When the Parent Becomes the Child

I have no idea how to write this post.  I really don't.  But I know it must be written.  For me.  For her.  For others.

I try to always tell the truth.  My truth (because that's all I really know).  Especially when I write, because I know it will last.  It will stand as a testament to who I am long after I remember saying or thinking it.

But sometimes our truths intersect.  My truth crosses your truth.  Who owns that portion in the middle, that shared truth?  Who has the right to present that to the world?

I want to be careful about that.  I want to honor the person who shares that space with me.  But I also want to tell the truth.

I hope that by owning up front that this is MY truth and not necessarily THE truth, it's okay for me to share.  This is about me and my mom.

My ability to recall memories is not great.  I have vague images.  And pictures.  I have those, and they help.

This is me and my mom on my wedding day.


As a teen, I always thought she wore too much makeup, and I never understood the hair.  But she was always put together.  She wouldn't leave the house until she "put her face on" and "cleaned herself up."  How she looked mattered to her.

And she was so sharp!  She was the one who edited my papers.  She could type and take shorthand like nobody's business.  She was the Administrative Assistant to the President of the local state college and totally rocked that job!  She was loved and admired by all who knew her.  I don't remember ever hearing anyone say anything negative about her.

That was twenty-five years ago.  She was two years older than I am now.  And things have changed.

It's been gradual.  Little things here and there.  Her asking me how to spell things.  Her not remembering the proper noun/verb correlation.  Her not able to figure out how to use a new cell phone.

This is the profile picture she chose for her facebook account when someone helped her set it up five or six years ago.

She felt it represented well her many moods.  I liked it then. 

It's painful for me now.  It feels like a way too accurate representation of her current fractured state.

I have these vague recollections of her coming to my grade school to do an art presentation.  Of her taking me garage sale-ing on Saturday and then to Arctic Circle for lunch.  Of her telling me I was her saving grace.  The only daughter she got.  The one who could understand her in a house full of men.  I remember her being my best friend - so many years ago.

I don't have a picture of her now.  I'm not sure I'd share it if I did; it wouldn't be a happy picture.

She's seventy-two now.  Only seventy-two.  I wasn't ready for it to happen so soon.

Because she's not her anymore.

I still live in the town I grew up in.  And it's the town she grew up in.  So I regularly run into people who knew me when I was little and she was so capable.  I even run into people who knew her when she was young, long before I was around.  People who grew up with her.

Inevitably the moment comes.  They ask the question.  The question I don't want to answer.  "How's your mom?"

And the only answer I can give is, "Not good."  As I start to tear up.

They ask what's wrong.  I don't know the answer.  None of us do.  My dad.  My brothers.  Me.  Her doctors - many, many doctors.  We each have a guess; we think we know.  But we don't.

My mom has fought anxiety, PTSD, and PMS for longer than I was aware.  I remember when I was young and she discovered walking.  Walking stabilized her.  Walking cleared her mind.  Walking was the mental medicine she needed that made her able to face her life again.  And so she walked.  Miles and miles all over town.

Back then, when I would run into people, they would say, "I see your mom out walking all the time."  Back then it meant they saw their friend and she looked good.  Like she was okay.  It was said with positive energy.  Now when they say, "I see your mom out walking," it's said with sadness and concern.

My mom still walks, when she can (she's injured right now).  And those miles she used to walk pale in comparison to the miles she walks now.  She's tiny and frail, and she will walk ten or fifteen miles a day.  Maybe more.  Because she no longer has a driver's license and she can't stay in one place.  Honestly, it feels like she's trying to escape her own self.

She no longer leaves the house beautifully coiffed.  She doesn't always have her makeup on.  She can't smell well enough to know if her clothes are really clean.  As long as they don't have major spills on them and are the right warmth for the weather, she'll wear them.  And off she goes.  Pulling her little rolling suitcase behind her.  Looking like a bag lady.

I remember many years ago, as her own mother was aging and having difficulty walking and preparing meals, my mom said, "If I could choose between losing my mind and losing my ability to walk, I'd choose to lose my mind.  As long as I can walk, I'll be okay."

I'm afraid her wish was granted.

I remember when she was strong.  And healthy.  And competent.  And happy.  But just vaguely.  Because I feel trapped in this moment.  I feel trapped in her hell.

She is angry much of the time, maybe most of the time - usually at my dad.  She has difficulty keeping track of what day it is, even when I've told her three times already in the last hour.  She doesn't prepare meals for herself, do her laundry, or meet most of her own care needs.  And she still thinks she's independent.  Most of the time.

She feels abandoned by my brothers who moved to another state years ago.  She feels abandoned when my dad leaves town, for an occasional respite - which he so badly needs and deserves.  She feels abandoned when my adult daughters stay with her instead of me.  And she feels abandoned when none of these things are true.

She feels abandoned that we don't understand.  Like we've left her alone to her anguish.

She will spend hours upon hours reliving all the traumas of her past.  Over and over.  Telling me the same stories again and again.  Of her pain.  Of all the things people did.  Of all the ways they hurt her.  And they are all true.  They are her truth.  And she is trapped there.

But it hurts.  It hurts me.

When my dad leaves town I become her primary caregiver.  It's my job to help her get where she needs to go, even when she can't decide where that is.  Even if it means dropping everything and going to pick her up at her motel room (which my dad rents for her by the month, because she has to have somewhere to go other than her house).  For the third time that day.  Or taking her to my house, because she feels peace there.

But those are the good days.  If all I have to do is take her where she needs to go and listen to her tell me for two hours straight how horrible my dad is and was, that's a good day.

Lately they haven't been good days.

Lately it's been her showing up at my door, pounding and pounding, hysterical.  Or calling.  Any hour of any day.  She's crying.  Sobbing.  "No one understands how bad I am!  I can't make it!  I just can't make it!  He doesn't care!  All he thinks about is himself!  No one cares!  No one will help me!"

And if I don't answer (because I'm not home and can't answer my door or I'm at church and have my phone off) then she feels abandoned by me.  And sometimes in those moments she'll turn to my brother in town.  And he'll help as best he can.

But usually it's me.  Often even when my dad is in town.  Because he and she have had another screaming match and she wants a divorce and her life will be all better if she could just get a divorce.

Because she can't see that he manages her world.  That he wraps his life around her and what she feels and what she needs.  That he drops everything, including his job, to come get her.  To take care of her.

Yes, they have an ugly history.  I know that.  I was there.  There were many years I prayed they would divorce because he was so mean.  So controlling.  So angry and unkind.

But he isn't that way now.  At least, not that I see.  I am sure there are times when he loses it and he yells back when she's screaming at him.  But not nearly as much as she is horrifically unkind to him.

Those rants I hear for hours and hours?  He gets them, too.  She just rips him up one side and down the other.  All while he is trying to help her.  Because sometimes she isn't clear in her expression of what she wants (when she can figure out what she wants).  And when he, or any of us, gets it wrong she says it's because we don't care what she wants.  We don't give a damn about her feelings.

A month ago, when she found out he was going to leave town to go golfing with my brother for six days (which we were happy about and fully supported, because he needs refueling - even if he won't admit it), she lost it again.  She showed up at my house - hysterical - and just cried and cried.  Not quiet I'm-so-sad cries.  Anguished end-of-the-world crying.  Lost.  Alone.  Abandoned.  Sobbing.  Screaming.  And somewhat slurred.

Because it turns out she took twice as many pain pills as she should.  Along with Ritalin.  And Valium.  And progesterone.  And whatever else she could think of that would take care of the pain and help her be calm enough to survive in her own skin.

I called my brother, who had prescribed the pain pills, and asked him what to do.  He sent her a text begging her to give me the pills.  He couldn't live with it if she died as a result of something he'd prescribed.  She gave me the pain pills.  And then I kept watch over her as she slept and watched Elvis in my living room for the next seven hours.  I tried to feed her, but the most I could get her to eat was half a banana.

