Work

My daughter’s stay in the psych ward (her first stay, at least) was five days. Yet it seemed interminable and exhausting to me. I can only imagine how it must have felt to her.

While my daughter was hospitalized, I worked. I worked to find the new therapist she needed. I worked to prepare my younger daughter for her sister’s return. I worked to prepare myself for her return as well. I worked at calming my nerves in anticipation of the unknown that lay ahead for us.

I worked at contacting personnel in my daughter’s high school to let them know why she’d missed school and was failing her core classes. I worked to advocate to her teachers on her behalf as depression, anxiety, and panic had interrupted class tests, make-up tests, and all manner of school work and homework in the preceding weeks.

I worked to make it clear to her teachers that I was not trying to excuse any behavior; I simply wanted my daughter to know she could walk into a classroom, take a test, and not let anxiety continue to drag her into a dark abyss leading to self harm and despair.

I worked to prepare the way to help my daughter find even a tiny but necessary victory.

I worked to release the frustration of not hearing back from several of her teachers. I worked to let go of the fear that they would judge me as “that mom”, the one who let her kid get away with anything, then made excuses.

mean-teacher

Source

 

I worked to remember that my goal was not to get my adolescent daughter to pass English, sing in choir, or even pass her freshman year. I worked to stay focused on helping her reach a place of mental wellness, health, and personal safety.

I worked, literally, to keep my daughter alive, to help her want to stay alive.

I worked to respond to the teachers who had kindly and compassionately replied after I contacted them to inform them of my daughter’s deep struggles. I worked to contain my tears, to thank these good people for seeing the inherent value in my 15-year-old, even though she could not see it in herself.

I worked to remind myself that they were bearing witness to the good in my daughter, and helping me hold onto hope, whether they realized it or not.

I worked at letting go of the frustration that I was the one having to do everything, with no help from my children’s father. I worked to not allow wasteful bitterness about that overtake me.

I worked to arrange my schedule so I could be where I had to be when I had to be there, whether taking my youngest to cheer practice, or visiting my older daughter in the psych ward.

I worked at pushing aside the grief I felt as a widow, the utter sorrow I felt at not having my husband to talk with at the end of an exhausting day. I worked at trying to think of the encouraging words I knew he would say to me.

I worked to recall the feel of his arms around me, the safest place I’d ever known. I worked to remember that, no matter how distant it now seemed, I hadn’t imagined him in the first place.

I worked at staying awake and focused despite little sleep. I worked at the dailies of life: carpool, laundry, dishes. And, of course, I worked at work.

I was tired.

 

(One of my favorite bands/songs/videos. Best when played at a loud volume.)

 

Saturday finally arrived. Though two days earlier my daughter had angrily demanded I pick her up “Saturday morning at 6!” I kept my word and arrived around 9:30 a.m. The requisite paperwork took a little while. And there were new friends she’d made to whom she wanted to say goodbye.

We left with a prescription and a plan, and I was hopeful they would work at the same time I was terrified they would fail.

One of the perks of a psych ward stay (who knew there was such a thing?) was that my daughter was able to continue as the patient of the psychiatrist who saw her during her days there.

While that may not seem like such a big deal, the truth is that finding a qualified psychiatrist can take more time than one might imagine. And after finally tracking someone down, it’s not unusual to have to wait up to two months (yes, TWO MONTHS – or more) for an available appointment.

This one not-so-small detail had now been taken care of. It’s not like the appointments would be close to home, but just to HAVE appointments for someone who could manage medication was a major hurdle crossed. I was very grateful.

sunny day

 (Source: Google Images) 

 

My daughter and I stepped out into a bright, sunny February morning in Colorado. She hadn’t had the freedom to be outside for several days. She seemed small and fragile, a combination of embarrassment, nervousness, and relief. I felt much the same as she.

I didn’t know the rules for what a parent is supposed to do when they pick their kid up from the psych ward. So we went to Jamba Juice. It seemed like a good idea. And it was.

