Alone & Anxiety Attacks

Last week when I dropped my stoicism, my grief for the Boy kicked in. Living alone, I had nothing to normalize it like I did in other traumatic situtations. When Jack and I broke up before we were married, my good friend from college, Carrie, moved in. I had someone to talk about movies with, and ask if we needed more carrots from the grocery store. Plus, I could still do my own thing--come and go as I please.

When Jack and I broke up before, there was no other trauma in our lives other than the break-up. Now, we each have to adjust to the Boy being gone, and being alone. Being alone is horrible. Being alone and in limbo is worse. Jack and I neither together nor moving forward or backwards. We are stuck in a holding pattern.

When the first wave of grief hit, I had no one to talk to, so I called Ellen then my dad, and then I had a piano lesson so I talked to my piano teacher. At some point, I couldn't call a friend. I had to go to sleep. I had to get up in the morning and go to work. My mind was racing, my heart was pounding, and I had a buzzing in my chest. I couldn't really control my thoughts. I had the same sense Friday afternoon at work a few weeks ago when I was looking at spending the weekend alone.

Am I have an anxiety attack? I wondered. Is the stress of the Boy's situation finally maxed out? How can I handle this?

And then I thought, Is this what the Boy feels like all of the time? Is this what he feels like when he hasn't done his Latin homework for two weeks and had a test? (His choice to study a dead language, not mine.) Is this what he feels like when he is looking a big project for school with lots of steps?

I suppose I am lucky that I only feel this way when I am having major stress, like having my kid go into Wilderness therapy and then off to a therapeutic boarding school instead of having this as part of my day-to-day.

I talked to a friend at work and said I was stressed out about the Boy going to boarding school.

"You know this is what he needs," he said. "So don't stress." He is right. How can I stress when I know the Boy is getting better? I think this is my delayed stress--the stress I was setting aside while the Boy was laying in bed all day. The anxiety I supressed because I needed to mobilize and get him help. I couldn't fall apart while he was home because that wouldn't have helped him get better. Now that he is gone--and making solid progress--I can afford to slide into emotional duress.

Hard and Soft Edges, and Claire-Adele

Yesterday was actually worse than I alluded to in my previous post.

I really couldn't grok what was going on until today. I had buried in beneath a layer of anguish about the Fourth of July.

Yesterday, we talked to the Boy's therapist about "After Care," as it is known in the Wilderness business. Where do these kids go when they are done spending seventy days in the desert? That was the topic.

But wait! Before we can start discussing the details of that topic, Jack and I have to write a letter to the Boy telling him we are sending him some type of residential treatment school after Wilderness.

We have to tell him he's not coming home.

We have to write a letter and explain the benefits of further residential treatment and acknowledge the sorrow of him not coming home. Realistically, he might not ever come back home and live under our roof which is soul crushing to me. Yet, that would kind of be the goal: to have him lead a productive and independent life without us needing to support him.

I have to write this letter. Or Jack does. Or we both do. The therapist wants one letter signed by the both of us. More painful and heart-wrenching homework for us from Wilderness.

My mother used to frequently say "This wasn't what I expected." I had always thought that was a selfish expression, as if she believed the world existed to meet her expectations. I have a quote somewhere that reads "Expectations are the root of disappointment." Expect nothing, and you will be fine. That is a bit too nihilistic for me.

But this is not what I expected. I had not expected sending my sixteen year old off into treatment for depression and anxiety. I expected him to be an only child for the next few years while Claire-Adele was off at college. I was looking forward to dinners out with the Boy. He is an omnivore who loves to try new foods, so we could bring him to almost any restaurant in town. He's been to Pair, Frank's Champagne and Oyster Bar, and he loves Piatti, unlike his sister. Plus, Jack and I were the oldest children (which explains a lot about our marriage, by the way) and I wanted to see what it was like to the only child as a teenager. In some ways, I think it would be harder to be under the microscope with nothing else for parents to focus on, or it would be awesome because parents have already gotten one kid out of the house--they might be more chill.

