In 1995, the New York State Museum staff were moving items out of The Willard Psychiatric Center. It was being closed by the State Office of Mental Health, and would eventually become a state run drug rehabilitation center. Craig Williams was made aware of an attic full of suitcases in the pathology lab building. The cases were put into storage when their owners were admitted to Willard, and since the facility was set up to help people with chronic mental illness, these folks never left.

The Museum made arrangements to have the suitcases moved to the Rotterdam storage facility, where staff have catalogued each one, and have carefully wrapped and preserved their contents.

Hoss is working really hard at being in control, even dropping his afternoon ADHD dose on days when he is just hanging out. His meds have been steady for some time, his appointments are now spaced out more than before, and we are not dreading the return to school. The administration stacked the cards in our favor this year- the fifth grade had a vacancy, so Hoss’ fourth grade teacher rose to fill it. And, in a totally unexpected move (and by ”unexpected” I mean “totally expected,” a la Professor Doofenschmirtz), Hoss was assigned to Mr. G’s class again this year. Hmmm, a teacher who my boy totally connects with and loves more than anything, and a special educator who gets his humor. What more can a mom ask for?

This, I think, is the year of Little Joe.  The quirks and routines are starting to become more noticable.   I forsee testing, and am going on record with a prediction of PDD/mild Aspergers with a touch of OCD. I hope that any issues can be dealt with by behavioral measures, since the possibility of Little Joe swallowing even the tiniest of pills or anything liquid that is not milk is…let’s just say it would be a challenge.

My goal for the school year? No hospital stays. It’s not so much to ask.

More from Joshua Walters.

It’s big, it’s heavy, and it hurts.

I keep waiting for a break, a lift; a moment when it’s not there when I don’t have to focus or operate under it’s influence.

Sometimes if I’m lucky I’m able to cry; most times I’m not lucky.  I know the tears will help ease the burden but they stay deep down tucked away.

My head keeps asking me when it will be time to stop all of this hurting nonsense, when will I get out from under this rock of despair, will there be a happy ahead, where the fuck is the carrot?

Perhaps the happy is just an illusion, something that we’ve bought and sell our souls for on a daily basis.  Happy is an overstatement, I’m just looking to feel balanced and relatively happy for longer than one day, a week even.

I’ve been emotionally running from the final impact that I know is my due.  I doubt anyone could blame me for this after the last 10 years of the up and down, heart being ripped from my chest; beat up and ripped and hung on the outside of my body to dry.

Resisted writing this, not looking for condolences, I know it’s a part of the process (I’ve come to despise those three words).  I’ve been holding it in hoping it would pass, that I would be released magically.

I know better, I do.  Yet, I never stop bracing myself for impact.  It’s a primal reaction built in to humans.  Some are lucky enough to keep it under the rug and hidden.  That’s never a choice I’ve had, or even been successful with my attempts.

Back to where I always land, writing about it and posting it here releasing it into the safe place where others understand and will sigh as they read; nodding their heads in solidarity.

This too shall pass.  I just wish it would hurry the fuck up because my heart, mind, and body are weary.

Great and inspirational video from TED. Brene Brown: The power of vulnerability

She wants to be in school. She really wants to be in the comprehensive school that is in our neighborhood. Kids with PDD tend to have some of the same behaviors and social difficulties that kids with Aspberger’s Symdrome have. The subtle difference lies in the fact that AS kids don’t seem to understand why the lack of social interaction is a problem, while PDD kids want more than anything to have friends and be like every other kid their age.

For years, I thought I wanted my daughter to be special. Now that she aches so hard to be typical, I find myself wishing she could put some of that specialness aside until she’s old enough to appreciate how wonderful being atypical might be.

I immediately became uncomfortable and told her there was no need, what’s done is done.

“No”, she said.  “I need to say this”.

My head that was screaming, “NO NO NO NO” but the words that came out were, “OK”.

