Broken

When Andrew was first admitted on August 11th, the doctors thought that part of the problem may be his school placement. That he couldn't function in a SED (Social Emotional Disorders) setting but also couldn't function in a typical classroom with noise and chaos. I, for one, grabbed on to that and held hard - I thought - that's it - that is what will fix my child - proper placement and a revamp of his medications. Then he would be fine - no problems, no anger, no suicide threats - just snips and snails and puppy dog tails. Our world would be right. It hasn't been right in a very long time.

He made friends - he made progress - each medication removed and added held promise - we held our breath. We've been holding our breath for a very long time.

The last weekend was rough but Monday and Tuesday - he had two great days and nights. Then as the gods got wind of our happiness - he had a horrific incident on Wednesday, where he almost kicked a child in the head - thank God the staff stopped him. He was held and fought back with the staff. Last night was rough - because he was agitated and I tried my best to stay the course - I remained calmed and used all the words and behavior I was taught over the last month - while I died a little more inside. 

He must show safe behaviors for two days before being allowed back in with his peers in the day treatment program at the hospital. When he heard that plan this morning, he became enraged and tried to turn over the table - ran out of the room, grabbed a laundry cart and started propelling it and him up and down the halls of the unit. A staff member grabbed the cart - and Andrew made a fist but didn't hit her - and I died a little more inside.

I know we have a long road - I am trying to hold onto hope but there is a little part of me that fears my broken child cannot be fixed.

Two Roads

For over ten days, I have been terrified. Terrified that Andrew would never leave the hospital. Terrified that he will always resent me for taking him to the ER. Terrified that my mothering weighed heavily on his issues. Terrified that I could have done better by him - done more sooner for him. Fought harder.

After ten days, I have learned a great deal but I am still terrified. Andrew does resent me - in our family meeting yesterday - he expressed his anger at me for putting him in the hospital and that he doesn't love me anymore. Dr. G explained that his unsafe behaviors led him to the hospital. It was hard for me to hear the hurt in his voice. Jim started tearing up and told Andrew no one in this world loves him more than I do. Andrew started crying - it ended in hugs and exchanges of I love yous but the resentment is still there - raw and open for both of us.

I came to the realization that I had to take his feelings and my feelings totally out of the equation and do what was best for him. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. In the ER two Fridays ago, I almost left with him twice. I messaged Jim who was in the same room with me and said, "let's just leave with him - I can't leave him here". I couldn't bear feeling the overwhelming pain he was experiencing. During the last week, I wanted to walk out of that ward with him a number of times. When he was having a bad day, I felt every second of his anxiety and pain. I went to the hospital overcome with unbearable sadness - knowing that he was feeling that sadness or completely awash with anxiety because he was. People who claim they are empaths - believe them. I have been this way my entire life. 

I am still terrified. Tomorrow he comes home - we pick him up at 2:30. He will have day treatment the remainder of this week and all of next week. We will have an IEP meeting to fight for what we want for him on the 24th. We have a long, hard road to travel - the easy road would have been to walk out of that ER or never to have walked in. To paraphrase, Frost: I have always taken the road less traveled and that has made all the difference.

Learning Gratitude

Since his birth we have been on a roller coaster of good and bad times with our child – a handsome, smart, recently turned 13-year-old with several diagnoses. As a parent, I have screamed, cried, despaired, prayed for a miracle, blamed God, hated parents of typical children and yes, sometimes, felt utterly sorry for myself. I have been his advocate, his lawyer, his counselor, his mother, his only friend, the one who has loved him, hated the things he has said and done and sometimes truly not liked him. And yes there have been times that I have resented him.

He has threatened suicide to end his pain, he has called me horrible names, hit me, bit me and tried to choke me – he has done the same to his father. He has been on as many as ten medications. He has lied and we have had the sheriff show up at our house because he said a bruise on his leg was put there by his father. It was investigated – he admitted to banging his leg with the game controller when he got angry at a video game and we were cleared of any wrong doing. He has been the star of massive scenes at restaurants, at school, and even at church. 

Through all of this I have held onto hope making false promises to myself - when he’s a little older things will be better, once the hormones are done causing havoc he will balance out. If we just find the right medicine things will be better. Countless emails to his therapist, his psychiatrist, countless prayers and pleas gone unheard. I have slowly eroded into a numb yet jangled bag of nerves – going through the motions of being his mom all the while fighting for help from his medical and school team - from anyone. 

