Two days before the devastating elementary school shooting in Connecticut last week I received two emails from my mother wherein she essentially told me and two other relatives that we are not doing enough for her and she can only recover with more from us and then proceeded to outline the numerous ways we should help. The "numerous" ways all involve giving money.
I get it. People in her position don't have a lot of money, if any. I do get it. I'm sure it would help today to have money, and if I could make a big enough contribution, it may even help for a week or a month or two.
I have not replied.
And I vacillate between saying to myself "my non-reply IS my reply" to "I don't know what to say yet". And when my heart and mind wander back onto this subject I feel a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. This sickening feeling is largely connected to the calendar.
She informed us that the halfway house, which from what I could determine was a relatively good place for her, was kicking her out on Thursday (tomorrow) and she will again be homeless. So as I get closer to Thursday, it is on my mind. I can pretty much guarantee that come Christmas day it will be on my mind as well, just as it was on her birthday, and on Thanksgiving. I feel like these days are held hostage, which I resent, and I am having a hard time working my way around it.
No matter how long I live with a mother who in no way resembles a "normal" mother, the normative scripts around how I should be responding to my mother remain there for me. I continue to dismiss them, counter them, argue with them, but this is a process that takes energy and a lot of it.
After the shooting last week I was left thinking about the time several years ago when I saw her driving while under the influence and didn't call the police. I regret that so much. It was early in this process of distancing and boundary work and we were leaving family therapy. We knew in therapy that she was under the influence of something and then when I saw her swerve I thought, my god, she could kill someone. But this struggle internally with calling the police on my own mother with whom I was actively trying to mend fences was too much for me to bear and by the time I thought this all through, I didn't know where she was and she could have been home and off the road. While it felt like too much to bear to call the police, I realized later that what really would have been too much to bear is if she ran into innocent people on her way home and I had not called the police.
It was like she had a weapon and when it got impounded and sold at auction, I was very relieved.
And what I have been thinking about since the shooting is this: I have struggled with protecting my mother from herself, protecting my family from her, protecting myself from her, and protecting the rest of the world from her. These things do not always line up neatly and I think more conversation about these issues could help it to be more transparent.
I am so heartened by the folks I know who live with mental illness and work with it. To be open, to be frank and honest and brave about dealing with a mental illness, while having a mental illness no less, is nothing short of inspiring.
However, I am so sad for my mother, that her illness is too much for her to handle, or that the line between her and her illness is sufficiently blurred at this point that there is no handling to be done. I am profoundly sad that it has cost her relationships with people who do love her very much. But to my mother, loving her means feeding into her illness, and to me loving her means not engaging with her illness. This is one of those emails. I think it is from her illness. But she will undoubtedly be hurt in the process no matter how or if I respond.
I have been so happy that I have some readership here from folks who have similar experiences and for whom I can remind you that you are not alone in dealing with your friend or family member who might be struggling too. I will leave you with something I remembered the other day: in therapy a couple of years ago, my therapist talked about how she would give me a diagnosis of anxiety or depression or some such thing so that insurance would cover my sessions. She told me there wasn't an insurable option for "help processing while a family member slowly unravels". This to me crystalized how I, too, felt about my mother's illness. I didn't validate it as something real to me either. It was always in reference to how it was affecting my mother, not me. It was hers. Even though it clearly directly affected me, I didn't feel like I had a right to talk about it openly. It was her illness, not mine after all. It was shortly after that discussion that I started this blog. I think it is unhealthy to keep these things inside and I think we all need each other's support.
I wish I had called the police back then on my mother, for the community-at-large's sake, for my sake, and for her sake. Hiding from it or pretending it was not happening would not keep it from happening, and drawing attention to it and seeking intervention actually might have helped her at a point in the road early on when she could have potentially righted this ship.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Ideals
I really should be reading for my preliminary exams, which are only six weeks away and for which I have a huge virtual stack of readings to get through, but I need to take a few minutes to write about the state of things with my mother.
My last post was positive and it felt great to write. But then I heard from my mother. The real, flesh and blood mother who is related to the mother who did great things from time to time, but who now feels like more of a threat to my health than anything else.
I was talking to a friend a couple of weeks ago and I was recounting my correspondence with my mother and how my mother is doing and I stopped and said "There is that violin on my shoulder again...playing away!" I don't want to be a martyr here, but sometimes even in stating facts I feel the violin starting up...woe is me...
This is not my usual modus operandi, at least, I don't think it is, yet I continually struggle with how to reconcile this part of my life in any other way. When I wasn't communicating with her I was beginning to be able to really honor her and focus on those positive memories. I was finding a way that felt good and true and positive and right.
And then she emailed.
And the content of the correspondence was not cataclysmic, just more of the same reality distortion and blaming and roping me in that I am pretty much used to, but it broke the spell of my happy place and now I can't find it anywhere.
Gee, thanks for writing.
She wants help, she wants to talk on the phone, she wants connection, she wants...wants...wants...
Some of this I get. Some of this I understand and I understand her set of needs are no where near "normal" or expected for a 57 year old mother. But what does normal mean anyway? By what standards am I judging her? Does it mean married? Homeowner? Near retirement? Hosting Thanksgiving dinner? I myself actively try to undo these and other normative beliefs I find bouncing around in my head or in our family conversation at home, and yet I seem to compare her to these idealized images of "mother", and of course, she does not fare well in the comparison. And that only gives the little violinist on my shoulder more to go on anyway.
So I try to free her and myself from these comparisons. And I am left with this woman who is my mother, who is attempting to connect with me and is being overrun by her mental illness. Sometimes I feel like I am emailing with her, sometimes I feel like I am emailing with her disease directly and most of the time it is somewhere in the middle and in every instant I am unsure whether her response will be sweet or full of vitriol.
I am sad for her and there is a large part of me that would love to offer her emotional, familial support while she works her way back from homelessness, but there is the other part of me that says she is an endless pit who will take everything I have. She never stops wanting...once you give a little, there is always more to take and besides, I have kids to think about.
