Many times over the last year I’ve decided that my blogging days are over. In typical fashion, though, I have a hard time admitting that I can’t or won’t do something.
I spent a half hour recently going back to the beginning, to my first entries in 2007 and following. What struck me most intensely was the anguish I so often poured out, the trials and tribulations, the discouragement and frustration…and, even though the last six months have been without a doubt the most challenging of Stephen’s life, seeing those old entries so full of pain reminded me that we’ve been through many valleys already.
One entry from the past was titled something like “The 4’11” Tyrant.” Yet, the way Stephen acts now, in the grip of puberty and hormones and god knows what else, I feel ridiculous for referring to him as a tyrant all those years ago. Talk about a perspective shift… Of course, he’s no longer 4’11”. He’s very nearly my height, 5’7”, and his weight has steadily climbed upward, thanks to the side effects of Risperdal. We continue to rely on that drug to keep him calm – at least most of the time – and while we try our best to keep his servings small, he is a carb-fiend and good luck to anyone who thinks they can improve his diet. We’ve tried. He was stubborn and set in his ways years ago. Now multiply it times 100 and you’re getting close to what we deal with now.
The sudden onset of fierce OCD right around his 13th birthday has shaken our already fragile world to the foundation. We have been to 4 doctors, at last count, and are on our second try with meds to treat OCD. Of course, the meds must be started slowly, be allowed to build up, slowly increased to “therapeutic” levels, and THEN, you hope they work. If not, then you have to slowly decrease, try the next suggested medicine, and start all over again. Meanwhile the tantrums continue. The head-hitting continues. Not every day, no. Less frequently than February/March? Maybe. But the idea of them, the possibility of these horrible fits, lurks under the surface constantly.
We are practically levitating, we are so carefully walking on eggshells. Sneaking in and out of the house whenever possible, to avoid the separation anxiety. Sneaking Kerry downstairs to drum when Stephen isn’t looking, closing Kerry’s bedroom door and pretending he’s in there – even though the drums are clearly heard – somehow keeps Stephen from screaming and demanding “IS KERRY????!!!!????” and hitting himself.
And underneath and beside and entangled with it all are my inborn neuroses. I was raised by a nervous mother and I learned my lessons well. Even when there is peace, my heart races, trying to prepare for the next bout. I worry all the time. ALL. THE. TIME. I worry about things that may not happen. BUT WHAT IF THEY DO? Surely my fixation on future possibilities will ease the shock when/if they happen! It’s just smart planning to ruin your life and the lives of those around you with permanent nervousness and tension.
Lately I’ve been facing the reality of what I’m doing to myself and to my family with this…STUFF. It is incredibly hard for me to even begin to contemplate letting go of my worry/anxiety combo. I have such a twisted and bizarre sense of loyalty to it. Somehow for years I’ve justified maintaining this mentality – pointing to the admittedly few times things have really gone badly as proof that I was right to worry all along. Over the last few months I’ve started to see clearly how wrong that viewpoint is, and what a waste of precious resources it is to try to exist like this.
Yesterday, I was fretting and stewing about how best to get Kerry out of the house for his first marching band practice, doing my best to foresee every possible issue or problem, how I would handle it, what I would do if the first thing I tried didn’t work, carrying that thought all the way through to the conclusion I typically jump to in my mind, which is:
If he won’t calm down, I give him med A. Failing that, med B. Failing THAT, call the doctor. If that doesn’t work, I have to take him to the hospital. Oh god, how would I ever leave my helpless man-child in the care of strangers? What if they won’t let him keep his iPad? How many diapers do I take? Would they restrain him? What about work tomorrow? What if THEY can’t help him at the hospital????
As humiliating as it is to admit, THIS is the madness that shoots through my brain like an electric current in the space of mere seconds. This lunacy saps my energy, takes away my appetite, shuts down my common sense, and robs me of the moments of happiness that still exist…not to mention the very obvious effects on those around me.
It has to stop.
Life is hard enough, taken at face value, without the addition of these mental meanderings…honestly, as I read it again it might well be something someone would babble in a fever delirium.
People like me think that worry is helpful. That anxiety serves a purpose, that we can somehow foresee the future and prepare…it’s all nonsense. While a certain amount of awareness of outcomes is smart and practical, it’s a far cry from the storm in my head.
I’ve been this way as long as I can remember, and somehow have muddled through up to this point. Maybe it’s my age, maybe it’s the sharp increase in the difficulties we are experiencing, maybe the clear impact it’s having on me, my health, my family - who knows why I’m forced to face the absolute futility in continuing this way of “life” now, but it’s happening. I am using mental images of the color red, of stop signs, etc. to try to halt my damaging thoughts, to try to throw off the worries when they come creeping, or sometimes RACING in. I’m working hard to stay in the moment, to be mindful of THIS moment…and this one, and the next, letting things unfold as gently as possible. To allow myself to be aware of the future only in a general sense but refusing (often over and over and over) to start sending tendrils of thought snaking their way into the uncertain future. Part of my task is to radically accept uncertainty – because the alternative is simply impossible.
I’ve always worried about the uncertainty of what is to come, always allowing my thoughts to slide into negativity, sure if I expected the worst then I’d be prepared, or at the least I’d be happy if A BAD, HORRIBLE, DEVASTATING THING didn’t happen. Now, I must accept the pure, unvarnished nature of life’s uncertainties, and try to believe two things: 1) Things just might be okay in the future and 2) If they’re not, I’m not alone, and, along with the people I love, I will survive.
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