You see, her teeth are very bad.  So bad that I don't think she brushes them anymore because it hurts.  She knows she needs to have work done on them, but her anxiety is too intense to sit through it.  So she can't eat anything that's not soft.  And she has gotten to the point that she usually doesn't even want to try.  She lives on Ensure and chocolate.  And water.  She will go days without having anything else.  I know this because I've lived with her for several days at a time.

That day when she took too much medication was a major turning point.  (Oh, who am I kidding?  I think she takes too much medication every day.)  Since then, she has needed nearly round the clock care.  Someone to be with her all the time.  Yes, someone to try to feed her and get her where she needs to go.  Someone to tell her when she can take what pain pills.  But mostly, someone to help manage her panic. 

She can't sleep well.  She can't walk much, because of her injury.  And the meds just don't manage the anxiety like they used to.  So she melts down.  And she needs someone there when she does.

This last week, which started with her pounding on our door at five in the morning on Sunday, was the most difficult for me yet.  There were at least five times in the four days I took care of her that I was sure we would be heading to the ER in the next five minutes.

I've taken care of a lot of people over the years.  I've acted as nurse to many people through surgery recovery, illness, and many emotional breakdowns.  I've raised five children (as a stay-at-home mom, so around the clock) from birth to adulthood.  I'm good at it.  I'm good at taking care of other people.  I am patient.  I am knowledgeable.  And I truly care.  I'm really good at it.

But this last week broke me.  Over and over.

When she showed up at five in the morning, my husband answered the door.  She was in a bad way again.  My dad had told her he was leaving town the next day and she'd lost it.  They'd gotten into another screaming match.

My husband was able to get her to lie down on our couch and try to sleep.  And then he let me know she was there so I wouldn't be hit with it unexpectedly when I got up.

I had a long day ahead of me at church, on my feet in an energetically demanding calling for two hours.  I hadn't had more than four hours of sleep the last two nights.  So when he told me she was there I tried so desperately to go back to sleep.  But, knowing she was there and was likely to throw off my entire morning (possibly the whole day) and bring that angry energy to my family and completely drain me on a day of rest, made it impossible to sleep.  I did stay in bed and at least try to rest.  Even as my panic and anxiety began to set in.

A couple hours later I got up and got ready for church.  I talked to her a bit as I put the evening's dinner in the crock pot.  Well, talked with her is not exactly right.  Two-way conversations don't happen much anymore.  She just talks and talks and talks and I just listen.  So as I walked around getting ready, she kept talking at me.  I have no idea what about, except how awful and self-centered my dad is.  (I would be lying if I said I don't sometimes tune her out while she's talking at me.)

Eventually I was ready and told her I needed to go, but my husband was there and would help her if she needed him.  I told her he could take her anywhere she needed to go.  And then I called him and told him he was on duty.  I could hear his heart drop in the answering sigh.

I went to church.  I had a wonderful, soothing day, as I almost always do.  And as I came out of church I checked my phone.

I had missed several calls from my mom.  And I had a voicemail.  The worst voicemail I've ever received.  Sobbing - "Robin, I need help!  I've made a mistake! I need you to come and get me! I need somebody to because everybody just doesn't think I'm as bad as I am! I can't make it! I can't make it anymore!!!  Please!" - followed by more sobbing.  I can't describe the emotion, panic, pain, and terror that I heard in her voice.

I also had a missed call from my local brother.  I called him back.  He was on his way to pick my mom up from her motel (where she'd had my husband take her).  My brother told me she had called my other brother, the doctor, and yelled at him about how worthless he was.  She also called my dad and told him she'd taken a bunch of pills and would see him in the morgue.  My brother was on his way to a job when she called and wondered if I could take over.  I told him I would meet him at her house.

You may be wondering why we didn't go immediately to the ER, after the statement about pills.  Honestly, she says a lot of things in anger that aren't even close to reality.  Especially to my dad.  She tries to punish him and strikes out quite frequently.  She wants to hurt him; she has said so.  But when I ask, she has no hesitation in telling me what she's taken.  As long as she can remember what she's taken.  So I knew the ER was a possibility (one I was terrified of), but wanted to talk to her first.  To assess the truth of the situation.  As it turns out, she didn't take a bunch of pills.  She didn't take anything other than her regular stuff.  She admitted she just said that to my dad because she was mad at him.

I stayed with her at her house for many hours.  (I wish I could truly convey what that day and those to follow were like.  It felt like she was an 18-month old child who is overly tired.  A child who is so tired but won't sleep.  She wants to be picked up and then when you do pick her up she hits you and wants to be put down.  She wants the toy but when you hand it to her she throws it back at you and hits you in the face.  You feel bad for her because you know she has no idea what to do with the emotions she's feeling but you don't know either and you're sure if she could just sleep things would be better.  And even though you feel bad for her your frustration at her unwillingness to comply grows.  And your stress grows.  And your sadness grows.  And you want to throw things, too.  You want to hit someone, too.  And you're getting no sleep, or even rest, because of her temper tantrums and she won't let anyone help her but you.  And it goes on for days and days.  It's a lot like that.  Except this toddler takes prescription medication [not always hers] according to her own whims and walks all over town any time of the day or night and has money and a cell phone to call a cab and is considered an adult who is in charge of her own life.  Oh, and she is completely verbal so she can tell you over and over how much you've failed her and how much everyone else who's trying to help has failed her and how none of you care and are all so selfish.  It's like that.)

As I said, my mom doesn't sleep well.  Even when she's taken enough meds to put down a horse.  So it was a day of trying to sleep.  Pacing and panicking because she can't sleep.  Her calling and texting my dad about what to do.  Him trying to help from another state.  Him calling and texting me asking what's going on and suggesting other things to try.  And encouraging me to try to keep her from going to the ER (which she does at least once every month or so).

My 24-year old daughter came over to relieve me for a few minutes so I could go home and finish dinner for my family and get some food.  I was only gone about fifteen minutes.  I then stayed with her until my 20-year old daughter (the one my dad had asked to stay with my mom while he was gone) came over at about ten thirty to spend the night.

I went home, hoping that now that my mom was finally sleeping she would be a bit better and my daughter could cover for a bit.  But my mom showed up at my door early the next morning telling me she couldn't make it.  And it started all over again.  A couple more times thinking we were going to end up in the ER.  Then she called her therapist who said she could see her later that day.  I know this usually calms her, so I was eager for this to happen.  Even though I don't always agree with this therapist.  Or what my mom presents as the things this therapist says.

Somehow we got through that day and got to the therapist.  I was hoping to get her in and go lie down in the car for an hour.  I just needed a few minutes alone.  A few minutes of not needing to take care of her.  A few minutes of not having to calm anyone but myself.  But it didn't work out that way.

My mom asked if I wanted to come in with her.  I said I would do whatever she wanted.  Her therapist suggested they meet together first and then invite me in if they needed me.  Which meant I needed to stay in the waiting room.

Half an hour or so later, her therapist invited me into the room.

This was rough.  My mom had gone there to get help from the therapist on how to divorce my dad.  The therapist asked me how I felt about my mom divorcing my dad.  I told her I didn't care at all if she and my dad stay married.  I spent years as a child praying they would get divorced.  I truly didn't care if they were married.  And then I paused.  I am always as truthful as possible in therapy.  This was the moment I worried about.  This was the moment I had to tell a painful truth to my mom.  This is the moment I knew I would hurt my mom.  Just the first of many that would happen in that session.  I said I didn't care if they divorced, but I worried about who would take care of my mom if that happened.  He does so much for her that she can't do for herself.  And I couldn't take that load on.  I just can't.

Lots of other discussion.  Lots of other distraction.  More truths I told her.
*  When she rejects one of us, she says it's because she needs someone who sees reality.  I challenged her on that and said, "Your reality.  Your reality isn't the same as the reality I see or others see."
*  When she called my dad manipulative I challenged her on that.  "What about when you called him and told him you'd taken a bunch of pills and would see him in the morgue?  Don't you think that was manipulative?"
*  When she said my dad has everyone on his side because he gives them money I challenged her on that.  "I have never felt obligated to take his side because he's given me money.  None of us do.  We're not taking sides.  We listen to both of you.  We try to help both of you.  We are not against you."