The hardest part, I believe, is that her illness causes her to not be able to see her illness. So, not only can we not talk about it to any successful end, but when I don't see things the way she sees them she can't understand me. And as time goes on and I am further and further away from seeing things through the lens of her distorted reality, she says she doesn't know me and I have to say that I think she is right.
And other than a blood bond and shared history, I'm not sure what there is left for us. She says having a connection with me will help her during this difficult time. Perhaps, but is this just about what is good for her? No. I don't think so.
My normative beliefs about the ideal daughter tell me that she certainly would be there for her, but fair is fair and we've stated she is no ideal mother and, well, I am no ideal daughter. I am trying to be okay with that and figure out what I want to do here with this real request from a real flesh and blood person.
My last post was positive and it felt great to write. But then I heard from my mother. The real, flesh and blood mother who is related to the mother who did great things from time to time, but who now feels like more of a threat to my health than anything else.
I was talking to a friend a couple of weeks ago and I was recounting my correspondence with my mother and how my mother is doing and I stopped and said "There is that violin on my shoulder again...playing away!" I don't want to be a martyr here, but sometimes even in stating facts I feel the violin starting up...woe is me...
This is not my usual modus operandi, at least, I don't think it is, yet I continually struggle with how to reconcile this part of my life in any other way. When I wasn't communicating with her I was beginning to be able to really honor her and focus on those positive memories. I was finding a way that felt good and true and positive and right.
And then she emailed.
And the content of the correspondence was not cataclysmic, just more of the same reality distortion and blaming and roping me in that I am pretty much used to, but it broke the spell of my happy place and now I can't find it anywhere.
Gee, thanks for writing.
She wants help, she wants to talk on the phone, she wants connection, she wants...wants...wants...
Some of this I get. Some of this I understand and I understand her set of needs are no where near "normal" or expected for a 57 year old mother. But what does normal mean anyway? By what standards am I judging her? Does it mean married? Homeowner? Near retirement? Hosting Thanksgiving dinner? I myself actively try to undo these and other normative beliefs I find bouncing around in my head or in our family conversation at home, and yet I seem to compare her to these idealized images of "mother", and of course, she does not fare well in the comparison. And that only gives the little violinist on my shoulder more to go on anyway.
So I try to free her and myself from these comparisons. And I am left with this woman who is my mother, who is attempting to connect with me and is being overrun by her mental illness. Sometimes I feel like I am emailing with her, sometimes I feel like I am emailing with her disease directly and most of the time it is somewhere in the middle and in every instant I am unsure whether her response will be sweet or full of vitriol.
I am sad for her and there is a large part of me that would love to offer her emotional, familial support while she works her way back from homelessness, but there is the other part of me that says she is an endless pit who will take everything I have. She never stops wanting...once you give a little, there is always more to take and besides, I have kids to think about.
The hardest part, I believe, is that her illness causes her to not be able to see her illness. So, not only can we not talk about it to any successful end, but when I don't see things the way she sees them she can't understand me. And as time goes on and I am further and further away from seeing things through the lens of her distorted reality, she says she doesn't know me and I have to say that I think she is right.
And other than a blood bond and shared history, I'm not sure what there is left for us. She says having a connection with me will help her during this difficult time. Perhaps, but is this just about what is good for her? No. I don't think so.
My normative beliefs about the ideal daughter tell me that she certainly would be there for her, but fair is fair and we've stated she is no ideal mother and, well, I am no ideal daughter. I am trying to be okay with that and figure out what I want to do here with this real request from a real flesh and blood person.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Thanks Mom
So it has been a while since I've written. Not a ton has changed, but time has gone by and that has made somethings feel different regarding my mother.
Since I last wrote I decided to write my mother a letter via snail mail. I am never sure if I will hear from her again and I become convinced that every call about my mother is the call informing me that she has died. Given this, I decided to, while I had her address, tell her everything I would want to tell her should this be my last communication.
What did I tell her? I told her I loved her and that I am not sure she can see the ways her illness is hurting her and that I hope for wellness for her, but cannot guarantee anything on my end...I get too hurt.
I heard back from her via snail mail, with a letter addressed to my husband's office as I was not comfortable giving her my home address (realizing that then I would feel panicked, even 12 states away, that she might show up at my safe place, my home). She disregarded all of the more meaningful parts of my letter and responded about how life was now for her, and waxed poetically about me and my family and how lovely we are.
After the anger passed at having been substantially ignored, I decided to write to her and I even did so via email this time. Instead of continuing to try to change her, try to help her, try to show her the cracks in her reality, I just responded politely. I sent her the kind of email I might send a distant relative after a long hiatus..."my daughter is 3 now, she is spirited and funny..." and so on. I even attached pictures of the kids and one of all of us. I sent it off.
Two weeks passed and then I received a two line email indicating that she liked the pictures and was busy with interviews so she did not have much time. She would be in touch later.
That was 2 months ago.
At first I checked my email more frequently wondering if now was the later she meant. I dreaded/hoped to hear from her. I hoped a miracle had happened, I dreaded what I thought was really happening and any continued involvement on my end. And after a while I got busy with the stuff of life and time passed. When I open my email I am not wondering if I will hear from her anymore.
So, why the title of this post? Why am I thankful? I have tried to write this post off and on for the 2 years I have been writing this blog. Here is the thing: even in the midst of this present day heartache, she did a few things right. She did somethings amazingly right. She was sometimes brave and bold and big-hearted. She was sometimes the mom I want to be.
It is this part that I have a hard time reconciling.
And if you have read my blog, I'm sure you know why.
Today I recalled such a thing she did beautifully right. When I was 8 or so, my mother took our book of fairy tales and switched all the gendered characters. Instead of Beauty and the Beast, it read Handsome and the Beast. The idea of that story being about a handsome, sweet prince helping a grotesque and difficult woman is substantially different from the classic. She gave me the gift of these new stories and the gift of seeing the crack in these norms that serve to shape us all.
So, today I sent her an email thanking her for this. I have no idea if it is a working address anymore or if it will illicit a response even if it is. But I've spent so much time dwelling in either escaping the negative or fortifying my boundaries from problems that it feels refreshing to spend a moment basking in a good memory.