Last Friday, we concluded that there was no recourse but to take him to the ER after a meeting at the school went horribly off the rails. We had been trying to get him in all summer to even out his meds – to get him the most help we possibly could but his psychiatrist didn’t think that was the answer. On Friday, he was admitted. We now have hope - we haven't had that for a very long time. 

Since his admission, I have felt empty like a part of me is missing and also ashamed. I now know what gratitude is for this amazing child - I haven't felt that, too, for a very long time. I don’t deserve this beautiful, special boy – he deserves better.  I am reminded how much I appreciate who he is and I will do everything in my power to ensure that he gets all the help he needs to be a kind, responsible human being and I will never take him for granted - ever again. 

Good Enough

A friend sent me a link to this shockingly spot-on list of the 25 Things You Do as an Adult When You’ve Experienced Childhood Emotional Abuse it made me tear up. It was odd timing on his part to send the link - because while I was doing errands that morning I was thinking about how messed up I am and how parents can really fuck us up. I desperately don't want to be the parent that fucks up my kid and I fear I am becoming her.

My parents fed off each other - both physically abusive, my mother more emotionally abusive than my father. I was the oldest - I was the one who had to hold it all together - I was the target of their mental illness. I longed for the weeks when my mother would be hospitalized for her bipolar issues and my father would go "on a drunk" as we called it. Those times meant no hitting, no having to stay in my room where there were no windows, no lights, no books - nothing - for days at a time - only being allowed to use the restroom. Those times meant my dad was happy and we had breakfast at the tavern not far from our house. A bottle of 7 up and a bag of Lay's potato chips - man we thought we were living large. Then my mother would come home - all better - and things would go back to the normal state of hell.

I was always in trouble and I never knew why. I was always saying I'm sorry and I never knew for what. My mother would always make me the culprit - if my father was mad at me - he wouldn't be mad at her. It's funny how you remember the abuse and don't remember what brought it on - I vividly remember my mother hitting my head over and over with a wire hanger -- and then crying and rinsing the blood out in the kitchen sink - I was ten. I didn't know why - but she promised me a coloring book if I didn't tell my father what she had done.

I remember the constant state of fear - of being called a lesbian by my father because my elderly neighbor Ann was someone I wanted to spend time with. I didn't know what that was but I knew from the way he said it  - it was bad. As Andrew has been deteriorating and there is lots of screaming and yelling in our home on the weekend, I am thrown right back into that life - of fear and despair.

I am in a state of melancholy this week, feeling not good enough as a writer, an employee, a wife, a parent, a friend. Andrew has had a hellacious year - with so many medication changes and ups and downs - he just wants to get off this ride as do we. When I dole out his medications - some I have to cut in half, some in quarters - I feel like a pharmacy school drop out - fuck that pill just disintegrated, fuck that pill isn't perfectly in half - nothing is ever good enough. When I think about his fits of rage, as he balls up his fist to hit me and or when he calls me a piece of shit or a fucking cunt - I am ten again having the blood rinsed off of my head.

I don't want to turn into that parent that is screaming and wishing that I had made different choices in my life. I don't want to be the parent that hurts her child even in self-defense - while keeping him from running out the front door or grabbing a knife, I don't want to bruise his arms. I want to be hopeful and positive but the times lately have left little room for hope. I'm tired and mad at the world - angry and upset with everything because I can control nothing.

I know these chains are of my own doing. The things I do as an adult are my defense mechanisms that are deeply ingrained and no matter what I do - I know I will never be good enough.

White Toast With Butter

Every day I make Andrew breakfast. Two eggs and two pieces of toast was this morning's offering. Snowball (our American Eskimo who we saved from going to a shelter by the same people who allegedly loved him for four years) waits patiently for whatever remains on the plate but today Andrew asked for another piece of toast to finish up his eggs. I made it quickly before the eggs became too cold and unpleasant faces ensued.

Flapping began and I knew my time was up. Andrew didn't want it. I gave the eggs to a happy dog and even though I don't eat a lot of white bread -- something about its warm familiarity tempted me today. The first bite transported me right back to childhood sitting at my elderly neighbor's house for a bit of sanity and coffee accompanied by a piece of bakery white bread (not the cheap bread you can purchase with food stamps) with real butter melted into golden pools of hope.

I wrote a piece about my neighbor, Ann for a writing class at a college when I was in my late thirties. It will follow under this post. When all hope seems lost and exhaustion has seeped into every bone, a piece of white toast with butter can provide the same anchor as Ann always did.

This is Ann - right before she passed away. 