There were other truths I shared.  It did hurt her.  She's brought at least one of them up again since.  The one when I said I couldn't take the whole load on by myself.  Later that night or the next day (things are kind of blurring together), as I was getting my stuff together so I could go back over to her house with her, she walked out the front door.  She didn't tell anyone she was leaving or where she was going.  She didn't ask for a ride.  She just left.  I sent my daughter after her.  My daughter came back and said my mom was unwilling to come back.  She just needed to leave.  It was cold and my mom was in no condition to be out walking to who knows where.  I told my daughter to go get her in the car and bring her back.  My daughter said she wouldn't come back.  I told her to just bring her to the driveway and wait for me, she didn't need to come in.

I went to the car and asked her where she wanted to go.  She said she guessed she had to go to her motel.  She just couldn't go home.  She couldn't be in that house.  I asked her if she felt like she could be okay alone at the motel.  She said what other choice did she have.  She couldn't go home.  I asked if she wanted to come back into my house.  She said I had said I didn't want her calling me with her problems.  She said I had said I didn't want to help her.  I said that just wasn't true and what was she talking about?  She said that I'd said it in her therapy session.  I tried to clear up what I'd said.  I do want to help her, but I can't take on the whole load without dad.  I again asked if she wanted to come back in my house.  She said yes, if there was somewhere private and quiet that she could be.  (So far, she'd been in the living room.  It's the center of the house and the only gathering room other than the kitchen - we don't have a large house.)  I said she could try my bedroom.

I led her to my bedroom.  I helped her get settled on my bed.  I made sure she had what she needed nearby.  And then I sat in the chair by the bed and listened again, for half an hour or an hour.  When she finally felt stable, like maybe she could sleep, I left and closed the door.  She must have slept because I didn't see her again for hours.  (You would think I would rest during this time, but not so much.  In those moments I'm still on constant alert listening for her and knowing at any minute I could be called on again to manage another crisis.)  She got up and went to the bathroom once, but then went right back.  Eventually it was bedtime and I just curled up on the couch, hoping she'd get lots of sleep and finally feel better.

She came out a few times starting at about three in the morning.  I pretended to be asleep, although I woke up each time.  I was hoping if she thought I was sleeping she would go back to bed.  It worked three or four times, until it started to get light and she could see for sure that it was me on the couch.  She woke me a little after six, in another panic and wanting to go to the hospital.  I spent the next hour trying to settle her enough that I could get my kids up when I needed to and another hour after that as I tried to get my kids out the door for school.

A couple more days like that.  One night when she actually let my daughter be in charge and I got some sleep.  And so much panic and anger and recycling trauma.  And so many hours of me suppressing my feelings so I could do what needed to be done without causing her additional stress - and then going into the bathroom to break down in sobs from the emotional weight of it all.

Near the end of her therapy session, her therapist had asked if she could talk to me alone.  My mom said that would be fine and went to the waiting room.  As soon as the door was closed her therapist looked at me and said, "Do you think your mom is competent?"  Without missing a beat I answered, "No.  Absolutely not." 

Her therapist said she'd seen a noticeable decline in my mom since the last time she'd seen her.  She was very concerned about all the meds my mom takes and the addict behavior she displays.  Then she said she wanted her to have a neurological evaluation, to have her competency assessed.  She spelled out how to do that, recommended who to call, and told me what could happen afterward.  She said if my mom and dad divorce or separate that we would likely have to put her into assisted living.  And she told me my mom would likely be very angry with me and with her.

And I felt another weight drop heavily on my shoulders.  I now have the expectations and wishes of the therapist.  And the feelings and needs of my mom.  And the feelings and beliefs and stewardship that is my dad's.  And my brothers.  And my own issues, anxieties, panic, and sadness.  And somehow I am supposed to balance all this and figure out what is right.  What am I to do?  My dad is her primary caregiver.  How am I to tell him?  Should I tell him, knowing how my mom feels about him?  How much do I involve my brothers, not wanting to place extra burden on them?  And honestly, not wanting them to make my job harder by disagreeing with me when they aren't here and don't see what I see.

She thinks if she could just get on the right meds she'd be her old self again.  My dad thinks if she would just get off all the meds she'd be her old self again.  I'm not sure what my brothers think.  I think her old self is gone.  I think the meds are a problem.  I think she needs to be in a treatment center where they can take her off all the meds and figure out which she really needs and teach her to manage them properly.  Or hand the management off to someone else.  But I also think her mental capacity is declining.  A lot.  I think we are past the point of no return.  I think she will never be competent again, no matter what we do.  I think we are on a downward slope and we will just continue down until she dies.  But I could be wrong.

So, for now, I am sitting on it.  I'm not making a decision about what her therapist said and what to do with it.  My dad is back and has taken over, although I'm still getting calls for rides.  It's only a matter of time until another crisis.  And she will turn to me.  Or he will.  Because I've managed them well in the past and none of us knows what to do and we all reach out for the piece of driftwood that will keep us afloat just a little longer.  And I am often the driftwood.

And sometimes I'm the one sinking.

What Depression Looks Like

Earlier this year a friend of mine asked if she could take my picture.  She's spending the year focusing on the importance of the people in her life, A Year of Faces.  I was one of many she'd asked and declined at first.  It was a very dark time in my life.  Not a time I would look my best.  I explained to her where I was emotionally and asked if I could participate later, when I felt better.

She said she understood and, of course, we could wait if I wanted to.  But if I was willing, she'd like to capture where I was right then.  The darkness.

And I knew it was right.  I needed this to happen.  Even though it wouldn't be pretty and even though it was difficult, it was also so important.  I agreed to do it.

She sent me some pictures she'd found on the internet of depression.  Some were very stylized, very artsy.  Some were blank stares.  Some were silhouettes.  I understood why people associated these with depression.  And these might represent depression for some people, or even me at some times.

But not this time.  None of these came close this time.

This was my darkest time, at least the darkest I can remember.  This was the most painful depression I've ever had.  And the most unrelenting.  Months and months of pain and numbness and isolation and fear and loneliness and sadness and confusion and anxiety and guilt and exhaustion.

The day she came I was wearing the same pajamas I'd been wearing for three or four days straight.  My hair was dirty because I just didn't have the energy or will to shower.  She was the first person I'd invited into my home in weeks.

She asked me to tell her about my current struggle as she took photos.  She was gentle and kind.  She listened and asked questions.  It was an important moment.

She used one photo for her project.  I've been saving the others for the right time.  Today is the right time.

These photos are difficult for me to look at.  They hurt.  But people need to understand what depression is and I believe these will help.

Thank you, Karen, for capturing a hidden moment that needs to be seen.

My fingertips are pressing on the spot where I've had a headache for nine years.  When I cry, I tend to furrow my brow; this makes my head hurt worse.  I press on that spot to try to get the muscles to release and relieve the pain.  It helps a little.

Depression makes me feel incredibly vulnerable.  I have no emotional energy to protect myself.  That's part of why I isolate.  So often, when I am with other people, I feel the need to defend or explain myself.  When I am in a depression I just have nothing in me to do that.  I have no strength or will to draw boundaries and defend them.  It's easier to just be alone than to feel like a rag doll at the whim of those around me.  I often find myself in the fetal position in an attempt to seal myself off from the world and keep myself safe.

Sometimes my depressions are emotionless.  I feel nothing.  Most of the time it was like that.  Dull.  Blank.  Empty.  Nothing.  Other moments were like this.  Gut-wrenching.  Crying from the deepest parts of myself.  Falling to the ground sobbing.  Unable to stop shaking from the shredding of my soul. 

And this is how I felt so much of the time.  For months and months and months.  Like an empty shell.  Depleted.  Like everything that made me who I was had been taken away.  Worthless.  Like I had nothing to offer the world.  Without hope.  Without purpose.  Gone.  Lost.  Alone.

