rest of my life. I am the one who will be there long after you are gone. So believe me when I tell you...
...I know that kid better than anyone else.
Except God. Since He is the one who created him.
Since my son moved into my home we haven't always had an easy time. It hasn't been all butterflies and sparkily cupcakes. But one thing is certain. I know who my son is. I can see right through all of his behavior and his trauma and his big disrespectful mouth right to his heart. And I see good there. I believe that God Himself showed that good to me so I could show it to you. I am determined to get you to see it too. And I will not waiver in my determination.
As long as you are dealing with my son (or anyone else's, since I am confident enough in my position to speak for my friends and their children too), please be respectful of what he has experienced and survived. Please be mindful of any diagnosis that might complicate things further. Be aware that my son lives with significant skill deficits compared to his peers. He might be a chronological adult, but that does not mean he can manage a task that another young man his age could handle easily.
Please keep all these statements in mind when you write to me or call me frustrated with some behavior. Don't be surprised when I remind you that my son is not "just the age when a kid thinks he knows everything". He is not "trying to use his disability to get one over on you". Please do not conclude that he is simply lazy or unmotivated (he might be--but there is more to it than that). If you and I find ourselves in this situation and you've made some of these conclusions, please do not assume that I am going to completely agree with your assessment of the situation and be on my merry way. It will never happen.
I am my son's Mom.
I am the one who has taken these calls from everyone who has ever worked with him. I am the one who found him in undesirable circumstances and promised him a better life. I am the one who sat at the dinner table one night and listened in horror as he told me all the things that happened to him because he finally felt safe enough to talk. I am the one whose heart breaks for all he endured and survived. I am the one who fought for him. I am the one who knows how far he has come.
It is my role to question and to enlighten your perspective. I expect you to be frustrated with my response. I'm used to being asked, "Why do you always make excuses for him?" when I bring up the subject of past trauma as a cause for current behavior. I expect you to say, "You are really not doing him any favors by sheltering him from accountability." when I suggest a consequence that makes sense given my son's skill deficits. I expect you to be angry. I've gotten used to all this. It doesn't change what is.
My son is not easy to work with. You have to want to be committed. But there is a reward. There is gold in that kid. Your role is to find it and bring it out. My role is to help you see it. I've got big enough shoulders to take your criticism.
"Which son are you referring to?" You ask.
Either one of them.
Forever.
Because I am their Mom.
Mental Health Care: Here's why it matters.
Recently, there have been stories all around me that underscore the need for mental health treatment for kids. This story is one example. A 17 year-old boy steals his mother's car, drives several hours and murders two people in cold blood. At his trial, his mother testified about years and years of seeking help and about being denied the help she knew her son desperately needed. In one article she talked about having to put all the household knives away when her son was a toddler. As an adolescent, the boy only received about ten days of residential treatment before his private insurance ran out. Ten days. Although the Juvenile Justice system has several opportunities to order treatment for this young man, somehow he kept being returned home.
Hope is not a plan.
While it absolutely has a place in our lives, hope itself is not a plan for treatment or recovery. Mental illness is real and it requires treatment. And that treatment is expensive and difficult to obtain. Presently in Minnesota, there are about 50 Child Psychiatrists. That's it. In my experience, it is not uncommon to wait 3 months for an appointment. Yes, there are emergency appointments--but you have to know to ask for them and the fact that they exist is not common knowledge.
In the spring of 2006, my Younger Kid experienced the onset of a serious mood disorder. I knew the exact day that something was different. I can pinpoint the hour. It was just after lunch on April 19, 2006. He was playing a game of football, one of the teachers became concerned about the level of intensity in the game and put his hand on my son and my son took the teacher to the ground and injured him.
I have written about the hospitalization that followed--my first attempt to find treatment for my Younger Kid. As my son's mother, I knew that something was different. I knew he was going through something new. I knew it was serious, dangerous and absolutely real. While seeking treatment, we ran into one roadblock after another. There is not a clear treatment plan. If it were a broken bone or a serious physical injury, doctors know what to do with that. They know exactly how to heal that. But, in the case of mental illness, every brain is different. It takes several tries to find the right medication.