© Monica Simpson and Help To Hope, 2013
https://www.facebook.com/HelpToHope
https://twitter.com/HelpToHope

Blog For Mental Health 2013

I pledge my commitment to the Blog For Mental Health 2013 Project.  I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others.  By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health.  I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.

blogformentalhealth20131

I’m proud to say that I am participating in the Blog For Mental Health 2013 Campaign detailed here at A Canvas of the Minds.

If you’ve been reading my blog for a little while (well, it’s only been around for a little while), you will know that the focus is on mental health issues, not the least of which is the struggle our family faced when my daughter was a self-harming suicidally depressed teenager.

What you may not know is that I have also dealt with the darkness of depression myself. I reached a place that was so unnervingly and unexpectedly dark that I welcomed the idea of being run over by a bus. Thankfully this happened after I’d been able to get my daughter to the help she needed.

My therapist said I was passively suicidal. I can’t argue with that. It wasn’t as dramatic as the struggle my daughter (and many others) have dealt with, but it was a sobering surprise to find myself there. It’s also been a sobering honor for me to walk though various mental health issues with my kids, including depression, anxiety, and panic, among others.

I am taking the opportunity to publicly display this badge not only so that readers know the focus of my blog, but also to invite you writers whose blogs focus on mental health issues to do the same. Find the info and instructions here if you are interested.

I advocate for people who deal with mental health challenges, and also for those who love and support them. I feel strongly that the stigma of mental health (or mental illness, whichever you choose to call it)  should be confronted and changed.

We do not blame someone whose body becomes diseased. Neither should we blame someone whose brain has an illness. We jump to support someone getting help to manage a physical ailment. We should do the same when a mind or a brain need extra care and treatment.

I am not ashamed of our story; in fact I believe that sharing our stories is one of the most effective forms of education that exists.

There are lots of “us” out here. You won’t really be able to recognize us if you pass us in the grocery store, but we’re there. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere. In fact, quite the opposite.

If you ever find yourself unexpectedly within our ranks, believe me when I tell you these two things are true:

1) None of us planned or expected to be here either. But we are. And that’s okay.

2) You will find some of the most kind, knowledgeable, compassionate, strong, and supportive people in the world walking next to you.

 

© Monica Simpson and Help To Hope, 2013
https://www.facebook.com/HelpToHope
https://twitter.com/HelpToHope

PTSD Awareness

Today, June 27, 2013, is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Awareness Day.

I would like to invite you to read a blog post I shared this week at TheWiddahood.com regarding PTSD.

Soldiers and abuse/trauma survivors are not the only ones who can be affected by PTSD. Anyone who has gone through a life-threatening event can develop PTSD. (And please bear in mind what may be perceived as non-life-threatening to one may be internalized as the opposite by another.)

PTSD

(Photo Source: Google Images)

According to the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), about 1 in 30 adults in the U.S. suffer from PTSD in a given year.

The Department of Veteran Affairs tells us that

  • About 7-8% of the population will have PTSD at some point in their lives.
  • About 5.2 million adults have PTSD during a given year. This is only a small portion of those who have gone through a trauma.
  • Women are more likely than men to develop PTSD. About 10% of women develop PTSD sometime in their lives compared with 5% of men.

Please read PTSD Awareness for links to information on symptoms, causes, treatment, and hope for those dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Soldiers, victims of crime, widows, and everyone else should be aware of the signs and symptoms of PTSD. If you never suffer from it yourself, you can be a source of encouragement, understanding, and support for someone who does.

Learn. Reach out. Heal. Support.

 

© Monica Simpson and Help To Hope, 2013

Uncertain

+++ SELF HARM TRIGGER WARNING +++

*****

“She needs to have her medication changed.” These were the words of the therapist who had been seeing my daughter for a few weeks. “And I’d like to arrange for some testing, too.”

There were mornings when, in a panic, my daughter had had to leave school. Thankfully, on some of those days, I was able to miss work and take my daughter to an emergency therapy appointment. Her dad had even left work a time or two to pick her up and take her when I was unable. Oftentimes she calmed down and was able to return for part of the school day.

crowded high school hallway

(Photo Source: Google Images)

The steepness of her downward spiral was becoming painfully clear. Still, I worried that she was being rescued in an unhealthy way, unsure of what was in her control and what was not. I felt uncertain as to whether she was just manipulating me, or if the bulk of her actions were really symptomatic of things beyond her control.

