Mental Illness - Depths of Despair

Parenting, though more often than not, a joy, runs a sword through your heart at different points in life.  This year I felt the sword plunge into my chest a number of times.  My body racked with sobs or numbed in helplessness or believe it or not, both at the same time.

The first time I took Madelle to the hospital was just three days after we lost a dear family friend, 16 years old, to cancer.  The week was so surreal.  A sweet angel left this earth and we were fighting to keep our angel with us.  Madelle went to see her therapist.  Before the session finished, I was directed to take Madelle to the emergency room due to suicidal thoughts.  The day was beautiful and bright, but darkness seeped through everything.  My baby wanted to die and my friend’s baby was dead.  How do you wrap your head around all of that?  I called my husband to meet us.  While we waited, I cried.  I prayed.  I asked for all types of intercessory (from saints and angels) support, even from our newly deceased friend.  I asked all of heaven to pray for Madelle, our family, and our friends.

Somehow we made it through that first visit.  We were given options of sending her to a long term hospital or seeing a psychiatrist.  We opted for the latter, but we feared more might be needed.  Our days were filled with fear.  We constantly lived in a state of worry, fear, and vigilance.

One night a huge panic attack swept Madelle to the brink.  We were terrified.  The weather was frigid cold and she laid out in the side yard.  Her dad placed a blanket over her and we waited.  For thirty some minutes, we prayed.  I went through her entire room for the millionth time, looking for objects that would hurt her.  As we were about to take her to the hospital via our car or an ambulance, she came back inside.  I thanked God that day for text.  One short message and many people were praying for her.

The second and last trip to the hospital was at night.  As a family, we drove through town to the emergency room.  I remember Madelle wanting to feel good.  She really wanted to be admitted to Shodair.  We didn’t want that.  The therapist on call informed us of no beds.  We could take her out of town.  In the end, we took our baby back home.  I don’t remember sleeping much that night.  In fact, it might have been one of my nights sleeping in the living room by her bedroom.

With this last visit, we found out Madelle was hearing voices and seeing shadows.  I feared the worst diagnosis.  When he told me that she needed to go on an anti-psychotic, the fear on my face must have been glaring.  He said that all of this was normal for complicated depression.  His reassurance helped, but I didn’t breathe normally for another month or two.  For the last couple of months, Madelle’s meds have been working.  There are no more voices and shadows.  We are still dealing with panic attacks and her disdain of social activities.  She doesn’t like to leave the house.  I worry about school, but as the song says, “One day at a time, Sweet Jesus.”

Pursuing Knowledge

Last week I failed to post because I was in the North Country sawing down trees and attending a car show.  I was putting on my redneck boots and enjoying some away time.  This week I have been working on a lot of non-fiction, short story fiction, and poetry writing.  Or should I say playing? 

I read a blog post yesterday that talked about how to get started with writing after taking a break.  The writer said that many people make the mistake of saying they have to get back to work which makes the task very daunting.  I have been doing and feeling just that, daunted.  He said instead we must play.

Hum, that leads me to another problem.  I have lost my play.  This summer has been emotionally draining for a number of reasons.  One of the reasons I have written about is the struggles with my daughter and her mental illness.  Playing is not in my vocabulary all that much.  Instead, I work with her and try to make life a little easier which tends to zap my whimsical side of life.  Of course, the fear of what the school year has in store for us is also causing me to struggle.  My poor muse has run for the hills because life is a little too difficult for her.  In fact, she ran away last February which is why my novel is nowhere near being completed.

This week I haven’t even opened the file of my novel.  I am hoping next Thursday, when the daughter goes back to school, that I will be able to open the file and play.  In the meantime, I will continue to write my morning pages, play with paint, garden, write a poem (maybe), and relax the rest of the summer.

Imprisoned

Joints grind in irritation

like dry gears 

of a rusted Model T,

 

smoldering muscles

pouring out energy

on the sand, wasted.

 

 

Empty shadows drift

along the bleak walls

of past memories,

 

echoing silence

crashes through

the dimly lit days, abandoned.

 

The world dances

while in this stockade

whining rumbles,

 

the negativity of rejection

paints the sky black

closing the doors, stifled.

 

Through the tree branches

an orange sun frowns,

smoke disturbs the glory,

 

even nature

closes her gates

on the joy of the day, rejected.

 

The bars break

as a new step forces

movement towards tomorrow.

Fiction Writing

Wow, I haven’t written fiction for quite a while.  Such is the story of my life during the summer.  I am going to quickly upload this little snippet of the ongoing lives of Argora and Vilenok.  As is typical, I have a bunch of items on my to do list for the day: gardening, library run, school shopping, zucchini processing and one appointment.

 

Argora and Vilenok

Walking up the sidewalk to Vilenok’s front door, Argora stopped in shock.  Holes filled the front garden where someone tried to dig out bushes.  Exposed roots for a foot down showed with cut marks near the bottom of the openings.  Whatever would possess her friend to do such damage to the plants?  Weeds and flowers littered the front lawn.  She shook her head in amazement and continued to the door.