On top of that, we faced difficulty from the community. My husband and I knew we would need support beyond our home if we were going to see our son successfully reach 18. We contacted our county and asked to open a children's mental health case. We worked with the school to create a behavior support plan for our son. We utilized the county's crisis response line and we called the police when we needed to. Sadly, there were many times when the community response to our call for help was less than helpful. I remember calling the crisis number and being asked, "What do you want us to do? You are the parent." Yes. I am the parent of a child raging against me, violently attacking me and the rest of my family! That is a crisis. I remember one police officer walking away from me shaking his head and saying, "I sure hope you figure out what you're going to do with this kid."
But Sir, hope is not a plan. We needed help.
April 19, 2006 is the day my son started displaying symptoms of a serious mental illness. During the next 14 months, he was hospitalized 5 times. He stayed in the hospital for 20-30 days each time. He was arrested twice. He spent two 72 hour stretches in the custody of police. He spent 60 days in a group home. I don't know how many times we called the police for assistance and I don't know how many times we went to court. During those months our family was held hostage by mental illness. On May 23, 2007, after driving away while my kid chased us down the road, I called my son's doctor--Dr. Joel Oberstar--and left a desperate and tearful message. "I can't live with Younger Kid for one more day. He needs treatment. Please help us." When he called back, Dr. Oberstar said, "Bring him to the hospital. I'm going to take care of this."
Dr. Oberstar got Younger Kid into treatment. He is one of a handful of professionals who committed to our son and helped our family. Younger Kid spent almost two years in residential treatment and a total of 43 months in out of home placements before his 18th birthday. Without that help, I'm afraid to think about what might have happened.
"Don't all kids do that?"
Sometimes the community misunderstands mental illness. A parent can describe some crisis that's taken place in their home and a well meaning friend or relative says something like, "Don't all kids do that?"
And it's true. Raising kids is not easy. But it's the intensity and the duration of the behaviors that sets a kid with mental illness apart. All kids do try to separate themselves from their parents. But not all kids try to jump out of the car on the highway. All kids do feel sad and even experience depression after breaking up with their first love. But not all kids take 400 Tylenol. All kids are mouthy and disrespectful sometimes. But not all kids call their mother "stupid fucking bitch" 50 times a day for months and months. All kids have difficulty and act outrageously sometimes to get their parent's attention. But not all kids light things on fire or throw dishes through patio doors or break their dad's fingers. Our family's challenge was not the typical behavior response, but the intensity and duration of that response.
My Younger Kid lives an almost "normal" life today because of the treatment and support he received from the professionals who committed to him. When I read stories like the one at the beginning of this post, I say a prayer of thanks for my son's doctor, his social worker, his therapist and the residential treatment staff. They saved Younger Kid's life. Who knows how many other lives they may have saved.
It's an investment.
Many times over the years, while navigating the mental health system of care, I have begged and insisted "please invest in my son now." He is worth the investment. He is a good person with a good heart. He has an illness. He didn't choose it. It's not his fault. He can't simply make a better choice without the help of medication and therapy. Structure and a firm hand is not going to fix it. Neither is a sticker chart. Kids who live with mental illness need treatment. Not ten days of treatment. But, as much as it takes. And whatever it costs, I can assure you that it's less than a life in prison.
"A nation's greatness is measured by how it treats it's weakest members."
~Mahatma Ghandi
In the midst of government shutdown, budget cuts, no new taxes and financial crisis, I cannot think of something more important than mental health care. Yet, I fear that decision makers may not know the value of this type of care. If you have a story like mine, call your legislator and share it. Let the policy makers know how important mental health care is to our society.
"look for the gold"
Picture two adoptive families. Both adopted older children from foster care. Both sets of parents educated themselves on the process and felt confident they could manage what they were taking on.
Family #1 adopted two boys about 7 years ago. Since moving home,
- both boys have graduated from high school.
- one has a job in management.
- one works with the adoptive dad in the family business.
- one is a gifted athlete.
- one inspired a huge fundraising effort benefiting kids in foster care when he shared his story with his classmates.
- both boys have received treatment and therapy and have responded reasonably well.
- both boys have more good days than bad days.
- both boys are sensitive with good hearts and good intentions.