Sometimes it is comforting to not over think a thing. So I will not go on, but I will just say that was a good thing she did. Thank you Mom, for that and for so many other things that I rarely have the opportunity to think about.
Since I last wrote I decided to write my mother a letter via snail mail. I am never sure if I will hear from her again and I become convinced that every call about my mother is the call informing me that she has died. Given this, I decided to, while I had her address, tell her everything I would want to tell her should this be my last communication.
What did I tell her? I told her I loved her and that I am not sure she can see the ways her illness is hurting her and that I hope for wellness for her, but cannot guarantee anything on my end...I get too hurt.
I heard back from her via snail mail, with a letter addressed to my husband's office as I was not comfortable giving her my home address (realizing that then I would feel panicked, even 12 states away, that she might show up at my safe place, my home). She disregarded all of the more meaningful parts of my letter and responded about how life was now for her, and waxed poetically about me and my family and how lovely we are.
After the anger passed at having been substantially ignored, I decided to write to her and I even did so via email this time. Instead of continuing to try to change her, try to help her, try to show her the cracks in her reality, I just responded politely. I sent her the kind of email I might send a distant relative after a long hiatus..."my daughter is 3 now, she is spirited and funny..." and so on. I even attached pictures of the kids and one of all of us. I sent it off.
Two weeks passed and then I received a two line email indicating that she liked the pictures and was busy with interviews so she did not have much time. She would be in touch later.
That was 2 months ago.
At first I checked my email more frequently wondering if now was the later she meant. I dreaded/hoped to hear from her. I hoped a miracle had happened, I dreaded what I thought was really happening and any continued involvement on my end. And after a while I got busy with the stuff of life and time passed. When I open my email I am not wondering if I will hear from her anymore.
So, why the title of this post? Why am I thankful? I have tried to write this post off and on for the 2 years I have been writing this blog. Here is the thing: even in the midst of this present day heartache, she did a few things right. She did somethings amazingly right. She was sometimes brave and bold and big-hearted. She was sometimes the mom I want to be.
It is this part that I have a hard time reconciling.
And if you have read my blog, I'm sure you know why.
Today I recalled such a thing she did beautifully right. When I was 8 or so, my mother took our book of fairy tales and switched all the gendered characters. Instead of Beauty and the Beast, it read Handsome and the Beast. The idea of that story being about a handsome, sweet prince helping a grotesque and difficult woman is substantially different from the classic. She gave me the gift of these new stories and the gift of seeing the crack in these norms that serve to shape us all.
So, today I sent her an email thanking her for this. I have no idea if it is a working address anymore or if it will illicit a response even if it is. But I've spent so much time dwelling in either escaping the negative or fortifying my boundaries from problems that it feels refreshing to spend a moment basking in a good memory.
Sometimes it is comforting to not over think a thing. So I will not go on, but I will just say that was a good thing she did. Thank you Mom, for that and for so many other things that I rarely have the opportunity to think about.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Pathology
I woke with a panic last night again. I’m guessing this is related to the ongoing
presence of my mother in my life for this last week and a half. From talking to a counselor at an addiction
treatment facility (again, not her primary problem!) to considering what her
now being in a half way house in Boston means to me, it has been on my mind a lot lately. The counselor told me my mother wants to
reconcile and make amends with her daughters.
Whatever that means.
Last night, my mind was swirling. Thoughts formed and built on each other
without words and so I had difficulty putting them into sentences this morning.
I want to try to put some of them down right now, so as to purge, so as
to see if I can connect my dots again, so as to keep a record and to see if
there is some clarity and insight I may gain from these swirling thoughts.
Are these thoughts that hit you like a lightning flash moments of clarity or moments of emotional detritus buildup wreaking havoc? It either feels like something I should take careful notice of or dismiss outright. I'll try to sum up my thoughts here:
When I delve into sociological thought I feel like a
spectator of life, sitting on the bleachers, notebook in hand, criticizing what
I see. On the more positive side, I feel
like my aim is to hold up a mirror to a dysfunctional world and point out its
problems and then to, ultimately, help the world heal and get better.
This pretty much exactly mirrors my thoughts about my
mother: hold up a mirror to help her see her dysfunction and then help
her. How much of my path is derived from
this origin? I know a lot of it is, but how much?
And does it matter? Is it a way that I
am not truly being myself but rather still that child of a borderline mother
who is trying to make the world a safer place to be? So scared about how messed up things are that
I seek to set about fixing them for fear that sitting back and allowing them to
persist would allow it to swallow me up? As if I had any control of it to begin with.
Like my propensity to clean my house after an interaction with my
mother, I seek control, for when others have had it things haven’t always gone
so well.
And how much of this echoes my mother’s own journey? And how much does that send a shiver down my spine?
My mother went into psychology, instead of her true passion
of journalism she has said, to become an expert, a person in control, a person with the
power to help her avail her feelings of helplessness with herself having a
mentally ill mother.
And here I am. Try as
I might, I am a person who is affected by my world and my path defined largely
by where I have been thus far. Despite my childhood fascination with superheroes, I haven't come into my superpower quite yet and find, somewhat disappointingly, that I am just a regular person.
As through my work I always hope to find those
instances where people’s futures are not defined by their past, I hope to find
the same for myself. Yet, ironically, sometimes I feel I have not only removed
myself from this family legacy I have actually continued it on with unfettered
gusto. And while I seek peace with my origins and experience (the good and the bad) and the fact that they are indeed a part of me, I worry about the trajectory of this path.
Part of me wants to say, so what, yes I was fueled by demons to pursue this career...am fueled by demons...but this doesn't mean that dueling with them will destroy me. But the other part of me screams that any interaction with the demons, whether running from them or attacking them are part of the problem and a life removed from them as much as possible is what will bring me peace.
So I struggle. I struggle with this off and on as I contemplate my decisions in life and I struggle mightily in the middle of the night when the ball feels in my court in actual dealings with my ill mother.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Happiness
Last night a friend had a viewing party for the movie Happy. The creators of this movie interviewed individuals from places ranging from Namibia, India, the US, Denmark and Japan to get at what makes, or does not make, people happy. Not terribly surprisingly, stuff does not make you happy. Status does not make you happy. Money does not make you happy. Though it sure does give the illusion of offering that when you don't feel that you have it.