“Many years ago, I said something to you when I was very angry and I want to tell you that I’m sorry for that”.

I again said, “OK” wondering which time she meant.

She continued, “I said to you that I wished I’d had an abortion and I’m sorry for that.  People say things when they’re mad that they wouldn’t normally say.  Surely you can understand that now, knowing that teenagers can really push you to your limits”.

“Yes, I do understand” I replied.

I started thinking of ways that I could cheer her out of this situation.

To make it less difficult FOR HER.

I’ll never stop doing that, in my mind.  Trying to take care of her.

She needs me to do that, to help that little girl that lives deep down inside of her.

The one she’s pushed so far she can no longer even hear.  The one no one protected, the one that was abused severely and never healed.  That little girl that lives inside of her, the one that I know very well because I have one that lives inside of me too.

After it was over I started analyzing why it happened.  After all these years, why is she making amends?

It was a holiday, she’d had a few drinks, other family members put her up to it.  It wasn’t even a real apology, it was an excuse for WHY she did it.  Because I was a lousy daughter during my teenage years and it was a justified act in her mind.

None of that is important, the fact that she found the words to let me know that she was sorry for what she said was all that the little girl needed to hear.

The scar will always be there, but I’d forgiven her a long time ago.

By now I know the answers the nurses and doctors need to hear. I rattled off the history of the previous visits and hospitalizations. I identified her current and previous medications, by name and dosage and treatment schedule. The terminology is almost second nature now- she is not in active crisis, but is unable to ensure that she is fully capable of maintaining her own safety at home. The bipolar tendencies were first diagnosed in September, and her brother’s mood disorder (the ever popular “NOS,” which in layman’s terms means “your kid’s brand of crazy doesn’t fit the current DSM definition”) was diagnosed about 20 months ago. There is no diagnosed history from parents or previous generations. Note that I don’t say there is no mental illness in the parents or previous generations; I firmly believe that there has to be something on both sides that we just don’t have on paper. I can’t accept that I ended up with two children with such significant mood disorders just by the luck of the draw.

The transport to the psychiatric hospital came at 7:30 on Wednesday. We were ready to leave. 24 hours of hospital food and sleeping on a the chair that pulls out to a cot took its toll. I survived the the 35 minute drive, as I followed the ambulance, without significant incident. The blowout I got during that same drive in September remained in the back of my mind.

We got her checked in without a snag. A couple of the nurses recognized her name when the paperwork was handed to them. They checked her bag, noting that everything was acceptable (I learn from experience). She hugged me goodbye and asked if I was coming to visit every day. I promised that we would try to visit, and would call if we could not be there in person. No one cried.

I feel numb and empty. The experts tell me what to do, I do those things, and yet we are not being able to help her. I have come to believe that she needs a specialized school situation, one which provided the cognitive behavioral therapy that she needs to combat the irrational thoughts before they become emotional actions. The medication is not enough. But the specialized school will require many, many hoops to be jumped through. I am in the process of the educational evaluation that has the potential to put her in this type of school without me needing to go bankrupt. But I am scared to admit to my husband or my parents or my friends or the current school that the special school is what I really want for Princess. They fear a stigma, or an inability to re-assimilate to the life we’d planned for her (e.g., attendance at the private school at which her dad is the band director). I fear that the adjustment to a new group of students and a new school will be more anxiety-provoking than returning to her current situation, although she reverts to the harmful behaviors when she is back at school for more than a few weeks.

The more I research and the more I learn, the less I really know about any of this.

(Cross posted on Band Back Together)

ShutMyEyes, originally uploaded by i-am-aerie. ]]> http://realmental.org/archives/1906/feed 0 http://realmental.org/archives/1907 http://realmental.org/archives/1907#comments Thu, 28 Oct 2010 11:50:02 +0000 CatherineJay http://realmental.org/?p=1907

lovekills 002., originally uploaded by jaytildeath.

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