This is what depression looks like.  It's not a bad day.  It's not when things go wrong.  It's when the world is pulled out from under me and I am plunging to my death and I just don't even care.

An Awfully Proud Mama

This is our oldest daughter, Jessica.  And today she graduated from Brigham Young University.

Attending her commencement and convocation exercises was amazing.  I can't even begin to describe my pride in her achievements and in the incredible young woman she is.

We don't have much money.  We live paycheck to paycheck and always have.  At times of job loss we've been on food stamps and church assistance.  My husband and I both attended some college, but neither of us finished our degrees.

Jessica loves learning.  She's so smart and works hard.  She always wanted to go to college and I've known for most of her life that we couldn't afford to send her.  I remember telling her that if she wanted to go to college, she'd need a scholarship or would have to work her way through.  Turns out she needed both.

She earned a full-tuition scholarship for four years through good grades and test scores.  Some of her abilities are genetic, to be sure.  She's a quick learner and has been blessed with a mind that works the way the school systems are set up to test.  But she also had to put forth a lot of effort.  She had to sacrifice things she wanted, which sometimes meant her social life.  But she did it.

But there was still the cost of books.  And for a time there was the cost of living away from home.  And there was the expense of her trip to Russia to teach English to young children for four months.  She paid for these things herself almost in entirety.

For the first two years of her schooling she worked a 4:00am job as a custodian.  For the next year she worked a 6:00am job as a custodian.  And near the end she finally got her dream job - doing custodial work in the evening.  (Just kidding about that being her dream job, but the timing sure was better.)  All of this to pay for her books and other things she needed, because we couldn't.  And she worked these jobs while carrying a full-time load of classes.

Everyone has their own path in life.  Not everyone will go to college, nor should they.  I don't think success is measured by whether or not a person has a degree or how much money they earn.  I don't think a person will be happier just because they have a bachelor's degree.

But what I do think will make a person happier and what does constitute success is an ability to have a dream, to want something with all their heart, and to have the drive to make it happen.

These last two days I got to see my daughter realize a dream of hers that she's worked so hard for almost all her life.  And it was an absolutely amazing experience!

Uterine Prolapse -- I'm a Little Obsessed

Last week I wrote about how much I've been hurting, that I was going to see the doctor, and that I was afraid I'd need surgery or they'd find nothing wrong and I'd get no answers.

Well, I did get an answer and I do need surgery.

I have uterine prolapse.  Prolapse means to fall out of place.  Basically, my uterus is falling out.

Take a minute to wrap your brain around that.  An internal part of my body is no longer where it's supposed to be and is on a path that will eventually take it outside of me.  Yeah, kind of funny and creepy at the same time.

And I'm having difficulty thinking about anything else.

I meet with the surgeon on April 23.  We'll discuss my options then.  But, of course, I've already researched it a ton online.

It used to be that the standard answer to this problem was a hysterectomy.  Now there is an option for reparative surgery, much like a hernia repair.  There are pros and cons to both options and several types of hysterectomies possible.  My brain is swimming with possibilities and trying to anticipate the negatives of every choice possible.

But I can't decide anything until I get more specifics on my case when I meet with the surgeon.  In six and a half weeks.  Doesn't that seem like a long time?

It does to me, too.  But that was his first opening for a consult and I've heard good things about him and my life doesn't facilitate surgery any time in the next month anyway, so I'm sticking with that plan.

But I have to find a way to pay attention to other things.

Okay, so I only found out four days ago.  I guess it's okay to take some time to adjust.  At least I've noticed that I'm not attending to anything else.  Maybe that's the first step.

So tomorrow I'll start making a list of the things I think of that I need to pay attention to.  And I'll try to pay attention to at least one thing a day that doesn't involve my uterus.  But I think it's unrealistic to expect that I can just move on with life and forget about it.

Because it still hurts.  And it's not where it's supposed to be.  And that kind of freaks me out.

Coloring is Hard for Me

Quick side note:  The last couple of weeks have been very difficult for me mental health-wise.  I'll write about it soon.  For now, I welcome any good thoughts or prayers offered in my behalf.

**********

Coloring is easy, right?  Coloring book, crayons, relaxation.  That's how it's supposed to be, right?  And sometimes it is for me, too.  But other times it just really isn't.  Especially when I'm working on a project I'm going to give to someone.

There may be all kinds of reasons it's tough for me, but the primary reason is because I'm color blind.  Yup.  I'm one of the very rare women who have that luxury.  It's estimated that close to 10% of men are color blind but only 0.5% of women.  That's half of one percent.  Lucky me.

So all my life, color has been tricky for me.  I learned all the rules about color.  I know which ones work together and which ones don't.  I know about complementary colors and triadic color schemes.  But I still often have to ask my daughters what color something is (my son is color blind, too) and whether or not I can use this color with that one.  And since I am color blind, I really have to follow the rules of color or things get nasty.  Some people can break them with beautiful results, but not me.

So I was kind of thrilled to find out that true Zentangle is done in black and white -- not color!  Many people add color, but my tangling efforts could be complete and acceptable if I never colored anything.

Then I made a piece for a friend and he asked me to color it.  Ugh!

I was sure I would ruin it.  I had no idea how to do it.  And my coloring supplies were minimal.

So I stressed out about it.  A lot.  So much for the "zen" in Zentangle.

I thought I'd try watercolor.  I bought a nice set and watched several YouTube videos.  I knew I could do it.  Except it wasn't the same when I did it as when they did it on the videos.

So here are the steps to my first colored piece:


my practice page

I had done the piece on watercolor paper.  I had planned to color it until I got it done.  Then I liked it a lot in black and white (check out my last post to see the black and white version) and didn't want to mess it up.  Until my friend requested color.

Watercolor paper has a lot of texture.  It's also very heavy.  I liked the weight and texture of the paper but wasn't sure how it would affect the coloring.  I drew a few simple shapes with a touch of tangling on a separate piece of watercolor paper.  I also drew two smaller versions of the original piece (without the skull because that took forever) to test out color combinations and do a couple of trial runs.

I did some watercoloring on my practice page and decided I was ready to give it a try.  This is how my first test run on my mini-version tuned out:

mini-version, watercolor, first trial run



You may notice the page curled a bit.  That didn't bother me.  I was sure I could fix that if I needed to.  But I wasn't happy with the result.  Not even happy enough to finish it with some shading (I might still go back and add that later).

Then I gave up for about a week.  I didn't know what I was doing.  I was super stressed (that bad mental health struggle I mentioned).  I needed to step back for a bit and leave it alone.

Yesterday, I decided to attack it again.  Not having it finished was causing me extra stress.  I needed to finish it so I could get that monkey off my back.  I decided to use colored pencils.

I bought a set of watercolor pencils a few days before, thinking maybe I would still watercolor but in a different way (I never did end up adding water).  And I had a large collection of Crayola colored pencils from years of art projects with my kids.  I tested them out a bit on my practice page and decided just to go for it on my second mini-version (after watching a three part tutorial on YouTube about using colored pencils).

This is how the second trial run went:

mini-version, colored pencils, second trial run

There were things I liked about it and things I didn't.  But frankly, I was so tired of this hanging over my head, I kind of said "screw it" and dove into the real project.

I used mostly the Crayola pencils, but I did use one or two watercolor pencils.  I did some smudging here and there.  A bit of shading. 

And this is how it turned out:

almost there

It was acceptable.  I wasn't thrilled with it, but it was done and I was so ready to be through with it that I just didn't care that it wasn't perfect.  For a few hours.  Then it started to bug me again and I knew it needed a little bit more.

So I colored in the Widgets (the things that look like little alien robots) with some strong bright colors and darkened the red and blue on either side of the skull.  I also colored a few of the yellow dots orange.

No more tweaking.  I promise.  This is the final product:

the final product

Do I love it?  Not really.  Although it has grown on me.  When I put it away for a few hours and then come back to it, I like it more.  But I am calling it done!