However, more surprisingly, hardships do not have to make you unhappy. Or, perhaps I should say, do not have to make you unhappy over the long run.
I have struggled, visibly at times, with the parts of my life that are depressing and serve to make me...well...unhappy. For a while my goal was to not get sucked into the downward spiral myself and become "unhappy." I felt pleased everyday that I avoided the downward spiral and maintained the status quo. What I have been contemplating lately is the upward spiral. Is such a thing possible?
Given situationally depressing factors out of my control, like a homeless, ill mother, am I even allowed to be happy? Is it okay for me to be thriving, flourishing, joyful, laughter-ful, and positively annoyingly upbeat? (okay, I'm not sure I'm actually up for that, but bear with me). It just felt like one of those things that I am not entitled to. That is reserved for other people. Oh yeah, so and so is awfully happy. Must be nice to be them. If it wasn't for (fill in the blank), then maybe I would be so happy too.
What if I don't think of my life like this? What if I don't forever and constantly tether myself to the depressing bits of the world, and my personal world, that serve to make me see the world as a profoundly disappointing place?
For a while such thought felt like heresy. Such thoughts felt like denial of my truths. But in this new moment, these thoughts feel like anything but. It is not a denial of the uglier or harder parts of my life, but an affirmation of the positive parts and a peaceful acceptance of the harder parts.
Additionally, comparing myself to others is dangerous. When thinking "well of course so and so is happy, she is/has (fill in the blank)", I set up a scenario that opens me up to hostile and jealous feelings towards this friend. Even when I am seeing them in a favorable light, this thinking can create an illusion of competition. These "only if" kind of thoughts do a disservice not just to myself, but to my friendships. What if we were both happy? And both happy in perhaps very different circumstances? Wouldn't that be the best outcome, actually?
After all, spending my life wishing and waiting for something to happen or go away before I can "get happy" is a fallacy. The irony is happiness is right here and that chasing it can make it ever more elusive.
I hope for you all a glass half full, or even overflowing. Happy summer.
However, more surprisingly, hardships do not have to make you unhappy. Or, perhaps I should say, do not have to make you unhappy over the long run.
I have struggled, visibly at times, with the parts of my life that are depressing and serve to make me...well...unhappy. For a while my goal was to not get sucked into the downward spiral myself and become "unhappy." I felt pleased everyday that I avoided the downward spiral and maintained the status quo. What I have been contemplating lately is the upward spiral. Is such a thing possible?
Given situationally depressing factors out of my control, like a homeless, ill mother, am I even allowed to be happy? Is it okay for me to be thriving, flourishing, joyful, laughter-ful, and positively annoyingly upbeat? (okay, I'm not sure I'm actually up for that, but bear with me). It just felt like one of those things that I am not entitled to. That is reserved for other people. Oh yeah, so and so is awfully happy. Must be nice to be them. If it wasn't for (fill in the blank), then maybe I would be so happy too.
What if I don't think of my life like this? What if I don't forever and constantly tether myself to the depressing bits of the world, and my personal world, that serve to make me see the world as a profoundly disappointing place?
For a while such thought felt like heresy. Such thoughts felt like denial of my truths. But in this new moment, these thoughts feel like anything but. It is not a denial of the uglier or harder parts of my life, but an affirmation of the positive parts and a peaceful acceptance of the harder parts.
Additionally, comparing myself to others is dangerous. When thinking "well of course so and so is happy, she is/has (fill in the blank)", I set up a scenario that opens me up to hostile and jealous feelings towards this friend. Even when I am seeing them in a favorable light, this thinking can create an illusion of competition. These "only if" kind of thoughts do a disservice not just to myself, but to my friendships. What if we were both happy? And both happy in perhaps very different circumstances? Wouldn't that be the best outcome, actually?
After all, spending my life wishing and waiting for something to happen or go away before I can "get happy" is a fallacy. The irony is happiness is right here and that chasing it can make it ever more elusive.
I hope for you all a glass half full, or even overflowing. Happy summer.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Don't take away my optimism!
Last week my neurologist had me start a new medication, Keppra, to help control my seizures. He warned me that it had a side effect I should tell my best friends and husband about so that they could help me look out for it. That side effect was irritability. My neurologist said I should let them know ahead of time because I wouldn't be able to see it, to me, everyone would just be a jerk.
Well, lets just say that my days on Keppra are over now and my husband is a very patient and kind man.
It took us both a while to realize what was going on, even with the advanced warning from my neurologist, because I wasn't irrationally upset, just more upset than usual, more glass half empty all the way around.
I found myself near tears this weekend numerous times as I negatively surveyed my life. I kept thinking, I am an epileptic who can't drive for six months and whose health is not steady at the moment, I am a mother of two little ones (one a toddler who likes to say NO! a lot), I have a husband who is traveling quite a bit this spring and summer, I am a graduate student and have numerous graduate school complaints, and, of course, I have a mentally ill, homeless mother out there somewhere.
These things I was upset about made sense...difficult toddler moods, frustrating graduate school details, epilepsy related challenges, etc. But my usual ability to recover was gone.
Instead of saying yes, this sucks, but not everything sucks, or, at least, it won't suck forever, I just sat there unable to even motivate myself to get out of the realization of suckiness.
And here's the thing, yes I'm not driving and my health is a little wacky right now, but things don't suck so much right now actually. They have sucked a lot more before, so why this despairing?
It was then that we realized that I was not myself and needed to get off of Keppra. So, we are back to the drawing board trying to figure out why a med, Zarontin, that has worked (somewhat inexplicably) for 18 years for me is all of a sudden not as reliable and/or why my body is changing now, at 36, when it didn't through two pregnancies, weight changes, and all the hormone adjustments that went along with that.
But I am okay with that. I am more or less at peace with that. It is something I'm not thrilled about, but today, as Keppra is leaving my system, I see how differently my life, and many lives I'm sure, can be viewed depending upon one's perspective. This morning, even with a dizzy head and some chills (that I think is due to med change, but only time will tell), I see how fortunate I am as well. Some of the things I am thankful for: having two wonderful, healthy children, having a wonderfully supportive spouse who is happily employed, being able to pursue a graduate education, having a great network of friends to help with this non-driving period. What is funny about this list is how closely it resembles my list of struggles from above.