Anyway, I think part of the agony of having parents write the letter to their kids is the agony part. By writing the letter, I have to come to terms with the decision. This is part of my grief and acceptance process.

This is such a bitch. Really. Jack has unlimited ability to endure physical suffering whereas I have excessive capacity to absorb emotional suffering. But this is too much for me. I was devastated and heart-broken when Ada died, but this is harder. Watching my baby be tortured by his own internal dragons (as they call them at Wilderness) is horrible because isn't finite. It just keeps coming, and he has to figure out how to slay those dragons on his own. The best I can do is send to dragon slaying school.

Today I called Claire-Adele to talk about my upcoming trip, and it was so lovely to hear her talk about her day-to-day: her new job at the ice cream place, the music festival she went to, her super religious roommate. It was so nice to get out of my head and into her world for forty-five minutes this morning. Ditto dinner with a work colleague tonight.

The hardest part about living alone during this period is the lack of soft edges. Two weeks after Ada died, Jack and I watched Ruthless People. It was the slow way of reintegrating into the world after tragedy and trauma struck us. We went to the Shedd Aquarium and watched hundreds of second graders on field trips. It was both heart-breaking and healing at the same time. My Fourth of July friend said I need to start creating new memories. It is true I need soft edges, but I need quiet space to grieve.

Unsubscribe & Grief

This was possibly the worst day of my life.

But first...

A difficult part about the Boy going to Wilderness is untangling me from the administrivia of his previous life. What is so hard about removing the reminder from my google calendar that I don't need to write a check to his bassoon teacher on Tuesday for his Wednesday lesson, or deleting his weekly appointment with his psychiatrist? On the surface, it seems like that wouldn't be as big of an emotional deal as it but it is death by a thousand cuts. Part of me didn't want to do that until he was officially off, because--you know--mental health miracles occur every day.

And then it was unsubscribing from email lists for track, cross country and the high school in general. Thank goodness school ends Thursday so I won't get anymore voicemails from the high school telling me my son was not in school today, which I stopped listening to after the second one.

The Boy has played for the same club soccer team since 5th grade. Days after the Boy started wilderness, Jack wrote the Boy's soccer coach saying he wasn't going to be playing this summer and next fall due to mental health issues. Yesterday, I finally emailed a handful of moms asking them to find a new team treasurer. These are women I've spend years on the sidelines with, laughing and cheering on our sons. I am losing that group.

Now I have a new group, I am a member of a new club--mom's of kids who are in Wilderness. Sure there is a Facebook page exclusively for parents with kids in the Boy's wilderness program, but I am part of an email circle with four other moms where I wrote today "I cried for two hours." Which was them upped to probably three to four hours by the end of the night. And it is still early! Only 1:30 a.m. here in Seattle!

Fuck. I hate my life.

Grief snuck in on panther feet today, grabbing me by the jugular, shaking me around until I was a limp rag. A good friend of mine who is Indian took me to lunch today, but little did I know he had an agenda. The Indian part is important, because as he mentioned to me once before, where he grew up people considered it part of their responsibility to tell people directly how they are screwing up their lives. And I thought I knew how to have an agenda for a meeting, but he wins.

The agenda: The Fourth of July.

"Laaaauren, what are you doing for the Fourth of July?"

"Nothing..."

"What are your plans?"

"Eh..."

"You need to make plans," he said. "When I lived alone, I would spend the holidays by myself then Monday would come around and it would be awful. You need to leave town. You need a plan. That is your assignment. You could visit your dad."

I suppose my dad would be happy about that, but no. Spending a few days with my mom would make me more depressed, not better.

This conversation was making me deeply uncomfortable, but I didn't know why. I called Ellen and then my dad and I cried. The grief of the Boy being gone hit. I wouldn't need plans for the Fourth of July if he were here--he probably has a soccer tournament. (I should probably delete "Team Snap" while I am uncluttering electronic reminders about the Boy's past life.) I wouldn't need to make plans if the rest of my life were in order.