Was she just trying to get out of classes she didn’t like? She was skipping so many of them anyway that maybe she was just using panic as an excuse. I looked forward to psychological testing, hoping it would provide some answers. I didn’t realize that it would not happen until months down the road.

The anxiety was believed to be caused by medication, thus the therapist’s advice to switch to something else.  The change was made from one SSRI antidepressant to another. The side effects were no different. Panic and anxiety grew. Physical ills plagued my daughter. Depression deepened to a place far beyond blackness. And I began to see more clearly that what she was experiencing was very, very real.

I felt that despite all my best efforts to provide stability after her dad had left years earlier, after my attempts to address and allow for grief following her stepdad’s death less than two years prior, I had failed. Miserably. I only knew that I was at my wit’s end. I had no more ideas, only a deepening panic. My heart broke for her struggle, but I felt powerless.

Anger and rage poured from my mild-mannered, fair-skinned, introverted middle child. Although she was at her dad’s at least pretty much every other weekend and then some, she saved her raging for me. She has come to tell me in the ensuing years that it was a safety issue to her, that she felt I was a safe place for her to unload her fury and frenzy.  At the time, I was simply bewildered and deeply hurt.

angry teen girl (google)

(Photo Source: Google Images)

She self harmed daily with much more than just a single cut. There were times when, after she cut, I would calmly clean and bandage her wounds. I would offer her my tears as a cleansing balm, hoping she would see the love I had for her, and that it would somehow fill the chasm of her need. Other times, I would remain detached and aloof, thinking that if I approached this matter-of-factly, the emotional dysfunction she was seeking to feed would instead be starved out.

Although she often cut while alone in her bed at night, I reminded her that she needed to be sure to clean her wounds to avoid a dangerous infection. (These types of conversations are not covered in parenting books, by the way.) After all, my late husband had succumbed to sepsis, his body unable to fight and overcome a serious infection, which had ultimately taken his life.

While she would at least sometimes attempt to sanitize a cutting instrument with a lighter, the concept of death by infection seemed to somehow intrigue her as she began to allude to her own demise. In fact, at least once she said she welcomed the idea of such a manner of death.

Her bed sheets and pillowcases became bloodstained. She left bloody tissues or clothing lying on the floor, evidence of the previous night’s anguish. I hated to go to bed every night, truly fearful that on any given morning I would find my daughter dead from one cut that had accidently gone too deep.

I remember wondering for a while if she was cutting on purpose, to manipulate me, to see how she could get me to react or what kind of sympathy she could garner. So sometimes I simply didn’t engage with her after she had self harmed. I told her to find the bandages and soap and take care of it herself.

And then there was the time I had just had enough. I was so fed up, so terrified, so OVER it. I was furious with panic and confusion. And I told her so. And that’s the time she remembers. Of course.

I can’t undo it, but it still feels shameful to me. I didn’t know then what I know now, and I try hard to see it as one incident in the scope of the whole journey. But I’m still embarrassed and deeply saddened by my behavior that evening.

(Source)

One memorable night she came downstairs to my room and showed me her arm. The fresh carvings were somewhat erratic and still bloody, so it took me a few seconds to decipher what I saw.

U  R  SHIT

There it was, on her arm, under my nose. Still wrestling with my own culpability in her struggles, and because she had presented herself to me for inspection, I asked her slowly and as gently as I could, “Um, who are you saying that to? Are you trying to say that to me?” Because if so, I would have much preferred she just declare it to me, not carve it into her body as a permanent reminder.

I remember the tears in her eyes.

“No, mom. It’s to me.”

And so we wept together as I silently begged for some kind of help to save my daughter from herself.

© Monica Simpson and Help To Hope, 2013

Do you have a teen who is self harming? Please see Responding to Your Teen’s Self Harm. Information regarding self-injury (cutting, burning, biting, bruising, etc.) can be found at  S.A.F.E. Alternatives, Self Injury Foundation and Self Injury Outreach and Support.