A few tidbits.  You may have noticed that in each piece, the peace symbol is green.  That's not because I really loved the way it looked.  It's more because it's my own little joke that brings me a weird joy -- GreenPeace (tee hee).  Also, I did the space to the right of the skull red and to the left blue because that's the way they are colored on the Grateful Dead album art.  And since it's very much a hippie-inspired piece, I wanted to incorporate some tie dye if I could.  Hence, the rainbow border.

I'm trying to get over the fact that it didn't turn out the way I imagined it in my head and just try to love it for what it is.

I won't give up on coloring.  I want to get some different supplies to try, primarily some Tombow brush markers like I had years ago when I was a demonstrator for a stamp/scrapbook company.

But whether I love it or not, I am proud of myself for tackling something that's hard for me and not giving up.  Yay, me!

Going to War

There is a memory.  A memory that holds more power over me than anything else ever has.  A memory that has been there for as long as I can remember.  And beyond.  A memory that taunts me.  A memory that hides.  A memory that I sense but don't see.

It is strong.  It is elusive.  It is haunting.

And I am going to battle against it.

Most of the time, it lies hidden.  Tightly protected in its cage.  Just out of my reach.

But right now it is exposed.  And right now I am strong.  And right now I have an army behind me.

I am frightened.  But I am going to war.

Trying to Find the Words

** If you are an abuse survivor, this post could contain possible triggers.  Please make sure you are safe before reading it.  Also, this is a very heavy and adult post.  Listen to your heart and do not continue if you know this won't be okay for you. **


Words are important to me.  I sometimes take a little longer to speak because I am trying to find just the right word.  Not one that's close, but one that conveys a multitude of meanings all at once, one that conveys truth and feeling and exactitude.  Just the right word.

But sometimes I don't have the word.  If I could communicate telepathically, I could make you understand.  But there just isn't a word for it and nothing else really does the job.

This is what happened when I tried to explain to someone what triggered a PTSD event for me this week.  I didn't have the words.

A little history, somewhat vague, to help set the stage.

There are dark things in my past.  There was abuse and assault.  Over many years I was hunted.  And too often I was caught.  I wasn't killed physically, but pieces of me were destroyed.  I was changed.

I was changed in a way I believe many others who were abused are also changed.  But I can't speak for them.  I speak only for what is true in my life.

I was prey.  In many situations.  And, yes, there were times I feared for my life.  Other times I just feared for the inner me, the part that was being attacked.  What happened to my body didn't matter.  What happened to my core did.

Because I was prey, I was on constant alert (an alert that is never silent, even now).  I learned to read the emotions of everyone in the room.  To sense even the tiniest shift if something changed.  Long before anyone else knew.  Because I had to in order to protect myself.  It was necessary to stay alive.

But it goes beyond just reading emotions.  And this is where I lose words.

Some people have a . . . something to them.  A color/flavor/spirit.  Each of those is somewhat close, but none of them are accurate.  I would say aura, but it isn't visible.  A presence?  A feeling?  An emotional radiation?  None of these are right either.

As a child I often swam in a lake.  I would be swimming along, in the warmth, and hit a cold spot.  Out of the blue all the warmth was gone.  It's kind of like that.

And this last week a person crossed my path whose . . . whatever it is . . . triggered my PTSD.  This person's color/flavor/whatever is darkness.  This person carries evil with him.  Willingly.  The cold spot that he wears is that of a predator.  Even with all the abusive situations I've been in over the years and all the people I've known and all the horror I've experienced and witnessed, I've never felt like I was in the presence of evil.  Until him.  And he knows it and uses it to control.

He is not a close part of my life, but there is potential that our paths will continue to cross.  I am trying to strengthen myself and gather support so he can't wound me again.

I hate that it only took the mention of him to make me feel weak and powerless.  And scared.

He triggered one of my most difficult memories.  One that I haven't fully processed and healed in therapy.  One of a very early sexual assault.  One that causes me severe physical symptoms.  So since he crossed my path, I have been having very painful uterine cramps.  Nonstop.  Whether I am thinking about it or not.  Sometimes so bad that I have trouble standing up.  My anxiety is high.  I am snapping more at my family.  My nerves feel like they are on fire and I cringe if anyone tries to touch me.  Even when I am completely safe, there is fear.  Like the rabbit whose ears prick up when he senses danger.  I will not relax until the danger is gone.

I was not ready to go back to therapy.  My therapist and I have some things to work out.  I wanted to do more processing on my own on that stuff before I went back.  But I may have to put all that aside and go back to therapy anyway.  I may not have a choice.  I'm having trouble functioning.  I'm having trouble getting every day things done.  I need help.

He Got a Job -- Why Am I Not Happy?

My husband lost his job two and a half months ago.  It's been a tough time.  Financially and emotionally.  I've been dealing with my emotions, my kids' emotions (they are 15-22, so very aware this time around), and my husband's emotions.  Along with all the emotions and expectations and concerns of friends and family.  And I've spent every day wondering how I was going to pay this bill or feed my family and praying no one got hurt or seriously sick because we have no insurance.

Yesterday, all my husband's hard work (and lots of prayers from friends and family) paid off.  After two and a half months of interviews and tests, someone finally offered him a job.  It's significantly less money but has some good trade offs.  And better yet, my husband feels valuable again.  Someone wants him.

I'm very grateful for that.  It eases my heart some to know that he feels better about himself.  That he feels useful.  And it eases my stress a bit to know that money will soon be coming into our house on a regular basis.

But my world is still dark.

My world has been dark for about the last week or two.  I had hoped the good news would make it better, would part the clouds and let the light back in.  But it didn't.

Because sometimes the darkness is situational -- because things around me are not going right.  And sometimes it's biochemical -- because things within my body aren't going right.

I believe this darkness is biochemical, with situational aggravators.  There are lots of things in my life that have been hard lately.  I have no doubt they've taken their toll.  But they could all go away tomorrow and my world would still be dark.

It takes time.

I will do what I can.  I will try to take care of myself.  I will eat and sleep and try to move.  I will draw nearer to God and serve others.  And over time, it will get better.

Right now I feel like a shadow walking through my own life.  Others see me and think I am whole, but I am hollow inside.

I am not okay.  But I will be.  Eventually.

Trusting in God's Timing

Here's the thing.  I do.  I really do.  I trust that He knows what He's doing and everything is going to work out okay.  Eventually.

It's the eventually thing that sucks.

Why can't it be now?  Why do I have to watch week after week as my husband goes through interview after interview and disappointment after disappointment? 

When my husband was laid off I wasn't worried.  Really.  Not worried at all.  In our twenty-three years of marriage he's been laid off eleven times.  He's good at finding a job.  He's highly employable.  He's a hard worker and a loyal employee. 

But it's been nearly two months now and my relaxed attitude is pretty much gone.

I love him and it's so hard on him to be rejected over and over.  He wonders what he's doing wrong.  He struggles with depression and feelings of low self-worth.  He tries to stay positive and keep his hopes up, but then those same hopes crash every time he's passed over for a position.

It breaks my heart.

I try to help him fight the depression.  I believe in him and tell him so.  I value him whether he's employed or not.  But that only helps so much.  He still questions his worth when he can't support his family.

And I've been really struggling with depression, too.

I feel so powerless.  I wish I could get a job and help out, but my health just won't allow it.  I really can't do anything to help him interview better or find better job opportunities.  All I can do is support him and try to manage our home.

And the stress of trying to keep our home afloat makes me feel like throwing up a great deal of the time.

We are receiving unemployment, which is less than half of what we were earning before.  We have cut every expense we can.  We have thousands of dollars in medical bills, some of which have gone to collections.  We have had to ask our daughter to help with some costs.  We've had to ask my dad for money.  And we've had to go to our church for food and help with the bills.

I am grateful that these things are available, but don't let anyone kid you.  It sucks to have to ask for help.  A lot.  Being an adult and not being able to pay your own way is a pretty major kick in the emotional teeth.

If I could just see down the road a bit, see when it's going to get better.  Then maybe I could focus on other things instead of obsessing about how I'm going to keep the lights on and the medical debtors at bay.