I have been reading a book called The Parallel Process about having a kid in wilderness therapy. My main way of coping with getting the Boy treatment was to be stoic. I was practical and organized and I had an agenda.

And now, I have fallen apart. When Ada died, I learned that grief waits. With the Boy, I had kept grief waiting at the door, and now she has arrived, to sit with me for a while. I have no choice but to let her in, and keep me company.

Between the tears and the anguish, I got out my laptop and booked a trip to see Claire-Adele in Maryland. Grief can sit with me on the plane, but she can have a break when I hangout with my daughter.

And Now for Something Completely Different, or #SelfCare

Tonight I went out to dinner.  #selfcare. By myself. I am getting used to this. I bring a book and either ask for a table for one or I sit at the counter. I could say I sit at the bar, but that often doesn't imply there is a full menu.

Anyhow, tonight I went to Google Maps and clicked "Restaurants Near Me." There are a million restaurants downtown, some of which are super posh and expensive (see Maxilmilien or Sushi Kashiba) and some of which really touristy with mediocre food (not gonna name names). I'm looking for something in the middle--good food that is not outrageously priced that I will want to go back to again. Likewise, there a dozens of restaurants down here. I want to try new places instead of always going back to the same place again and again.

Tonight, I found The Hart and the Hunter on Pike. I've walked by this place a hundred times and never noticed it. (Thank you, Google Maps for the help.) The restaurant is attached to a hotel. The waiter asked if I was a guest.

"No, I'm a neighbor," I said and he gave me 10% off. Sweet!

Anyway, it is nice to write about something banal instead of writing about my angst-ridden life. On that topic, I was out and about with friends last week and for the first time in a million years, I talked about myself--not Jack, not the Boy, not work--me. It was so strange, I almost had forgotten who I was.

Jack and I are going to Parents Wellness Weekend--nevermind. Not going there tonight.

Crying in the Morning, Maryland, and The Broken Bowl

This blog post is slightly disjointed, as that is how I am feeling right now.

Thursday morning before work, I cried about the Boy. I was listening to Spotify and the song Solsbury Hill by Peter Gabriel came on and I lost it when I heard the lyrics which I never heard before even though I've heard the song dozens of times:

"Son," he said, "Grab your things I've come to take you home."

Hopefully, there will be a day when the Boy comes home. He writes us a letter once a week and we have gotten pictures. It will be interesting to see how he progresses, and how we here in Seattle progress, too.

When I was feeling blue, I put on my Maryland t-shirt and baseball hat I got last year when I dropped Claire-Adele off at college. I need to remember that she is a good place, thriving.

For my birthday, I got a broken bowl in the Japanese style of kintsugi. (This one isn't really broken, just made to look that way.) The idea of kintsugi is to take the cracks and repairs as part of the object's history. The cracks are filled with gold or brass and lacquer, making what could render the bowl useless and instead make it beautiful. And it is true. This would have been a boring, dark gray bowl, but now it is unique.

My life right now feels like one of these broken bowls, still waiting for the brass and gold to fix it up. I could give each of the cracks a name. While I appreciate the beauty, at times I wish my life had a few less blemishes.

Self-Care, Office Supplies and a Funny Story

While the Boy is at Wilderness Therapy, the parents have to participate in a parallel process of healing and learning to communicate. Part of that process includes self-care. When I first suspected the Boy had depression, I tried to help incorporate the following into his life, in no particular order:

• Good sleep habits
• Healthy eating (making sure he didn't get hangry)
• Socialization, friendship and fun
• Sense of accomplishment
• Exercise and being outdoors

As he is gone, I am trying to keep these in my mind. I have been trying to be socialable everyday outside of work, and so far, it seems to be helping me keep my sanity. I can't say that I am not a total mess, but I am keeping it together, or at least faking it.

First off, I want to say I have the most brilliant friends on the planet.

I talked to several friends this weekend who have offered me some good advice: One of my friends this weekend said not to think about Jack or Peter, but to use this time to take care of myself. Lean on friends. Go to the spa.