No matter what medication arrangement we finally land on, I do know that of all the side effects I am willing to deal with, a lack of optimism is not one of them. Looking on the bright side is the main coping skill that got me through my childhood and if I don't have that, I would be lost.
Well, lets just say that my days on Keppra are over now and my husband is a very patient and kind man.
It took us both a while to realize what was going on, even with the advanced warning from my neurologist, because I wasn't irrationally upset, just more upset than usual, more glass half empty all the way around.
I found myself near tears this weekend numerous times as I negatively surveyed my life. I kept thinking, I am an epileptic who can't drive for six months and whose health is not steady at the moment, I am a mother of two little ones (one a toddler who likes to say NO! a lot), I have a husband who is traveling quite a bit this spring and summer, I am a graduate student and have numerous graduate school complaints, and, of course, I have a mentally ill, homeless mother out there somewhere.
These things I was upset about made sense...difficult toddler moods, frustrating graduate school details, epilepsy related challenges, etc. But my usual ability to recover was gone.
Instead of saying yes, this sucks, but not everything sucks, or, at least, it won't suck forever, I just sat there unable to even motivate myself to get out of the realization of suckiness.
And here's the thing, yes I'm not driving and my health is a little wacky right now, but things don't suck so much right now actually. They have sucked a lot more before, so why this despairing?
It was then that we realized that I was not myself and needed to get off of Keppra. So, we are back to the drawing board trying to figure out why a med, Zarontin, that has worked (somewhat inexplicably) for 18 years for me is all of a sudden not as reliable and/or why my body is changing now, at 36, when it didn't through two pregnancies, weight changes, and all the hormone adjustments that went along with that.
But I am okay with that. I am more or less at peace with that. It is something I'm not thrilled about, but today, as Keppra is leaving my system, I see how differently my life, and many lives I'm sure, can be viewed depending upon one's perspective. This morning, even with a dizzy head and some chills (that I think is due to med change, but only time will tell), I see how fortunate I am as well. Some of the things I am thankful for: having two wonderful, healthy children, having a wonderfully supportive spouse who is happily employed, being able to pursue a graduate education, having a great network of friends to help with this non-driving period. What is funny about this list is how closely it resembles my list of struggles from above.
No matter what medication arrangement we finally land on, I do know that of all the side effects I am willing to deal with, a lack of optimism is not one of them. Looking on the bright side is the main coping skill that got me through my childhood and if I don't have that, I would be lost.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Epilepsy: my peace lily
Anyone who has been to my house probably can tell that I love houseplants. I have had some of my plants since I lived in Boston, thirteen years ago.
My mother hated plants, or complained about them at least, and all that they needed (water, soil, sunshine...how high maintenance!). She particularly disliked the peace lily. It is always droopy, she would say. I couldn't disagree more. If it were not for my peace lilies and their communicating abilities, I might forget to water my plants altogether.
I've never believed in blaming the messenger and, while my mother was quick to toss out the messenger along with the message, I've found this particular messenger to be very helpful and has helped me keep my plants for as long as I have. And, further, I have thoroughly enjoyed having my plants for all of these years. I would have missed out on something had I thrown them out the minute they needed water.
This week I have spent a lot of time being angry with my epilepsy. "If it wasn't for my epilepsy..." fill in the blank. It is getting in the way of life. It stands between me and my fully actualized life. These have been my thoughts this week, since my most recent seizure last Saturday morning.
But here is the thing: I have had this feeling for a while now, if I was to really be honest with myself, that I have not been doing what I need to do. Nothing monumental here, no huge lifestyle changes, just feeling removed from that voice of wisdom that we all have (and probably all could stand to listen to more). Like when I look at my two year old who is melting down and I can realize that engaging with her on her tantrum topic is not the point, she is overwrought and tired. What she needs is a hug and rest. When offered those things, she usually forgets her tantrum anyway.
There are times when I am tired and overwrought, but I don't allow myself outs like I do my toddler. I have trouble rising out of the details and seeing the bigger picture in the moment.
For me there is a delicate balance between connecting with that wise self, getting guidance and visionary inspiration and the doing of life. The doing of life comes at you quickly, and ever more quickly once you add children to the mix. It takes a lot of energy to do the doing of life too. Energy and time. If I'm not careful, whole days, weeks or phases are eaten up with endless doing. Tasks and details and to do lists done, but am I still operating out of the wise place that I hope those tasks and to do lists originated from? Sometimes I don't know.
You could have an incredibly enlightened, wise and thoughtful origin, but in the time it takes to operationalize this and make it happen...turn it into a meaningful school project for your child...turn it into a new ritual at home...you have lost connection to the peaceful wisdom and gotten attached instead to another thing on your to do list.
I don't expect enlightenment at every turn as a parent, a graduate student, a spouse or a friend. But I do want peace. I have to provide fertile ground for the enlightenment and wisdom to grow. And for me, that fertile ground is peace. Lots and lots of peace.
Perhaps due to my brain chemistry, perhaps due to my dysfunctional childhood, perhaps due to just being a mom of two little kids, I crave quiet calm moments. I am realizing I need to cultivate more of these in my days and in my weeks, even if it means limiting activities and changing the way I currently do things.
I don't know if my epilepsy was telling me that I have too much on my plate, or that my three glasses of wine the night before was too much, but it seems to be telling me something...and that something it seems to be telling me is something that when I am truly honest with myself is something that I know I need.
I need to unplug. I need to find peace. I need to be present. I need to get rest. I need to let go of my to do list, even if it means letting people down from time to time. There are worse things, despite what my gut tells me.
So I wouldn't necessarily say that I am thankful for my epilepsy at this moment, but I am trying to hear what it is telling me, maybe if I listen I could be even better for it.
My mother hated plants, or complained about them at least, and all that they needed (water, soil, sunshine...how high maintenance!). She particularly disliked the peace lily. It is always droopy, she would say. I couldn't disagree more. If it were not for my peace lilies and their communicating abilities, I might forget to water my plants altogether.