Remembering Ann


What experiences from our childhood influence the type of adult we become? A combination of people, places, and events contribute to the growth and nurturing of character and strength. Equally, negative experiences can warp one's character. Fortunately, the person who influenced my formative years was far mightier than my parents, whose own characters had been warped at some point in their misguided lives. My influential person was my elderly neighbor, Ann Miller.


Ann lived in a four-room structure, the epitome of a rundown shack. Roaches and mice, "my uninvited guests," she called them, gained entrance by slithering through cracks in the worn exterior and foundation. Curls of peeled paint hung from walls adorned with artwork and cross-stitched samplers. Buckets and pans placed sporadically would catch the rain that seeped in from the leaky roof. In the unforgiving heat of a St. Louis summer, an ancient fan, perched before a bowl of ice cubes, would whirl hot air around. The winter winds brought the cold faster than the tiny heater churned warmth in the living room. Despite the dilapidated condition of the building, Ann sprinkled the interior with antiques, quilts and other objects of art. More than the furnishings, the crumbling dwelling contained the most incredible power and strength and gave me an overwhelming sense of freedom and unconditional love. Ann was that power.


With Ann, I could shed tears and laugh. She'd serve hot toast with real butter and the world's best coffee in fine china cups while she told stories of beautiful far away places. We would discuss reading, writing and refined things. Time spent with Ann allowed the luxury of dreaming. I could hope to dream that I had a future. She told me repeatedly that I was beautiful, smart and talented. She drilled into me that everything my parents told me I was, and would not be, was a product of their illness. All the negatives were canceled for those moments I shared with Ann. She gave me a sense of "home," a safe haven.


Ann was comically serious, an intellectual who was lost in a fast-paced world. I was seriously comical, an aspiring intellectual lost in a sea of unacceptable behavior. I was old at age eight; Ann was young at age sixty-five. She was my best friend who just happened to have six decades on me. Although she never asked a single thing of me, I helped her with household chores and aided her in the care of her great-nephew, Jason, an infant left in her care a majority of the time. My unsolicited repayment was kindness, love and a sense of well-being.

Ann had known real pain: her mother had mistreated her (yet, Ann took care of her elderly mother for years); her first husband was an abusive alcoholic; her only daughter, son-in-law and baby granddaughter died in a hotel fire; and her second husband died after a sudden heart attack. Ann was evidence that a person could overcome painful obstacles, she was heroic.

A short, grandmotherly-plump woman with wild, white hair righted the wrongs in my life. My unlikely hero left the house one day with a toilet paper trail cascading out of her pants, which thought still brings me to tears of laughter.

A few special nights I slept over in a tall bed with an elegant headboard. Safely nestled in the glorious bed made up with white eyelet sheets, fresh scented pillows and one of her prized quilts, nothing could harm me. She told me repeatedly how precious I was and how she enjoyed spending time with me. Precious? Me? It was hard to believe a word so foreign to describe me.

Many wonderful memories she gave to me. Ann was thrilled when my senior English term paper, An Analysis of Ernest Hemingway, over which I toiled, received an "A." Ann predicted that I would be a great writer one day. When I escaped from an eleven-year marriage that was horrid from the start, I received Ann's full support. My mother told me "don't leave him...no one else will want you...so what if he hurts you." The woman who said these things I supported for twenty years after my father died. Because of Ann, I became the type of person that would behave in that manner.

Remembering the night of my high school graduation, I was exhausted after burying my father, three days before, who had not made life easy. Ann drove me home from the ceremony and honked her horn nonstop for three miles. She hooped and hollered out the window for the whole ride. That night, I smiled as I imagined the other graduates at their parties as I drove with the Medicare brigade's ring leader. I would not have traded places with anyone.

After a long battle with heart disease, Ann died. The last six months of her illness I felt betrayed by her when she developed panic attacks and dementia; she became so much like my mother. I tried to be with her as much as I could but it hurt me beyond consolation to see her so mentally weak. I was 33 years old and I should have handled the situation better.

How could my hero be defeated by something innocuous as an illness when she had successfully battled all my demons? I should have visited that four-room shack more often; I should have been her hero and stayed for one more cup of coffee from a fine china cup. For reasons that haunt me today, I was not strong when she needed me most. I should have done more. I hope she understands my fear and forgives my weakness. She led by example, taught me to be a better person. Because of my own fear of seeing her deteriorate, I hadn't been that better person for her. When covered in the warmth of a quilt she gave me, I think about Ann and know that she is now happy and reunited with all her loved ones. The little girl in me wants to believe that. Ann gave me a home when I did not have one; I feel in my heart that she is now, once again, home.