Knocking on the door, she opened it and called out.

“We are in the kitchen,” Vilenok said.  Her voice sounded strained like she might have hit her thumb with a hammer and still wanted to appear happy.

Argora took a deep breath.  Nerves plagued her.  Meeting an orc matriarch intimidated her.  She wanted to make a good impression with her friend’s mother, but she doubted her ability to do so with the older woman.  As she walked into the room, she surveyed the scene once her eyesight grew accustomed to the dark. 

A single candle flickered by the sink as Vilenok washed morning dishes.  At the table, a thin woman lounged with long spidery legs.  Her gaunt features made her look almost young with no wrinkles do to her skin stretched taunt.  Her voice sounded brittle as she spoke.

“My daughter expects me to wear these ridiculous eye shields so she can open the shades for light to filter into the room.  She said it is good manners when hosting a dwarf.”  The old woman looked ready to pounce if Argora disagreed.  “You wouldn’t want a mother to suffer would you?”

Argora smiled, her lips trembling.  “Heavens no.  I don’t mind if it is a little dark.”  She placed the baking dish she carried on the counter. 

Turning around, Vilenok’s shoulders relaxed as she mouthed the words thank you to Argora.  She wiped her slim hands on a towel and moved a stack of three plates next to the dish.  A serving spatula and three forks lay on the top, clattering a bit as she set them down.

“Mother, this is my neighbor and friend, Argora.”

Before Argora could respond the old woman shook her head in regret.  “I can’t believe the world has come to this.  Orc and dwarf sitting down to coffee, it is an abomination to our fighting spirit.”

“My mother would agree with you.”  Argora took the lid off of her dish and began to scoop rhubarb crisp onto each plate.  “She fears our peaceful nature will change being around the orcs.  I think it will enable us dwarves to express our frustrations better.”

Vilenok took a plate to her mother.  She poked her fork at the plate she sat down with.  “I thought chocolate was a dark brown.”

“Oh, it is.  I realized I needed to use up my rhubarb and made a crisp instead.  I hope you aren’t too disappointed.”

A spluttering sound turned their attention back to Vilenok’s mother who looked at Argora with surprise. 

“This isn’t sweet.”  She took a second bit.  “I like the tartness with the rich crunchy toping.”  A bigger bit went into her mouth and she talked with her mouth full.  “I have never understood why dwarves were so fat, but this is delicious.  I thought you drank honey and ate horrible sweet desserts.”

“Well, we drink mead which is a honey wine and I did cut back on the sugar to not overwhelm your sensitive palate.”

Before the old woman could object to being called sensitive, Vilenok jumped into the conversation.  “What is this rhubarb?  Could I grow it in the front yard?”

“Speaking of your yard, what are you doing to those poor potentilla bushes?”

Vilenok growled.  “I received a notice that my yard does not meet the standards for the neighborhood.  I have a week to comply.  I tried to dig up the weeds, but I got mad.  I thought I would turn it all into grass.  But I like this rhubarb.  Could I plant that instead?”

“Growing anything is beneath an orc.”

“Yes, mother, but I need to live by the ordinances.”

“Most dwarves plant their fruits and vegetables in the backyard, but there are no rules about that.  It would give your yard a distinct look.”  Argora thought of how appalled some of the snooty dwarf woman.  “I will help you.”

Mental Illness - Discovery

How and when did our journey into mental illness with my daughter start?  That really is a hard question.  I have no idea.  We still speculate about when Madelle became sick.  When she was two, her dad left for Iraq leaving her with an emotional mom and two brothers.  When her dad came home, he fought his own sickness in the form of PTSD.  Our lives stayed in a state of chaos for another couple of years.  Second grade was an entire year of dealing with two extreme bullies.  Her first memories of panic attacks come from third grade.  She is now going into the seventh grade. 

Yes, as a two year old she threw horrible fits, but a lot of kids do.  She cried and complained a lot in second grade, but who wouldn’t.  I remember her panicking in third grade, but we really thought she had overcome that through changing schools with great success.  The girl continuously amazed us with her good grades, amazing musical talent on the sax, and enjoyment of softball.  Sure, she had her emotional moments, but she is a sensitive kid.  I didn’t realize it wasn’t normal.

I felt like the worst mother in the world.  I had been feeling our family was in a state of crisis, but I hadn’t acted on it.  In December and the first part of January, she was acting out, but I kept thinking it might be the teen years hitting.  She just started middle school.  I secretly hoped it was just typical behavior.  I was wrong.