God's smart.  He knows what He's doing.  But I want what I want and I want it now!  I want my husband to get a job.  Now!  I want him to feel valued and productive again.  Now!  I want him to be proud of himself again.  Now!  And I want us to be able to pay our own way again.  Now!

And yet, when I pray tonight, when I converse with God and express my gratitude and ask for what I want, I will still include, "If it be thy will."

Because I do trust Him.  Even if I feel like throwing up while waiting.

Turning to God

My life is better today.

None of my major stresses went away.  Nothing big changed.  It was a small change.  The same one that's gotten me through a thousand other tough times.

I remembered to turn to God.

My life is always heaviest when I try to carry it alone.

Then something happens, like a reminder from a good friend, and I turn to God.  And he smiles and says, "No wonder it's so heavy; you're carrying it all wrong.  Plus, you're trying to carry all this other stuff that isn't even yours.  Let me help you figure out what you really need to carry and how it fits just right on your shoulders."

I'm grateful for a good friend that reminded me to turn to God.
I'm grateful for the power of the priesthood that allows me to receive the blessings I need in difficult times.
I'm grateful for prayer, which enables the conversations I need to have.

And I'm especially grateful for an understanding that I am doing a good job, that He is there, and that we are in this together.

Feeling the Stress

I'm not gonna lie.  I'm feeling the stress.  Quite a bit.  And once I started spelling it all out in my head, it made sense.

I've been helping my mom for almost a year now.  She's really struggling with her mental health.  It's been quite a battle of ups and downs.  And I'm trying to balance helping her with taking care of myself while navigating the dangerous waters of my parents' dysfunctional marriage.  And trying to keep my brothers informed.  They've asked what they can do to help.  Boy, I wish there was something.  My dad feels helpless and doesn't know what to do.  And when he does come up with an idea, she doesn't want to have anything to do with him. 

In the last month or so I've picked her up or dropped her off at multiple locations around the county (she doesn't have her license anymore).  I've taken her to get her prescriptions filled, to shop, and out for lunch.  I've accompanied her to the neurologist, the therapist, and the psychiatrist.  I've taken her for blood tests, an EEG, and an MRI. 

And now the therapist wants me to help my mom become compliant on her meds, which she isn't and never has been.  My mom has PTSD from multiple traumatic episodes in her past.  She has spent years fighting to have control of her life.  Me taking over her meds would be her losing control again and she's just not willing to go there.  I can understand that.  But I also understand that not taking her meds according to schedule is making it so much harder for her to feel better or for anyone to help her feel better.

She says she's willing to try.  When it's time to fill her prescription again she'll let me help her set up a system.  That's the best she could do.  Until then she's promised to try to take them the way she's supposed to.  And she's trying to track it all on paper like the therapist wants.  If she doesn't become compliant she will not be able to get her driver's license again.  And her psychiatrist might drop her.  But she still isn't convinced that taking her meds according to schedule is the right way for her.  She's sure that she's right about using them as needed and we're wrong and she'd be fine if the psychiatrist would just give her more meds.  She's only trying to get on schedule to keep us happy, not because she believes in it.  It's control she's clinging to with both hands, tight fists.

I'll keep taking her to appointments.  And doing what I can to help while trying to keep myself emotionally stable.

On top of this, three weeks ago my husband lost his job.  We've been married twenty-three years and he's been laid off eleven times.  Because of my health I am not able to work.  That was our only income.  He's interviewing and applying and trying.  And I'm doing all I can to be supportive and helpful.  I'm trying to manage what little money we have left.  I'm looking for alternate sources of income.  I'm trying to stay on top of all the medical bills from my daughter's brain surgery and hospitalization and my emergency room visit and stress test and my husband's MRI and my daughter's MRI and all my therapy and all the other miscellaneous medical bills we have outstanding.  I'm trying to keep food in the house. 

But my biggest job has been to keep my husband from slipping into a depression.  His self-definition has taken a major hit.  He's questioning his value.  Every job rejection slams him down again.  So I try to spend time with him.  I try to help him see healthy choices.  I try to keep him involved and active with something other than computer games and movies and sleep.  We've had a few deep, dark days, but are mostly keeping his head above water.  It requires constantly treading water.

And no one leaves my house.

School is out.  My oldest daughter quit her job for the summer (before my husband lost his job).  My second daughter lost her job when my husband did (company went out of business).  My third daughter is out of state for the summer (so I guess she left the house, but that's a little too far gone for too long).  My son doesn't have a job and my other daughter doesn't have a job (they are sixteen and fourteen).  Rarely does anyone go anywhere or do anything other than watch tv and play video games.  It feels like my whole household is sinking into a depression.  I love my kids.  And I want them to be happy.  I want them to have a break.

But I am a homebody.  Partly because it's exhausting for me when I leave (I have chronic fatigue) and partly just because I love to be home.  And I used to get six hours a day to myself in my home.  But now I don't seem to get any time with the house to myself.  And my mental health is taking a hit because of it.  It's wearing me down.  I am really feeling what it means to be in the "sandwich generation."  Taking care of my parents and my kids.  Lots and lots of others needing me.  Not enough time to just be me without worrying that someone is about to knock on my door and need something.

And I recently stopped going to therapy because my therapist and I were no longer connecting well.
And I have become heat-intolerant the last year or so and we are in the middle of a heat wave.
And next week is my daughter's birthday and I have no money for it.
And I have no energy to complete any of the thousands of things that need to be done around the house.
And I have no energy to make anyone else do them either.
And the car didn't pass inspection.
And the faucet in the bathroom is leaking.
And the toilet keeps running.
And I am just not enough.

Things will get better.  But right now I'm feeling the stress.

Being There

Sometimes it's just about being there when someone else needs you.  And listening with your heart.

I'm so grateful for all the people who were there for me and listened to me.
I'm so grateful for all the people who let me be there for them and trust me enough to speak when it's so difficult.

That's what it's about.

Trying to Be Brave

I don't feel brave.  Not at all.  I feel scared.

People tell me I'm brave for writing about my therapeutic journey.  Sometimes it's not hard.  Those days I guess I do feel kind of strong.  But days like today, times like now, I'm just a scared little girl.  I'm afraid someone who knows me and knows my parents will read this and tell them about it.  I'm afraid of getting in trouble with my dad.  I'm afraid of hurting my mom.  I'm so, so afraid.

But I do it anyway.  Not because I'm brave.  Just because I'm so desperate to heal.

I'm fighting that deep, dark place again.  Because of my seventy-year old parents and my own co-dependence.

Eight months ago I wrote about my mom and her struggles.  I'd been out of touch and when I checked back in I'd found her much worse off than I was prepared for.  I thought it was horrible.  I thought it was unbelievable.  I thought it was as bad as it could get.

I was wrong.

She is much worse than she was when I wrote that.  And my life has gotten so much harder.

Things are really ugly between her and my dad.  I've listened to both of them tell my why so many times I don't even listen anymore.  At this point I don't care.  They can't seem to stand each other.  Which would be fine if they could just go their separate ways and be okay.  But they can't.  Because she's deteriorating.  And he's trying to take care of her (I admire him for that).  And she only wants him to do what she wants and leave her alone, whether it's good for her or not.  Whether it's a rational request or not.  Mostly, give me money and go away.  And since she wants nothing to do with him, I've found myself in the middle again.

She doesn't have her driver's license anymore.  It expired.  She didn't know.  Now she has to take the written and driving tests to get it back.  Could she pass them?  Maybe on her best day.  Maybe.  But she doesn't have many best days.  So she can't drive.  But she also can't stay home.

She was practically living out of her car before she lost her license.  She had been for years.  And without her license, the car wasn't going anywhere.  But she refused to stay home.  So before long, her car was parked in front of my house.  Every morning she would walk a mile to my house, get into her car and do her makeup or sleep or whatever, and leave for the day.  She's learned to ride the bus.  She's learned that we actually do have taxis in our area.  And she's done a lot of walking.