I like spas, and I'll have to book an appointment, but I love office supplies. I am an office supply junkie. I bought a new printer, toner, notepads and mini-binder clips. I was proud of my restraint that I did not buy more pens or pencils because I already have a thousand.

I saw my friend Carrie this weekend. When I told her about the Boy, she told me her oldest son had a similar struggle with school avoidance in high school. This is the "Keeper of Secret Sorrows" effect -- when you quietly and sincerely confide in people and tell them the worst shit about your life, they in return feel safe confiding in you and tell you the worst shit about their lives. It doesn't always work, but it happens more often than not.

My other friend Patti said that I need to look at the Boy as the person he is without the illness.

"The illness is a blocker of whom he is to become," she said. "You need to look at who he is without the illness."

She said it far more eloquently than that, but it was great advice. I thought this also applied to my other friends with mental health issues. Look beyond the illness and see who they are as a person. Are they kind? Self-aware? Thoughtful? Smart? Curious? Funny? Creative?

"Remember that is who the Boy is," she said.

My friend Leslie reminded me that not only is the Boy safe, but Jack and I are also both safe in our respective corners where we each can quietly heal.

Speaking of separate residences, I have a funny story -- I went out Friday night after work and slept in on Saturday morning. Around 9:30 a.m., I was in bed half asleep and half reading when someone knocked on the door. Fox started to bark. I figured it could be one of three things: a neighbor, the building manager or Jack. The joy of a condo downtown is that no random person from outside can knock on my door. They can call me from the outside intercom, but that is about it. I went down, and it was Jack with croissants and a mocha for me from Bakery Nouveau. Except he was really grouchy. His body language said "Here is your fucking croissant."

"Why are you here and why are you so grouchy?" I asked.

"I texted you I was coming," he said.

"I didn't check my phone yet this morning," I said.

"I should have gotten you just a crossiant and no mocha so I could have dropped it off on the front porch of the condo."

I am really confused. And groggy.

"I'll leave now," he said. I felt bad so I invited him in. I finally figured out why he was grouchy. I invited Jack upstairs to eat breakfast on the balcony. He seemed to chill when he learned that Ryan Gosling was not hiding in my closet as a overnight guest.

Seriously. What the fuck?

"I am happy to talk to you about the Boy, but I need some advanced warning," I said. "I might not be ready to talk if you just show up. Maybe let's make schedule time to talk in person, like I do with all of my other friends." He seemed to think that was reasonable. We reached an agreement that if we are going to show up at the other person's place we need to get a response back that it is okay we show up before gate crashing the other place.

Seventy Days in the Desert, or Only Connect

So the Boy made it to wilderness therapy Monday where he will spend eight to twelve weeks living with ten other boys his age in the high plains of the Southwest. The morning before he left, he said "I am going into this blind. I have no idea what to expect."

"I can see that," I said.

After we dropped him off, Jack and I met with our parent liaison to ask her questions. The goal is to get the kids back to taking care of their basic physical needs, and then work on addressing their emotional needs. We talked about a lot of stuff, but there were two major take-aways:

• There are no toilets. They will use WAG (Waste Alleviation and Gelling) bags or dig latrines. 
• They don't get a spoon. They have to carve a spoon out of wood. 

When I told the people I work with about the spoon, two of the guys said "Spoon? He can eat with his hands!"

"What about cooking?" asked one of the women.

"How will they stir what they need to cook?" I asked.

"A stick!" the guys replied.

So maybe it won't be so bad on the physical side. The emotional side will be another kick. The program gives the parents a lot of reading and writing. In the seventy-five page packet written in single spaced 6.5 font, they talk about disconnection:

"Attempts to control prevent parents and children from finding satisfaction in their relationship and lead to disconnection. Being disconnected is the source of almost all human problems such as what is called mental illness, drug addiction, violence, crime, school failure, spousal abuse, to mention a few."

That second sentence caught my eye. I immediately thought of the E.M. Forster quote in Howards End:* "Only connect."

