She is a hot air balloon, her tie downs now gone.
Dad, you grounded her more than we ever knew.
The moment he was gone, so was the weight.
Up, she floated.
At first, such freedom and relief.
Up, she floated.
After months of deep, searing depression, she was finally happy.
Up, she floated.
The happiness grew, but not in a healthy way.
Up, she floated.
Mania.
Up, she floated.
Entering the stratosphere.
Up, she floated.
Too high.
She’s in outer space.
Gone.
photo by Just Us 3 on Flickr
Today has been a blur of phone calls made and received. Called Mom’s therapist. Her psychopharmacologist called me. Her caregiver called me. We shared information; compared notes. The consensus was unanimous: Mom has gone around the bend. She has lost touch with reality. She is nuts and needs to be hospitalized. More calls: notify the brothers, notify Mom’s regular doctor, make sure the cats will be cared for, stop the newspaper and have all mail forwarded.
At last. The build up over the past few weeks has come to a head. I’ve been talking with her various doctors and her therapist, letting them know each and every downturn I’ve seen, and reporting observations from Mom’s caregiver.
The surprise has been how fast she went from dumping her meds, to psychosis. Just one week. At least, because we’ve seen this before and it’s not our first time at this circus, my brothers and I have been very proactive at keeping tabs on Mom’s behavior. And I’ve been diligent about talking with Mom’s doctors and therapist. This time, it’s different because Dad is not here. All the crap he had to deal with over the years. Maybe one day I’ll catch a break and be able to grieve the loss of my father.
She’s at the hospital, waiting to be admitted. She is safe. I can breathe now… at least for a while.
When we last left off, my mother had become so manic that she’d thrown all her psych medications in the trash, professing that she doesn’t need them anymore. In fact, she’s going to dump her psychopharmacologist and use her friend’s therapist who only uses talk therapy. (eyeball roll)
At this moment in time, the fabric of her mental capacity has been stretched so thin that it’s beginning to tear. Her grasp of reality is slipping. She is confused. She is delusional. When this manifests into what seem to be real and solid reasons why it’s ok to not wash her hair for five weeks (she has assured me that she has showered, but not needed to wash her hair), it’s mildly disturbing, but not dangerous.
When she offers my grandmother’s fine china to a cousin’s wife, it might seem inappropriate to me, but not dangerous for Mom. When she calls me to let me know that another cousin’s husband has died, and he hasn’t (although, he is very unwell), it’s embarrassing- considering I posted on Facebook about his passing- but not dangerous for Mom. When she bounces a check and is incensed to have to pay a fee (after all, it was the check to pay for her husband’s funeral- the nerve of them for charging a fee), it’s inconvenient, but not dangerous. A person can only be involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital if they are a danger to themselves or to someone else. So, if a person becomes suicidal, they can be committed. But if they are so high that they are insane, the ability to help someone who thinks they are just fine, drops to zero.
In her confusion, Mom has lied to both me and her therapist about still taking one psych medication; when her caregiver reported to me that ALL prescription medications had been dumped into the trash. So, now the question still remains: did she also dump her prescription cholesterol medication and another one that is to help reduce swelling in her feet? I can’t ask her outright because she’s so confused, she’ll just tell me what she thinks I want to hear.
As the fabric that makes up Mom’s reality continues to tear, it will eventually separate into a psychotic break. The last time she went there, she spouted a load of crap, including that my father was trying to kill her, and had done so a number of times. The thing is, you can’t be committed just for completely losing touch with reality and alienating everyone who knows you. You can’t be committed for calling your sister-in-law and accusing her of killing her husband, or calling a friend and accusing her of killing her husband. You can’t be committed for turning to alcohol and becoming drunk on a regular basis, as long as you are not driving drunk.
And a person can not be forcibly committed to a mental hospital when they have had a grade A breakdown, a complete and total break with sanity and reality, and have entered psychosis and paranoia. This is the point where we have to try to reason with the unreasonable. We have to try to convince Mom that she’s not doing as well as she feels (she feels great!!), and suggest that she might want to spend a few days at the local funny farm. Good luck!
Now, all we can do is monitor and wait.
She’s flying high. After months of deep depression, Mom is quite manic. At first, it was good to see her being able to get up in the morning and feel good again. But soon, the little signs were showing up. She’d be upstairs going through things, weeding out, throwing out; with little regard to whether this might be something she might want to keep for memory’s sake, or for any other reason. She’d be up there for hours in her nightgown, finally coming down for breakfast close to 11am.