But she also gets stranded a lot.  She finds herself two or three towns over after the buses have stopped running or she's run out of money.  And then she calls me to come rescue her.  And spends the next two or three hours complaining to me and holding my life hostage.  This was probably happening three or four times a week.

Which was a hard enough situation to deal with, but it gets worse.

Memorial Day my phone rang.  It was my dad.  He asked if I'd seen or heard from my mom recently.  I told him I hadn't for a couple of days.  He said she'd left in a huff on Saturday saying she would never come back to that house, and he hadn't heard from her since.  He said he was ready to call the police.  I asked him to give me a few minutes to try to contact her.  I called her phone; straight to voicemail.  I sent her a text; no response.  I let my dad know.  About fifteen minutes later she sent me a text.  She was in the next town over and said I better come and get her.  I let my dad know and left to pick her up.

Once in the car, she started in on how awful my dad is and that she won't go back there and if he would just move her small motor home somewhere else she'd have somewhere to stay until they move this weekend.  I really thought my patience and my nerves were completely depleted before this episode.  I really thought I had nothing left.  Apparently there were reserves, but they were very shallow.  I had no idea what to do.  I was not in a strong place.  And I needed her to have somewhere to be other than my front porch -- talking non-stop about her horrible life and how awful my dad is.  Still.  So I did the only thing I could think of.  I told my dad he could park her little motor home at my house until the weekend.

It took him about two hours to bring it down.  We sat on the porch and she talked to me the entire time.  There is no way for me to express what it's like having her talk to me in a way that you can understand, unless you've dealt with someone in the middle of a breakdown.  It's like a bad, non-productive therapy session that just goes on and on.  Like I am her therapist.  And she never runs out of things to talk about.  And it doesn't matter if I'm listening or not.  She just keeps going and going.  It's emotionally exhausting.

She eventually walked to the nearby grocery store to get something to eat so she wouldn't be there when he brought it down.  It's now parked in my driveway, plugged into an outlet in my carport.  She hasn't been much trouble out there, although she has called me from various other locations to pick her up a couple of times since.  And to bring her home.  To my house.

And I am struggling.  A lot.  Having to deal with him and his rants about her and her and her rants about him while trying to help and be kind to both of them has me at my absolute limit.  I've broken down in tears multiple times these last few days.  It's all so ridiculous and pathetic and sad.  And I feel so selfish for not being happy to help.  I feel so selfish for worrying more about how she's interfering with my life than worrying about her well-being.

But today was therapy.  My therapy.  With my therapist.  A real therapist that I pay to help me.  Not some friend or family member who feels trapped and helpless and taken advantage of.  My therapist.

It was a good session, even though it was incredibly hard for me.  We discussed lots of options.  I can laugh it off and just keep going.  I can do nothing and keep complaining.  I can tell them both the hard truth (which isn't going to happen yet in any way, shape, or form).  Or I can do what I need to for my own protection:  I can learn to lie and fake helplessness.  (Let me just say, those two things are so completely not a part of my personality -- which might have something to do with why I always find myself taken advantage of.)  Little white lies like, "I'm sorry.  I can't come right now.  My daughter who just had brain surgery needs me" -- even when she doesn't.  Fake helplessness like, "I'm sorry, dad, I just don't know what to do" -- instead of doing everything possible to solve their problems for them.  I'm supposed to be less available and more helpless than my dad.  So he has to start taking care of things again.  One way or another.

Because this isn't taking care of my parents.  This is enabling.  This is prolonging an unhealthy situation.  This is hurting them more in the long run than confronting them would now.  Even though my heart is struggling with it. 

My dad doesn't know what to do.  But that doesn't mean it isn't his job to figure it out.  My therapist thinks it will take a crisis for him to find his way.  It might take a ride home for my mom in a police car.  From a stranded situation I didn't rescue her from.  And when she tells them to bring her to my house, which she will, I need to be ready to tell them she can't stay and they need to take her back to her house.  Whether she wants to go there or not.  This was about the time in the session when I completely lost it and started sobbing just thinking about her face when I tell her she can't stay and how her heart would be breaking.  I'm letting this idea simmer for a while.  I'm not capable of doing this today.  I don't know if I ever will be or if it will come to this.  But I'm letting the idea simmer because in my therapeutic heart it feels like truth, even if in my tender co-dependent heart it feels like the worst thing I could ever do to her.

For now, I am going to be less available.  And I'm going to work on differentiating between routine care, urgent care, and emergency care.  If it's not an emergency, I am going to work very hard to make myself put it back on my dad.  Because this is his job.  Not mine.

And, come heck or high water, that motor home is leaving my driveway this weekend!

Mother's Day Sucks!

It's that dreaded time of year again.  Mother's Day.  Those two words strike fear in the hearts of men everywhere.  (Is it everywhere?  Is Mother's Day recognized in other countries?)  And so many men think they are the only ones who dread this day, but they are wrong.  So many women dread this day, too.

I know there are women and men and children out there who are looking forward to this day.  I'm happy for you.  I would wish you a happy Mother's Day, but you don't need that.  You will have a great day full of love.  Because somehow you've found the magic tunnel that leads to a world of joy and celebration and giving and love.

The rest of us live in a fallen world full of heartache and unmet expectations.  I rejoice in the fact that some of my friends will have a wonderful day this Sunday.  I ask that you try to understand why so many others don't.  Please don't judge.  Please don't tell us to make it a great day.  Please don't throw sunshine and Disney songs at us and tell us to cheer up.  For so many women (and many men) today is a day of pain and mourning.  That should be respected.  It should be honored.

I expect Sunday to be a good day for me.  A couple of years ago I was able to redefine Mother's Day for me in a way that's really helped break through that dark cloud.  Even still, there are treacherous areas for me on that day.  I have to be careful.  And my associations with Mother's Day aren't nearly as tough as so many of my friends.  They are the ones I'm thinking about at this time.  They are the ones I am worried about.  They are the ones my heart is aching for.

There is my friend whose mom knowingly allowed her to be sexually abused for years.  Who barely noticed her daughter.  This friend is a wonderful mother and I hope the day is about her.  I hope she is able to celebrate her own motherhood.  But I can't imagine there isn't a twinge of pain for that mother she doesn't have.  Whether we like it or not, whether we fight it our whole lives or not, there is something in us that longs for loving parents.  It's part of our make up.  I know she is strong and loving and does her best not to let that part of her past control her, but I know there's still pain there.

There is my friend who has never been able to have a child.  She and her husband are good people.  They would make wonderful parents.  But for whatever reason, that blessing has been withheld from them.  I have watched them reach out and touch the lives of others' children, but I know their hearts have ached for that child of their own.

There is my friend who has experienced multiple miscarriages.  She has children.  But her heart longs for more.  Her heart aches for more.  But her body seems unwilling to cooperate.  I know her heart aches.  I know she feels an absence.

• There is my friend who lost a grandchild she never got to know.
• There is my friend who has been disowned by her mother.
• There is my friend who has been disowned by her children.
• There is my friend whose mother was taken from her while she was still in grade school.
• There is my friend who has been told over and over by her husband what an awful mother she is.
• There is my friend who's children won't allow her to see her grandchildren or be a part of their lives.
• There is my friend who lost a child to cancer.
• There is my friend whose mother killed her father and then herself.
• There is my friend whose mother beat him.
• There is my friend who's husband and children will forget Mother's Day because they don't think it matters and she will feel as if they are saying she doesn't matter.
• There is my elderly friend who has outlived all her children.
• There is my friend who grew up knowing her mom never wanted to have children -- never wanted her.
• There is my friend whose mother abandoned him and his siblings.
• There are my friends who are single mothers, doing the work of both parents, who would love to have a loving husband tell them how grateful they are for these wonderful women who are raising their children.
• There is my friend who feels so inadequate as a mother and sees Mother's Day as a reminder of all her failings.
• There is my friend who is caring for her mother with dementia and mourns the mother she doesn't have anymore.
• There is my friend who is watching her drug-addicted mother ruin her life and can't do anything about it.
• There is my husband who will be reminded that his mom is gone.
• There are all the women who will feel guilty for having a good Mother's Day when they know their friends are hurting.

