The Boy is supposed to graduate from high school and his residential therapy program this June. He is coming back home to Seattle this summer, and is slated to attend college this fall. This is a minor miracle from where he was two years ago. Actually, it is not a miracle. It is an act of a tremendous amount of hard work and introspection, both on his part, mine and Jack's.
The Boy had his first major regression this week, his first relapse of troubling behavior since he started residential treatment two years ago for his anxiety and depression.
The Boy's therapist was unpleasantly surprised when he heard of the relapse, in part because the Boy's regression does not fit the mold of typical relapses of kids in the program. When other kids relapse, they vape or drink.
"What happened?" the therapist asked me Thursday morning after he had read the email from the night staff saying the Boy had punched a hole in the wall. "He seemed fine when I talked to him Wednesday."
I love my son's therapist. I really, really do. At that moment, I wanted to say, I probably should have said, "Ask the Boy, not me. I am not the one who punched a hole in the wall." I wanted to say, "This is why I am paying you the big bucks. YOU figure it out."
Alack and alas, I was polite. I didn't want to piss off the guy leading the therapeutic SWAT team caring for my kid. Many therapeutic professionals will look to the parent to explain the unexplainable, as if moms can read their children's minds. After many years of trying, I realized I can't.
I could, however, give the therapist some insights. Back in eighth grade, when the Boy was first hospitalized, we were given a chart, an explanation of what happens when kids are in need of acute psychological treatment. Most professionals don't have to deal with kids in their acute phase of emotional crisis. That is left for parents, the night staff and/or the police.
This was the graph of what a psychological crisis looks like:
Some kind of problem escalates in a person's mind. They freak out, whatever their special brand of freakout looks like. They crash into depression, self-loathing or suicide ideation because they fucked up. Maybe they drank twenty beer and tried to drive home. Maybe they screamed at their kids. Maybe they punched a hole in the wall. Some of these self-destructive behaviors are more or less socially acceptable. Eating a whole chocolate cake in one sitting typically only hurts the person eating the cake, so its level of social acceptance is neutral (until we get into fat shaming.) Punching a hole in the wall is down on the list.
I am glad the Boy had his first regression while he is still in treatment. I am glad he is surrounded by system of support that will force to him to reckon with his behavior, not hide from it, nor be ashamed. I heard somewhere recently that shaming people doesn't help change their behavior. (Maybe Brene Brown?)
I wonder what is going through the Boy's head when he punches a hole in the wall, and what happens after. I imagine it is somewhat like Dr. Jekyll meeting Mr. Hyde. I've never read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson, but I probably should. I wonder if there is a scene where the two meet, where the calm and refined Dr. Jekyll sees his evil alter-ego, Mr Hyde. What does Jekyll think of Hyde, or rather, what does he think of the other side of himself?
Where I am in all of this? Suprisingly and pleasantly detached. For years, I spent a considerable amount of my time and attention trying to keep the Boy in the above Green Zone, so he wouldn't spike and crash. I burned myself out trying to manage something I couldn't manage. I was going crazy. Fortunately, I have found the right support for myself, to help me stay float while the rest of the world might be crashing around me.
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