There have been more signs. Tone of voice. Urgency of language. And more recently, not being able to answer simple questions, but rather being obsessed with recounting a story about herself, over and over and over and over, ad nauseam.
And the most recent red flag: thinking that her medication does nothing good for her. It only clouds her head. She’s been to this place a few times before. Two of them ended up with her residing in a mental hospital for several weeks.
For me, it’s a feeling of helplessness- especially being 3000 miles away from her. It’s no accident that her children all grew up and moved AWAY. But then I have to remind myself that the feelings that are coming up, were instilled in a young, helpless girl. A young girl whose mother had been mentally ill for the girl’s entire life. A girl who had never experienced a balanced, healthy mother; at least, not balanced for long. A girl who experienced crazy, up close and personal. Too close and too personal. Crazy almost took me with it for a ride when I was in high school.
Ultimately, this woman is not my responsibility. I can support her, but I can’t fix her. She has to walk through her own fire. All I can do is that which I can, and no more. I have lived enough years, and learned enough to recognize when my mother is in trouble. She’s getting closer to the danger zone. And all I can do is sound the alarm to her doctors when she’s getting too close to, or has stepped over the line.
And unfortunately, at times like this, I need to protect myself. I need to make sure the little girl who was me, is ok. And that the big girl who is me now, is ok. It’s a whole new game to play, now that Dad is gone.
My Dad knew how to live. He grew up, ran around the White Mountains of New Hampshire, joined the Navy and saw the world during the final 2 years of WWII, took advantage of the G.I. bill, earned a higher education and a few degrees with all sorts of important letters after them, such as B.A. and M.D., belonged to more than a handful of organizations, helped get even more started, got married, had a family, worked until retirement, traveled the world in the capacity of tourist, slowed down in his later years, and just about a week ago, was finally able to let go of life, and died. His body was more than worn out. He had outlived his “sell by” date several times. (He passed on 2/12/12).
As a child, I was always “Daddy’s little girl.” I was his only daughter, flanked by an older and a younger brother. When I was young, his approval meant everything, and I thought he knew everything. He helped me with homework, and especially with writing. He made sure we had opportunities to participate in a variety of activities while we grew up, so we would become well-rounded citizens. Among the activities were boating, skiing, shooting skeet, swimming, golf, tennis, attending summer camps and more.
The week before Dad’s funeral, our family gathered and reminisced, looking through old family photos and letters. I learned a thing or two about Dad that I hadn’t known. I learned that his mother had taken him hiking in the White Mountains as a young boy, fostering what became his lifelong love of the mountains.
As a boy, he grew up on campus of a New England prep school, where his father taught. We found a small newspaper clipping recounting an incident of a fairly young Dad standing on the balcony of one of the dormitory houses, shouting, “Down with school!” His freshman year of attending the prep school, he was kicked out for bringing alcohol into his dorm. (I had known that he was kicked out of school, but didn’t know why.) After spending the next 2 years at another school, he returned to his original school for his senior year and graduation.
The two years after high school graduation were spent in the Navy, where Dad was an electronics technician, repairing aircraft radars on Guam and Saipan. He was there at the end of WWII. Taking advantage of the GI bill, he went through college and medical school, where, according to a few family members, he was quite a joiner. As an undergrad student, he joined several social clubs, had a full social life, and rowed crew.
My grandmother had professional photos taken of each of her sons as they went off to war, in case they didn't make it back.
He worked a long and prosperous career as a doctor, taking care of his patients, finally retiring at 70. Through the years, he was active golfing and boating in summer and skiing and shooting skeet in winter. During retirement, Dad (and Mom) discovered cruises! He also took classes learning how to use a computer, wood working, and more. And he took up ham radio.
As well as having a large circle of friends and co-workers, one of the most memorable things about Dad was that he spent his last 24 years, living with cancer. He underwent a variety of treatments, and even spent a year on hospice… about 4 years ago. They kicked him off it when he wasn’t dying fast enough (was how he put it). He survived so many health crises that could have taken him, that I referred to him as a cat with more than 9 lives; more like 25 lives. Unfortunately, his time on hospice this winter, was his last.