I've never believed in blaming the messenger and, while my mother was quick to toss out the messenger along with the message, I've found this particular messenger to be very helpful and has helped me keep my plants for as long as I have. And, further, I have thoroughly enjoyed having my plants for all of these years. I would have missed out on something had I thrown them out the minute they needed water.
This week I have spent a lot of time being angry with my epilepsy. "If it wasn't for my epilepsy..." fill in the blank. It is getting in the way of life. It stands between me and my fully actualized life. These have been my thoughts this week, since my most recent seizure last Saturday morning.
But here is the thing: I have had this feeling for a while now, if I was to really be honest with myself, that I have not been doing what I need to do. Nothing monumental here, no huge lifestyle changes, just feeling removed from that voice of wisdom that we all have (and probably all could stand to listen to more). Like when I look at my two year old who is melting down and I can realize that engaging with her on her tantrum topic is not the point, she is overwrought and tired. What she needs is a hug and rest. When offered those things, she usually forgets her tantrum anyway.
There are times when I am tired and overwrought, but I don't allow myself outs like I do my toddler. I have trouble rising out of the details and seeing the bigger picture in the moment.
For me there is a delicate balance between connecting with that wise self, getting guidance and visionary inspiration and the doing of life. The doing of life comes at you quickly, and ever more quickly once you add children to the mix. It takes a lot of energy to do the doing of life too. Energy and time. If I'm not careful, whole days, weeks or phases are eaten up with endless doing. Tasks and details and to do lists done, but am I still operating out of the wise place that I hope those tasks and to do lists originated from? Sometimes I don't know.
You could have an incredibly enlightened, wise and thoughtful origin, but in the time it takes to operationalize this and make it happen...turn it into a meaningful school project for your child...turn it into a new ritual at home...you have lost connection to the peaceful wisdom and gotten attached instead to another thing on your to do list.
I don't expect enlightenment at every turn as a parent, a graduate student, a spouse or a friend. But I do want peace. I have to provide fertile ground for the enlightenment and wisdom to grow. And for me, that fertile ground is peace. Lots and lots of peace.
Perhaps due to my brain chemistry, perhaps due to my dysfunctional childhood, perhaps due to just being a mom of two little kids, I crave quiet calm moments. I am realizing I need to cultivate more of these in my days and in my weeks, even if it means limiting activities and changing the way I currently do things.
I don't know if my epilepsy was telling me that I have too much on my plate, or that my three glasses of wine the night before was too much, but it seems to be telling me something...and that something it seems to be telling me is something that when I am truly honest with myself is something that I know I need.
I need to unplug. I need to find peace. I need to be present. I need to get rest. I need to let go of my to do list, even if it means letting people down from time to time. There are worse things, despite what my gut tells me.
So I wouldn't necessarily say that I am thankful for my epilepsy at this moment, but I am trying to hear what it is telling me, maybe if I listen I could be even better for it.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
When the social workers call...
I warn you I am not feeling insightful today, which isn't to say that I always spout great insights, but to the extent that I am privy to them in general, they feel far from me today.
I am just having a day, a not great day, not catastrophic day, but a day where I really should be working on my seemingly endless to do list (to be accomplished in a very small amount of hours in my week), but need to take a few minutes to deal with the persistent irritation gnawing at me this morning.
I swear my mother knows somehow when I am having a bad day. Either that or I anticipate her contact and begin to have a bad day...regardless sometimes I am left with a creepy and unpleasant feeling that we are still somehow connected. I know. It is probably just a coincidence, but sometimes man the coincidences are uncanny.
The details of my irritating morning aside, as I'm sure we can all imagine just such a morning, I receive 2 calls from my mother in the midst of it. They go straight to voicemail, as all calls from Massachusetts do these days.
Did I mention she is in Massachusetts? Well, yes. After my last post, my heartbreaking day with my mother and the homeless shelter, my mother got traveler's aid to take a one way bus to Boston. She called up an old neighbor indicating that she was coming up for business and could she stay with him for a couple of days. "Sure" he said. Little did this poor guy know, she was moving in with him.
A few days later I got a call from the first hospital, Brigham and Women's. The social worker was amazing. Really got it. It was a great call, at least for me. But, of course, even when people get it, she can elude services and so, nothing came of it.
Last week I got another call, from another social worker, from another hospital. I tried to repeat the conversation, but this social worker didn't get it as well, or was overwhelmed by my information, or shocked by my flat affect on the phone. People call me up, understandably, and say "Please don't worry, you mother is okay, but she is in the hospital here..." and I think it throws them off when I don't show any signs of worrying and at this point probably don't sound like I care (and truthfully, when I know she is in the hospital I know she is getting meals and a bed and baths, so I may even sound relieved).
Well, now my mother is out. She wants me to send her stuff. She wants me to know how she is working on her "alcoholism". She loves the alcoholism diagnosis. It is a diagnosis that somehow fits for her and can garner enough sympathy and provides an endless group of AA participants who will buy her story and give her a couch...until they also realize that what she has goes beyond alcoholism.
I write today just to share and say that the endlessness of this sometimes just makes me fatigued. I'm not even involved, really, aside from the occasional calls from social workers and people who say "you do know her car is in an impound lot?!" Well intentioned people for the most part, but I just don't even have the energy to call back sometimes. I am seriously considering a form letter than can be emailed/faxed etc to the next social worker or enabler because this whole 30 minute synopsis of my mother's diagnosis is exhausting.
And now that she is out of the hospital I am frankly just wondering when the next call will come.
I am just having a day, a not great day, not catastrophic day, but a day where I really should be working on my seemingly endless to do list (to be accomplished in a very small amount of hours in my week), but need to take a few minutes to deal with the persistent irritation gnawing at me this morning.
I swear my mother knows somehow when I am having a bad day. Either that or I anticipate her contact and begin to have a bad day...regardless sometimes I am left with a creepy and unpleasant feeling that we are still somehow connected. I know. It is probably just a coincidence, but sometimes man the coincidences are uncanny.
The details of my irritating morning aside, as I'm sure we can all imagine just such a morning, I receive 2 calls from my mother in the midst of it. They go straight to voicemail, as all calls from Massachusetts do these days.