Family #2 also adopted two boys about 7 years ago. Since moving home,
- the boys have experienced a dozen hospitalizations between them.
- one son developed a serious mood disorder.
- one son almost died after a suicide attempt.
- both boys have been arrested. One has plead guilty to assault 3 times.
- both boys struggled mightily in school-one academically and one with his behavior.
- both boys struggle with relationships and finding their place within the family and the community.
- both boys have lived at home with the family and in various out of home placements including a correctional setting and residential treatment.
I shared this story of two families recently with a group of parents and asked what thoughts came to mind. I received answers like, "I sure hope I never find myself in family #2." and "What did the first family do that the second family didn't?" One parent asked me if these families were even real or did I make them up? Certainly there could not be two real families so similar with such extreme differences.
I took a deep breath and asked the following:
Would it surprise you to learn that these are not two different families but the same family?
There was silence and mouths were open.
So, I took another deep breath. My hands were shaking so I folded them tightly in my lap where no one could see. With a quiet voice I asked:
Would it surprise you to learn that these are both my family?
Then I took a few sips of my water while the group caught up with me.
I explained that I was neither bragging or complaining. I'm not looking for sympathy or accolades. I understood that I was brought to that group to tell my story as a disclaimer. A here's what could happen in the worst case type of scenario. And it's not that simple. Families are complicated. Any kid can be painted as a success story or a cautionary tale. It just depends on how you look at it.
Choose to be like one dad who said, "I look for the gold in my kid and that's what I focus on. He messes up-and I just keep looking at the gold."
There is always gold in our kids if we look hard enough to find it. Sometimes we have to want to see it. Sometimes we need to see it in order to survive all the trauma mud that the gold is buried in. In all cases, looking for the gold can get a parent through some of the tougher days.
Happy gold hunting to you today, Friend.
Not for nothing
Paul Buckley is a therapist who used to work with my boys. I have written about him before-back in the early days of the blog. I always referred to him as the "Yes, just as soon as..." therapist. Paul teaches strategies for dealing with behaviors--and he is funny. That's a bonus because we weren't laughing enough in our household back then. I remember the day Paul told me we could consider it a successful day if we could go to bed and say no one was hospitalized or incarcerated. And you know that the day came when I had to call Paul and say "one is hospitalized and one is incarcerated." He told my husband and me to go to dinner.
Paul said a lot of things I won't forget. One in particular stands out. I must have been having one of those days. You know the one. The I'm overwhelmed and tired and I just can't picture a successful outcome kind of day. Those are dangerous feelings to have. As a parent, once I had those feelings it wasn't a long leap to thoughts like What am I doing this for? All my effort is wasted anyway because my kids are headed right for homelessness or incarceration or drug addiction or some combination of all three! I wanted to save a child from that type of life and look at what a great job I'm doing! What's the value of everything our family has gone through to help these boys? Is it all for nothing??
Have you been there? Are you there right now? I'm sure I said something like this to Paul the day he looked at me and said, "You're saving their lives Lynne. It's not going to be easy."
A few years later when Younger Kid was in residential treatment, I shared similar feelings with Rachel, our family's therapist. Rachel is thoughtful and caring and very smart. She is a wonderful listener. She listened to all of my overwhelmed it's all for nothing anyway talk and she said, "I don't think so."
Rachel said that my husband and I had given our boys something that no one could ever take from them. Because of us, Older Kid and Younger Kid knew what it was to be part of a loving family. They understood what commitment was and how it felt to be fought for. Rachel cautioned me not to look at the situation in an all or nothing way. "It can't be all or nothing because what you have given your boys cannot be measured."
Rachel and I had several discussions like this one over the years. It took more than one time for these truths to sink into my brain so I could believe them.
If you are a parent like me, give yourself a break today. You are not responsible for the outcome of your child's life. Your job is to give that child skills that will help him become the most successful adult he can be. And the most successful adult he can be might include drug use or homelessness or incarceration. We hope not, but we don't get to control that reality. Take in these truths--
"You're saving their lives. It's not going to be easy."
"What you've given your boys cannot be measured."
Remember that you are doing everything right. You are stronger than you realize and your commitment is inspiring. I'm proud to be your friend.
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