Dad was a man who lived life. He stayed active with sports as long as his body let him. And when he could no longer ski, golf, shoot, or go boating, he kept active with his friends, visiting and chatting on the ham radio. He took his vow to take care of his wife and family so seriously, that even when he could no longer take care of those around him, he wouldn’t let go. He still thought he had to take care of Mom. He knew we kids could take care of ourselves; but he still had the need to take care of Mom.
This past fall, I tried to have the difficult conversation with Dad a number of times; to let him know that we could carry on and watch after our mother. But every time I tried to broach the subject, he would become angry and tell me that he was not dying. He could not and would not face death. I finally had to write him a letter, telling him what I wanted to say to his face. Near the end I called the house to see if he had gotten my letter. The caregiver said that he’d gotten the letter, but hadn’t read it yet. Several days later, he finally let go. When I flew to mom’s house, I asked the caregiver if Dad had gotten a chance to read my letter before he died. He had.
Dad in Maine: one of his favorite places.
Dad, now that you’re on the other side, on the wrong side of the grass, in heaven, having fully transitioned into spirit, you are reunited with your brothers, their wives, your parents, and your buddies. I hope you now understand where I was coming from in our talks this past year (think you do). And as I am learning to communicate with spirit, I hope to continue our conversations until it is my time to cross over. As I said at your funeral service, “Fair winds and following seas. I’ll see you when I get there.”
I was raised by a mother with bi-polar illness. She was unmedicated until she was about 50 years old, when I was part way through high school. So, during the formative years of my young life, I lived with a mother who was mentally unstable. That can do a number on a young person. Perhaps that’s part of why I have so few memories of my childhood.
I have memories of sitting in the family car, that had a habit of not wanting to start, with Mom telling us kids to “Think positive thoughts and the car will start.” Even at 6 or 7 years old, I knew that there was something mechanically wrong with the car, and it needed to be fixed.
There were several other times that Mom would say or do something that I knew was not right, or was wrong. But because she was my mother, I doubted myself. I learned to doubt my intuition, to not trust what I knew was true.
When Mom was manic (high), her perceptions about the world around her would skew, and she would often take out her ________ on me, verbally. Her tongue was a razor, slicing and dicing me from time to time. She would often feel that the world was out to get her, and things like that. For some reason, it was me that got the brunt of it all.
The first time she was hospitalized, she had reached a state of total delusion. The year before that was no picnic at home.
Since last mid-June, Mom was in a deep depression, due largely to my father’s poor health. He had lived with cancer for more than 20 years, with his health taking a real nosedive after falling and breaking a hip last spring. Mom had become the caretaker for her sick husband, having to curtail her always active social life. With Dad’s condition deteriorating, Mom’s depression became more firmly entrenched. No antidepressant medications seemed to be able to lift her up.
Two weeks ago, Dad died. Overnight, my Mom went from deeply depressed, into mania. Welcome back out of control, skewed perception, uber-bitch.
So, now my challenge is figuring out the buttons and triggers that are in me, that react to this mania. I need to ferret these things out and release them, for my own mental health. I am learning to honor and trust my intuition once again. And I must continue along the path of learning the lesson I chose to learn by entering into an agreement to be raised by a mentally ill mother.
A funny thing happened after I discovered an awesome article about dyslexia (see the post just before this one): the universe brought me more and then more information to help me help my son. Yes, I freaked out, realizing that there is yet another thing going on with my son. And I know that some of it can, indeed, be changed (with money and a lot of extra work). And I am in the process of figuring out how to best proceed. I believe that not dealing with his dyslexia has been a huge part of his hating school and feeling stupid.
What amazes me, is that one day, as I was surfing Facebook, I came across an article about dyslexia. A few days later, I mentioned the article to my son’s physical therapist, who immediately responded that she knew nothing about dyslexia. My next question to her was, whose area is this? Do occupational therapists handle this? The answer I got was more “I don’t know’s.” But the next thing to come out of her mouth was that there was going to be a talk at her office in a week’s time, given by a local woman who evaluates and treats people for dyslexia- an expert!
Two nights ago, I got quite an education on what to look for, in screening for dyslexia. I printed out the article I had found and brought it with me. As the expert was going through a Powerpoint presentation, many of her slides were word for word what was in the article I had. It turns out that the website the article had come from, was Bright Solutions, created by Susan Barton, whose program is used by our local dyslexia expert.