Did I mention she is in Massachusetts? Well, yes. After my last post, my heartbreaking day with my mother and the homeless shelter, my mother got traveler's aid to take a one way bus to Boston. She called up an old neighbor indicating that she was coming up for business and could she stay with him for a couple of days. "Sure" he said. Little did this poor guy know, she was moving in with him.
A few days later I got a call from the first hospital, Brigham and Women's. The social worker was amazing. Really got it. It was a great call, at least for me. But, of course, even when people get it, she can elude services and so, nothing came of it.
Last week I got another call, from another social worker, from another hospital. I tried to repeat the conversation, but this social worker didn't get it as well, or was overwhelmed by my information, or shocked by my flat affect on the phone. People call me up, understandably, and say "Please don't worry, you mother is okay, but she is in the hospital here..." and I think it throws them off when I don't show any signs of worrying and at this point probably don't sound like I care (and truthfully, when I know she is in the hospital I know she is getting meals and a bed and baths, so I may even sound relieved).
Well, now my mother is out. She wants me to send her stuff. She wants me to know how she is working on her "alcoholism". She loves the alcoholism diagnosis. It is a diagnosis that somehow fits for her and can garner enough sympathy and provides an endless group of AA participants who will buy her story and give her a couch...until they also realize that what she has goes beyond alcoholism.
I write today just to share and say that the endlessness of this sometimes just makes me fatigued. I'm not even involved, really, aside from the occasional calls from social workers and people who say "you do know her car is in an impound lot?!" Well intentioned people for the most part, but I just don't even have the energy to call back sometimes. I am seriously considering a form letter than can be emailed/faxed etc to the next social worker or enabler because this whole 30 minute synopsis of my mother's diagnosis is exhausting.
And now that she is out of the hospital I am frankly just wondering when the next call will come.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Waves of Crazy
Last Monday was a dark day for me. The weather almost mirrored my emotional sequence: heavy, blinding rain followed by hours of fog.
The details: my mother remains delusional, but sober...and scared. God it kills me. She is at a high volume inner city homeless shelter with 6pm curfews and large rooms with cots for all the women and children. When I pulled up to drop off her suitcases, she was standing huddled under the awning looking out for me (back story: we have these because she was MIA last year and the woman she was living with was going to throw them away otherwise...still not totally sure we are glad to have gotten this stuff...even though we did salvage family photos and birth records, but I digress).
She came to meet me at the car, we hugged and both wept. I couldn't do this in the rain. Whatever "this" was, it couldn't be done in 1 minute in the pouring rain in front of this depressing place.
I told her to get in the car and took her to breakfast. We sat and I ordered food so that she would too but I couldn't eat anything. In fact, until dinner, I couldn't really eat at all. (I considered looking on the bright side and turning this into some sort of get ready for summer cleanse, but instead just made up for it with wine and chocolate later that night).
I could discuss what we talked about, but it is more of the same, although this time we were not angry, either of us, just profoundly sad. After lunch I drove her back. Dropping her off, with her suitcases was one of the hardest things I have ever done.
What followed for me was a day sinking into an emotional abyss. I imagined my office turned into a room for my mother, I imagined how we could reallocate our not unlimited funds and pay for an apartment for her. Like puzzling over a rubiks cube, my mind kept turning and twisting and trying to make fit this horror into my life that would make it better for her and not undo me, my husband, my kids, in the process. I puzzled over it so much and wept so hard that my head ached and my eyes are still sore today from the crying. Needless to say my graduate class I attended that afternoon was not awesome and my head was FAR from in the game.
The next day I did no school work. I had to get in front of this wave so that it didn't take me for more of a ride than it already had.
During my breakfast I told my mother that I am not trying to "school her" on her choices, but I have to guard my resources, emotional and otherwise, so that I will not fall apart. Part of her illness is, I believe, never being able to really know another person fully. She seemed shocked by the toll this has taken on me. She then told me a story about when she was in her 40s and felt drained by her mother and was crying so much a neighbor came to check on her. My mother went on to say that she always told herself, "well, at least my daughters will not have to go through this."
I get a chill thinking of this. Thinking of my mother telling herself similar things that I tell myself about my children.
How much control do I have about this? How in front of this wave of crazy can I get? I think my mother did want and did try, in her way, to shield us from what she felt, but she did so in a closeted way. She acted as if problems didn't exist. As if she could will them away or by ignoring the monster looming it would just disappear. I think she really believed that if she just got all her external ducks in a row, the internal would either heal itself or be quiet enough that she could just ignore it.
So, I am swinging in the opposite direction. I am choosing openness. I am airing my dirty laundry so as to hopefully purge the toxins from my heart. I want it out there so that it does not fester and turn into resentment, bitterness and loneliness.
I am still in process, but, like being an alcoholic, I feel like I will always be in process. Even if certain things are better, or crises pass, I will be in recovery always and need to tread carefully. As much as I would like to move past this and be done with it. Check it off. Done! It is just not one of those things. I am working to accept this.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Emotional Seepage
I have been waiting for an insightful moment, a profound thought, a realization or a definitive change of heart before writing again, but I can't rush this process and, yet, I need to share.
So there we are.
The holidays were rough. No matter how strong my boundaries, no matter how clear my mind, knowing my mother is homeless over Christmas sucks. I tried not to dwell on it, and for this issue, I am trying to compartmentalize. I have to, or the emotional seepage will take over and I fear it is even with attempted compartmentalization.
So I say my mantras to myself about being at peace with a lack of peace, accepting imperfection, knowing what is in my control and what is not, and allowing the good things to take a larger place in my heart, mind and life. However, when I then find I am having concerns about my child at school, my response feels huge and I wonder if emotional seepage has, at least, in part fueled the fire.
I wait before speaking these days, or I try to. I wait before emailing (most of the time). And I try to see if both the feelings and the sheer volume of the feelings is appropriate to the situation. There are times when I am not sure, however, and, well, I am sure I make mistakes.