Clearly, it seems that being disconnected, alone or isolated could cause a truckload of problems as mentioned above. Solitary confinement is considered to be inhumane punishment. People who are isolated from other reasons have challenges, too. The military often tries to support the spouses of people who are deployed overseas.

I suppose we might need to look at the cause of the disconnection--why is it there, and can it be fixed? If so, how can it be fixed? Is the disconnection caused by a communication issue, or something more structural?

And then I wondered if the quote in the parent book was always true or not. Yet, when I read accounts written by people with depression (See Depression Comix), it seems like there are people in the depressed person's life who want to help them connect, but the illness gets in the way. Is the illness causing the disconnection, or is the disconnection causing the illness?

Whether the statement above is fully true or not, a solid starting point would be to bring the depressed person out of their isolation, and help them feel less alone.

* TBH -- I never read the whole book.

Durango

We made it to Durango with the Boy, which is kind of a surprise, to be honest. The Boy got back from Ski Camp Saturday, which of course, was awesome. He learned new rail tricks and we saw video of some impressive double jumps.

So naturally, he was pissed that he had to leave for wilderness therapy the next day.

"I'm not going," he said.

Okay...

"If you wanted me to get out of bed, why didn't you send me to Ski Camp for four weeks?" he said. "Or I could have gotten a job waxing ski or working in the kitchen at the camp."

And then he slunk back into his bed with his phone. We brought both lunch and dinner into his room when he refused to come downstairs to eat. 

I don't even remember all of what happened Saturday, but it was awful. Most of the kids who go to wilderness therapy are brought in by the brute squad -- the parents call up a transport service and agents come to your home, take the kid with them, and fly them across the country to wilderness. I called the brute squad and had them on back up in case things went sideways and we couldn't get the Boy on the plane. 

All of this costs a crap ton of money, too, but that is and isn't the point. When you kid hasn't gone to school for five months, money doesn't seem relevant. Like the old MasterCard commerical:

    The education consultant to find the right program for your kid: $$$

    Eight to twelve weeks in wilderness therapy: $$$$$$

    The Goon Squad to bring him there: $$$

    Residential therapy programs, boarding school, whatever: $$$$$$

    Your kid having a fulfilling life and not living on your couch smoking weed until you die: Priceless

It all is coming out of the college fund, because at this rate, without all of this support, he wouldn't make it there anyway.

Sunday morning, he laid and bed and said he wasn't going. I sat with him for a half an hour. Jack had brought the Boy breakfast, but he didn't eat it.

"Can I go next week?" he asked.

"Is going next week going to make it better?" I asked. "Besides, the sooner you go, the sooner you can come back."

"Let me eat my muffin in peace," he said. I left, and went downstairs. I watched the porch to make sure he didn't climb out his window and down the tree to escape. I heard the door slam. I heard the Boy yell. I saw the latte Jack made for the Boy fly out the window. 

Then he came downstairs, took a shower, and we left for the airport.

Macro v Micro

A week ago, I was having a bad Friday. Something small triggered me and I fell into a funk. This dip took me by surprise because overall, I had been having a pretty good week. Both my piano teacher and therapist and even my hairdresser told me earlier in the week that I seemed more relaxed and easy going than usual.

And I was. Until this little thing set me off into a miserably sad spiral. Not, it wasn't hormonal. What caused my downward spiral of emotions was a legitimately confusing thing.

I called my friend Ellen to bemoan my existence. "Think macro, not micro," she said. "The rest of the week was fine and moving forward. I am not saying what happened didn't suck, but think of all of the other positive things that have happened this week."

"Think of the pictures of the poppies in you condo," she said. "You have a field of poppies on one side and then a diagram of the inside of a poppy on the other side. Macro/micro."

When she said that, I looked back at what I was upset about and saw that was a small detail in an otherwise positive picture. 

* "Pretty good" being relative for someone who is getting their kid into wilderness therapy for depression and anxiety and is also separated from her husband. In spite of the turmoil and confusion, there are also times of peace and clarity.