If you are concerned about your child possibly having dyslexia, check out these Characteristics of Dyslexia. Know that dyslexia has a genetic component to it, and you do not outgrow it. So, the sooner a child gets help, the better.
Working on spelling as many ways as I could think of. Drawing words in flour here.
One discouraging thing I learned, was that the reading program my son has in school doesn’t help with dyslexia. And the extra reading help he receives through the special ed. department doesn’t teach to dyslexia. However, I know that with our local expert’s help, we will be steered in the right direction: school accommodations for right now, and an appropriate reading program (that I will most likely have to buy myself and implement at home) that will help my son. Freak out over… for now.
Ok. I’m exaggerating. But come on. I just discovered a fantastic website that describes a wide variety of symptoms of dyslexia. A lot of the symptoms popped out to me as describing my son: delayed speech, confusing left and right, can read a word on one page but won’t recognize it on the next page (that last one always blew me away when he was learning to read). Can’t master tying shoes. What? This is related to dyslexia? Wow. Yup, he can’t tie a knot of any kind.
When reading aloud, reads in a slow, choppy cadence (not in smooth phrases), and often ignores punctuation. Becomes visibly tired after reading for only a short time. Reading comprehension may be low due to spending so much energy trying to figure out the words. Listening comprehension is usually significantly higher than reading comprehension.
When reading a story or a sentence, substitutes a word that means the same thing but doesn’t look at all similar, such as trip for journey, fast for speed, or cry for weep. I always wonder how he does this- won’t read a particular word, but will pop in a synonym in its place.
Their spelling is far worse than their reading. His spelling is atrocious. People with dyslexia usually have an “impoverished written product.” That means there is a huge difference between their ability to tell you something and their ability to write it down.
They go on to talk about directionality confusion. Most people know about people with dyslexia flipping d’s and b’s, p’s and q’s. But no one talks about not being able to read or understand a map. I used to make my living as a ship’s navigator. Reading maps was what I did best, and I couldn’t explain what a line of longitude was to my son, even when I was blue in the face and had turned one of his play balls into a round map with lines of latitude and longitude drawn all over it. It just did not compute.
People with dyslexia have extreme difficulty telling time on a clock with hands. I am finally fully appreciating that even though we go over what time it is, every single blinking day, he still can’t tell what time it is on an analog clock.
People with dyslexia have an extremely difficult time organizing their belongings. They tend to pile things rather than to organize them and put them away. It is almost as though if they can’t see the item (if it is behind a door or in a drawer), they will forget where it is. So they have extremely messy bedrooms, lockers, desks, backpacks, purses, offices, and garages. Ding, ding, ding, ding!!!! We have hit another one right on the head. My son can’t keep track of anything. And my house constantly looks like a tornado just went through.
People with dyslexia are often gifted in math. Their three-dimensional visualization skills help them “see” math concepts more quickly and clearly than non-dyslexic people. Unfortunately, difficulties in directionality, rote memorization, reading, and sequencing can make the following math tasks so difficult that their math gifts are never discovered. I have seen some of this in my son- how he can look at a problem and see the answer right away. But the way math is taught these days, he has to write out each and every step in sentences, causing him frustration and defeat.
So, now that I see so clearly a constellation of traits that are my son, that are likely dyslexia, how can I teach him how to tie his shoes, or does he go through life wearing shoes that don’t tie? He’s made it 9+ years so far without tying his shoes. And will he ever be able to tell time on an analog clock? What will happen if he’s grown and needs to know the time, and has only analog clocks around at that moment? Will he ever learn to be organized enough to make it through life? Will he learn to read a map so he can get from point A to B? When he’s older will he be able to find that job interview and get there? on time?
And who, other than me has to figure this all out? To see the pieces of this puzzle child of mine. School certainly isn’t much help. Their resources are already tapped out. And it’s not their job to make sure all the kids can tie their shoes, or organize their desk or locker by the time they graduate high school.
Maybe there is a faint glimmer of hope. After all, there have been some pretty famous people who had dyslexia, like, Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Alexander Graham Bell, and Benjamin Franklin.