I am sure to act the things that I do care about, but sometimes it feels like it comes out like a flood of emotion. I wonder if this is because I am unknowingly channeling my grief and lack of control about my mother into this other arena. I try not to do this, but it happens from time to time. I know we all probably do this in some ways or another, but I feel like the huge despair that is my feelings about my mother could drown me and my whole family if I let it and I fear the floodgates opening.
For years now I have worked on not letting those floodgates open in the direction of my children, but it is the rest of my life that is more confusing.
When is my inability to let something go a sign that it is worth the fight and when it is it a sign that I am seeking control over things that are, and perhaps should be, out of my control to somehow heal these other areas? My child's schooling is one of these issues. Kind of my jurisdiction, kind of not. It is his first foray into a social and ordered world outside of the home that he needs to learn to navigate. When do I help him rise to the situation, and when do I try to change the situation?
While I struggle with this, as many parents do I'm certain, I am hearing from my mother via email that she is in a homeless shelter that used to be a jail and is full of mothers and children and a fair share of child abuse, and she wants....from me. She just simply wants from me, anything and everything. I am left asking myself: do I help her with her situation or do I let her rise to the situation? I think sadly about how my husband may be dropping off some winter clothes (she only has one outfit right now) and how I will go to target and get her a toothbrush and toothpaste too. It nearly makes me cry thinking that this where things are. I can't see her as I fear a hive-ridden anxiety response to seeing her there. But I am trying to think of an appropriate "homeless shelter care package." No one prepared me for this.
So there it is. Yesterday I called said homeless shelter and left such a strange message. It went something like this "Hi there, I have two things I am inquiring about. First of all, I have lots of toddler toys I would like to give away and thought of you all, please let me know if you could use them. Second, I thought of you all because my mother is currently staying there and I am hoping to speak to her case manager to give some background information."
I haven't heard back yet, but I realize my response vis-a-vis the toys is in direct response to hearing there is child abuse in the shelter. I feel like this is a good place for our toys, whether her assertion about child abuse is true or not, and whether or not toys would mitigate any stresses mothers would face in a shelter or not, but I feel like part of my motivation is to improve her situation, even in a round about distant way.
One more bit of trivia that I will leave you with is, in a state of emotional despair/hope I applied my mother for the show Intervention in December. The producers have been calling and would like to do a show about her, but I just don't know. I don't know for so many reasons. I worry about heading down a path of trying to control this unwieldy and dangerous situation in any way. For fear that it wouldn't work and would undo me in the process. But, I haven't made my mind up completely yet. If any of you have any thoughts about this, I would love to hear them. And for the record, I have no desire to actually be on TV, particularly in this way, but thought perhaps she could get better (and funded) treatment that way.
As always, thanks for reading.
So there we are.
The holidays were rough. No matter how strong my boundaries, no matter how clear my mind, knowing my mother is homeless over Christmas sucks. I tried not to dwell on it, and for this issue, I am trying to compartmentalize. I have to, or the emotional seepage will take over and I fear it is even with attempted compartmentalization.
So I say my mantras to myself about being at peace with a lack of peace, accepting imperfection, knowing what is in my control and what is not, and allowing the good things to take a larger place in my heart, mind and life. However, when I then find I am having concerns about my child at school, my response feels huge and I wonder if emotional seepage has, at least, in part fueled the fire.
I wait before speaking these days, or I try to. I wait before emailing (most of the time). And I try to see if both the feelings and the sheer volume of the feelings is appropriate to the situation. There are times when I am not sure, however, and, well, I am sure I make mistakes.
I am sure to act the things that I do care about, but sometimes it feels like it comes out like a flood of emotion. I wonder if this is because I am unknowingly channeling my grief and lack of control about my mother into this other arena. I try not to do this, but it happens from time to time. I know we all probably do this in some ways or another, but I feel like the huge despair that is my feelings about my mother could drown me and my whole family if I let it and I fear the floodgates opening.
For years now I have worked on not letting those floodgates open in the direction of my children, but it is the rest of my life that is more confusing.
When is my inability to let something go a sign that it is worth the fight and when it is it a sign that I am seeking control over things that are, and perhaps should be, out of my control to somehow heal these other areas? My child's schooling is one of these issues. Kind of my jurisdiction, kind of not. It is his first foray into a social and ordered world outside of the home that he needs to learn to navigate. When do I help him rise to the situation, and when do I try to change the situation?
While I struggle with this, as many parents do I'm certain, I am hearing from my mother via email that she is in a homeless shelter that used to be a jail and is full of mothers and children and a fair share of child abuse, and she wants....from me. She just simply wants from me, anything and everything. I am left asking myself: do I help her with her situation or do I let her rise to the situation? I think sadly about how my husband may be dropping off some winter clothes (she only has one outfit right now) and how I will go to target and get her a toothbrush and toothpaste too. It nearly makes me cry thinking that this where things are. I can't see her as I fear a hive-ridden anxiety response to seeing her there. But I am trying to think of an appropriate "homeless shelter care package." No one prepared me for this.
So there it is. Yesterday I called said homeless shelter and left such a strange message. It went something like this "Hi there, I have two things I am inquiring about. First of all, I have lots of toddler toys I would like to give away and thought of you all, please let me know if you could use them. Second, I thought of you all because my mother is currently staying there and I am hoping to speak to her case manager to give some background information."
I haven't heard back yet, but I realize my response vis-a-vis the toys is in direct response to hearing there is child abuse in the shelter. I feel like this is a good place for our toys, whether her assertion about child abuse is true or not, and whether or not toys would mitigate any stresses mothers would face in a shelter or not, but I feel like part of my motivation is to improve her situation, even in a round about distant way.
One more bit of trivia that I will leave you with is, in a state of emotional despair/hope I applied my mother for the show Intervention in December. The producers have been calling and would like to do a show about her, but I just don't know. I don't know for so many reasons. I worry about heading down a path of trying to control this unwieldy and dangerous situation in any way. For fear that it wouldn't work and would undo me in the process. But, I haven't made my mind up completely yet. If any of you have any thoughts about this, I would love to hear them. And for the record, I have no desire to actually be on TV, particularly in this way, but thought perhaps she could get better (and funded) treatment that way.
As always, thanks for reading.
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