Another question we have is how did we not see our daughter’s pain?  I really don’t have an answer for that either.  Though over the months of talking, I think she partially hid what was going on.  A while back she told me that she didn’t know her thoughts weren’t normal.  Since they started at such a young age, she has never known healthy.  That breaks my heart.  A rock song about death and suicide helped her to realize her thoughts were not normal or healthy.  She finally knew she was miserable.  This is when she started acting out in December.  She finally identified she was messed up.  She wanted to be happy, but she had no words to express this rationally.  In frustration she lashed out at me and at herself.  Luckily, God sent her an angel. 

Madelle finally told her friend that she had thoughts of death.  Her friend told her she had to see the counselor if she didn’t tell us.  Madelle didn’t want us to know and didn’t want to tell the counselor.  Her young friend told her she didn’t have a choice and she walked Madelle to the counselor’s office.  If I were to look back at my morning pages (journal), I probably have the date written down when the school counselor called me.  The counselor told me that my baby girl was depressed and hating life.  I have since thanked that friend of Madelle’s and have thanked her mother.  I think our story might have been very different otherwise.

Through this entire process, I have shed many tears.  My self-esteem as a mother plummeted considerably.  How did I not just take her to a counselor her entire life?  Instead I thought I was handling it all so well.  I have been taught about all the signs in my education degree and while being a soldier.  How did I miss it?  The reality is that I just did.  We all missed it.  Her school counselor thought Madelle would be fine in a month or two.  We were too close to the situation.  Madelle was so strong and worked so hard to be normal that she convinced us all.  I wonder how many others suffer in silence because they are fighting it or have no words to express their pain.

Mental Illness - A Diagnosis

Throughout my life, I have had bouts of depression.  I have only been diagnosed once.  The other times I battled through the dark times in silence.  The journey each time was filled with loneliness.  I wonder how many people do the same.  I wonder why we remain silent.  I watch the news about this political agenda and that agenda.  Yes, I see a little bit about depression, anxiety, PTSD, and all the other illnesses, but people still remain silent.  How do we get past this fear of talking about our illnesses?  For the past seven months, I have remained silent. 

My dear daughter has been to hell and back.  Short of a few close friends and family members, I have remained in silence.  Days of loneliness, anger, and fear have engulfed me.  Of course, this is nothing compared to her struggles, but as a people, we should be able to alleviate the heartache.  Or can we?

The other day I asked her if I could write about our story on my blog.  She didn’t even hesitate.  “Yes, people need to be aware.  Let me show you something.”  Grabbing my kindle, she pulled up a video from YouTube that was done by “Jacksgap” out of London.  This young man with his British accent talked about opening dialog about mental illness and wanting to campaign.  I was amazed by my twelve-year-old daughter’s commitment, along with his.

My beautiful daughter has been diagnosed with social anxiety and complicated depression.  During the week, she sees her therapist.  A psychiatrist monitors her progress once a month.  She takes two different types of medication.  At the moment, she only has a panic attack maybe once a week.  Her thoughts of suicide are gone.  Going to different social activities, even church, is a struggle.  Sometimes we have to cancel.  In the next week or two, we will be working with the school counselor to modify her schedule.  The summer has been good, but we don’t know what the school year holds for us.

Her illness has caused many tears.  For myself, my fear of losing her has lessened; however, I still worry.  I marvel at her strength.  I get tired of all the drama and appointments.  There are days I am depressed.  I went back to my therapist for a short time.  I felt like the worst mother in the world, but I am controlling those negative thoughts a bit easier as we rest during the lazy days of sunlight.  I dread this fall.

Throughout the next couple of weeks, I will share our story and thoughts I have had.  I will also update on our progress.  I am sure this fall will be a challenge.  Mental illness should not be shunned or hidden in the closet.  However, if I find it hard to talk about as a writer, how will we ever get past the stigma?  Hopefully, our story will help others tell their story and not live in seclusion any longer.

Pursuing Knowledge

This week I avoided my novel as I suspected I would when I wrote about my new blog format.  Well, today is Friday and the format is telling me to report my progress.  SLOW.  I put in 34 minutes this afternoon looking through my spreadsheet of scenes.  I also took five scenes I played with in June and added them to my master file.  I now have 87,833 words in my novel.  I have an estimated 30,000 more words to write. 

I feel that I might as well have 1,000,000 words to write.  Many days, I wonder why I like writing.  I struggle with editing.  I struggle with getting it finished.  Listening to these words as I type, I realize I am whining.  I need to just get to work.  So, I think I have a plan for the next five days.  This weekend I am going to read the first 100 pages or so of the book.  I will look at the different viewpoints I want to write and start taking notes.  By Monday, hopefully, my muse and I will be popping with ideas and we can get to work.  We will see.

On another note, I had a couple of artist dates this week.  I started a new afghan project, I created two mosaics, and I scrapbooked about eight pages of the 50^th anniversary album for my parents.  The rest of my idle time has been spent with the daughter and gardening.  I am almost to the point of looking forward to the snow flying so I can spend a good 30+ hours writing.  But, off I go to read or crochet or garden or hum, you get the idea.