I’ve been taking a class, where we are learning how to communicate with spirit. The other day, we were learning how to communicate with our Spirit Guides. For those who don’t know, when we are born, we have beings not in physical form, who are with us, to help and guide us along our way in life. Some of these beings are called Spirit Guides. They may have lived a physical life at one time, or not. And they are here for you. We have several guides that can help us. We may have a primary one or two, who stay with us for our entire lives; and then other ones can pop in as needed, for shorter periods of time, while you’re working on a particular lesson. An author might have a guide who comes in to assist with writing. And a composer may have a guide who comes in when they are writing music. One thing about them though, is that you have to ask for their help. They won’t stick their nose into your business, uninvited.
So there I was, sitting with my eyes closed, listening to my teacher, as she ran us through a guided meditation. That’s fancy talk for… picture yourself on a deserted sandy beach, with warm winds blowing past your face. Did you “see” the sandy beach? Did you feel the sun warming you? Did you sense the warm breeze? It’s that simple. Guided mediation is when you listen to what’s being told and you use your imagination to go there.
She asked us to call forward one of our guides. I cheated a little bit. I have done some work with my teacher in private, and one of my guides had come to help out. She had described him to me and told me his name. Armed with this information, I decided to call forth my Healing Guide, Archer. He was described to me as looking like Robin Hood, dressed all in green, with a bow and arrow. From that description, I had an image of him in my mind, like Robin Hood of the movies back in the 30′s. And for some reason, I guess because he’s with me only in spirit, I figured he was little, like an elf or sprite. Here’s where it got interesting.
I was sitting, eyes closed, asking Archer to come forward, not really expecting anything, and soon enough, I sensed a large man in front of me. The reason I realized this was not coming from my imagination, was his size. He was BIG! We’re talking, Hulk Hogan big. Our teacher had us ask our guide a series of questions, including how long they had been with us. In a nano second I got, “Forever.” Cool! Then I realized how deep his voice was. I didn’t imagine him with such a deep voice. Wow! I wasn’t making this up. In my mind, I told Archer that I wanted to be able to hear him audibly, in my head. Some people can do this.
In receiving my request, an answer immediately came back loud and clear: trust. The pictures and knowings, hearing and feelings I have been picking up are subtle. So subtle that I often ask myself, am I just making this up? Is it just my imagination? He told me to trust that what I think is my intuition speaking to me, is indeed, that.
Earlier in class that morning, one exercise had us see ourselves sitting on our knee, then on a shoulder, then in our heart and finally in our head. When I put myself in my heart, for some strange reason, I became emotional. Fast forward to the exercise with Archer. As soon as I heard- trust- I knew in a moment that what I had discovered in my heart was some old issue about not trusting myself. Then, Archer went behind me, said that he had my back, and went to work clearing that old mistrust out of my heart.
I have to trust myself. For so long, I was made to think I was wrong, and I learned to not trust my instinct, to not trust my intuition. When people who are older than you, fuck mess with your head from the time you are old enough to suckle, you learn to not trust yourself, your intuition. Being in a place of not trusting yourself is a bad place to be.
Fortunately, with regards to trusting myself, I’m getting better and better at it. Once in a while, someone may try to dupe or bamboozle me. But I check in with my left (rational) and right (intuitive) brains and know what’s true and right. Then I usually get pissed for a little while. Partly at myself for not trusting me; and partly at them for being an idiot. When I’m specifically practicing using my intuition, the more I trust myself, the more good information I get. And by the time I no longer doubt myself when I’m communicating with spirit, that’s probably when I’ll start to hear spirit loud and clear in my mind’s ear.
She’s gone. My Aunt passed away, early this morning in her sleep, surrounded by loved ones. She had been on hospice merely a few weeks. And the first thing that popped into my head about her death was how proud I am of her. She was an elegant lady in life (and beautiful), and chose to spend the last part of her life in an equally elegant way. She chose hospice. No extraordinary, painful, invasive, sickness-inducing medical interventions. Elegance to the end.
I was wondering if I could connect with her spirit, and as I was walking down the driveway, I had a conversation in my head with her. It’s that simple. And a while later, I was sitting at my computer, occasionally gazing out the window at the snow, gently falling, and my thoughts once again, turned to my Aunt. She told me to tell her husband that she loves him. I mentioned that he knows she loved him. And she said to be sure to tell him that she loves him still. So he gets the message that she’s still here and her love is still here, and will always be here. That did it. The dam burst. I was a mess of tears. I’ll write him a letter.
She passed away in the manner that I think most of us aspire to: with comfort and peace, surrounded by ones we love.
|