 

There are so many people around us who will be hurting this Sunday.  And whoever thinks one day a year is enough to recognize and value all the work mothers do is crazy.  One day a year doesn't begin to cover the sacrifice and heartache it means to be a mother.  One day a year has turned it into a marketing ploy.  A way to make money off the guilt of people who should be more appreciative more often.

 

But for those of us who hurt so deeply on Mother's Day, one day a year is more than enough.

My Daughter's Brain Surgery

It's a strange thing to be sitting in a waiting room, kind of bored, knowing my daughter is just down the hall with someone cutting open her skull and possibly removing parts of her brain. 

This man that we met once.  Talked to for fifteen minutes.  Holds my daughter's life quite literally in his hands.

The last three weeks, since her diagnosis, have seemed like a year.  It's taken forever.  Mostly because all we had was a diagnosis, no information specific to her case.  Then, last Thursday we finally met with the neurosurgeon.  We learned what her situation was.  We learned his plans.  We scheduled the surgery for the soonest possible date.  The last four days have flown by and dragged.  You wouldn't think they could do both, but they did.

And now we are here.

Pre-op was a bit tense.  Knowing it was just around the corner.  Sam was quite anxious, which added to my anxiety.  Then pre-op was done and we waited.  It was about an hour and a half of waiting after pre-op was done.  We got bored again. 

Then someone walked in, told her it was time to go, and the fear returned.

And they took my baby away.  Nineteen or not, she's still my baby.

I'm actually ridiculously calm.  Except for this underlying anxiety that I feel every time my children leave my presence.  Just kind of magnified.

I believe the surgeon is skilled and knows what he's doing.  I believe things will go well.  But there's still that part of me that holds a constant prayer in my heart that she will come back to me.

I wonder if that will ever go away or if I will just always have that small alert in my heart.  No matter how old they get, I wonder if I will always have that sense that they are vulnerable to this big, bad world and I need to protect them.

I can't imagine doing this without faith.  While I believe everything will go well and she will heal and finally feel better, there is a tiny chance that things could go not well.  That she could have permanent damage of some kind, have a successful surgery but feel no relief, or even die.  All of those things are possible.  But I am still much more calm than not because of my faith. 

I know that I am not the only one worried about her and watching out for her.  I know that she was His child first.  I know that no matter what happens, she will be okay.  We will be okay.  There is great comfort in knowing that.

But it doesn't mean I'm ready to give her up yet.

I imagine she'll come out and we'll have a rough go for a few days with a consistently upward curve of healing.  I imagine that within a few months, the only evidence of today will be the six-inch scar up the back of her neck and skull.  I imagine she'll be up and running, back to usual, before we think she should.

But right now a doctor has her head splayed open and is working on her brain.  And we wait.  And it's scary.

On Being Powerless

We all want to be in control.  Sometimes we feel like we're succeeding, like we've got a handle on life and things are going the way we planned.

And then something comes out of the blue and smacks us in the head with a two by four and walks away giggling, knowing it has power over us.  We sit.  Dazed.  Trying to figure out what's going on.  Trying to get our bearings.  Trying to figure out what our next step should be.

I'm still dazed.

Two days ago our family received some scary medical information, an initial diagnosis.  My 19-year old daughter has a Chiari malformation in her skull which is putting pressure on her brain.  It was a whirlwind day of exam, MRI, diagnosis.  Now we are in a holding pattern, waiting to see a neurosurgeon and make a plan.

It's left me feeling very powerless.  Powerless against the insurance company that won't pay for the specialist our doctor wants us to see but insists on sending us to a different one.  Powerless against the schedule of the specialist that leaves us waiting for days before we can even schedule to meet to get any more answers.  Powerless against the emotions it's churning up in my family.  And powerless to change what is.

It's been a rough couple of days.  And the rough times aren't over.  They are probably just beginning.  I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I should do, how I can deal with it, how I feel.  I'm riding tumultuous waves of okay and freaked out.

But, for just this minute, I'm done focusing on what I'm powerless against.  Right this minute I want to focus on the power I still have.  I still have the power to decide how I'm going to face this.  And that matters.

I'm not going to put my life on hold.  I'm not going to drop all other responsibilities.  I'm not going to obsess.  I'm going to do the best I can to live my life while waiting.

And I'm going to practice what I preach and be kind to myself. 

When others tell me about difficult things they're going through, especially transitions, I ask them to be kind to themselves.  I ask them to allow themselves to feel what they need to feel and not judge themselves for it.  I ask them to give themselves time to make decisions, to not force them just because someone else wants an immediate answer.  I ask them to practice good self-care.  I ask them to be as kind to themselves as they would to a dear friend if they were the ones going through this.

So this is my game plan.  I'm going to live my life as normally as I can.  I am going to drop everything and cry when I need to.  Then I'm going to pick it back up again.  I am going to take care of myself.  I am going to respect the feelings of my family members but not feel accountable to fix those feelings.  I am not going to project all the possibilities at this point.  I'm going to wait for further information.  If it's going to get ugly in the future, I'm going to let that be in the future.  I'm not going to let the possibility of future stress ruin now.

We're going to get through this.  We're going to be okay.  But I'm not willing to wait.  I'm not going to sit and wallow in the toxic stew of powerlessness.  I'm choosing to be okay now.

A Dark and Difficult Place

It can be tough to admit when I am not okay.  Right now I am not okay.  I am in a dark and difficult place and have been for quite some time.

So I am asking this from my heart.  If you read this and are a religious person, would you please offer a prayer in my behalf?  If you're not religious, maybe send some happy thoughts my way.  It would mean a lot to me.

An Abusive Husband, part two

For the first part of my husband's story and why we are sharing it read this.

This is the second part of my husband's story: we got married and things got ugly.

I WAS AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND.  REALLY?  (PART TWO)

I finished my 2-year mission and came home and that's when I met MisssRobin.  I was still very religious and active in my church but I had anger.  Robin was awesome.  Good looking, smart and would play with me in a snarky way.  She was a tease but then again so was I.  I fell in love with her so fast.

We got married and that's when things changed.  She is right about almost everything and she is very strong willed.  I, however, am not right about most things but won't admit it for self esteem reasons.  I am also strong willed and at the time was of the opinion that it's my castle and you're my property.  That's where it gets hard for women to understand I think.  How can you love someone if you think they are your property?  But that is how I was raised.  I'm the man, she's the woman.  It's my job to provide for her and keep her safe and it's her job to do as I say.

I became everything I hated in authority and didn't even notice.  I also suffer from OCD so my perception of reality isn't always on the mark.  Things would often make me angry that wouldn't bother other people.  When I got angry I would be mean to the person I was angry at.  I hated them for the time I was angry.  I wouldn't hit them or be physical, but I would yell and ignore and withhold.  I would scheme of ways I could get even.  "You won't do this for me then I'll not do something for you."  And I thought it was fine that I acted that way.  After a few days of cooling off, I would feel horrible and apologize and then everything was fine.  (How naive I was.)

Years into our marriage, Robin started telling me that I was being abusive.  I was shocked.  What the heck is she talking about?  I've never hit her or the kids.  I would think that I should hit her so she can see what abuse really is.  I talked to friends at work about it (all male) and they would agree with me.  What does she mean?

Then she started to tell me it was emotional abuse.  WHAT IS SHE SMOKING?  Emotional abuse?  What is that?  In my mind it was an imaginary thing.  I didn't really have emotions other than hate, anger and love.  I had never even heard of such a thing as emotional abuse and if there was such a thing then she was abusive to me.  She would not talk to me for days after one of my explosions.  She was always complaining about me.  ME, the guy who was working every day so that she could stay home.  40 hours a week and all I asked for in return was for my family not to trigger my OCD and let me be the king of the house.  It took years, but things started to get ugly between us.

Read more here.