I walk a fine line on this topic because I don't want to violate my son's privacy. I only identify him as J., and I haven't identified my own last name, let alone his (as they differ), so I hope this episode of The Mary Dell Show respects both the wonderful person he is as well as others who have struggled with the devastating pathologic conditions of the mind.
And, because I do share this blog with a couple of closed Facebook groups I'm in (for hypersomnolence, etc.), I'll just say that J. is very lucid these days and has, until quite recently, had his issues very well controlled on his meds, and during that time has given me permission to write about his plight.
Of course, as biology has shown in recent years, particularly since the advent of the functional MRI (fMRI), "mental illness" is truly biological illness. And, as in any illness, psychological factors come into play as the condition manifests itself.
I've told J.'s early story in other episodes. In a nutshell, he was born two months prematurely for no clear cause other than the leaking of amniotic fluid (my water's "breaking") when I was 31 weeks' pregnant. This occurred while my then-husband and I calmly watched television--totally unexpected, and nothing much has been calm from that day forward. (Very) long story short--there's so much more to this story--J. was born five days later, two months to the day before his due date.
J. was not the tiniest of premies, but he was small, a mere 3 pounds, 13 ounces. And this was the late 1970s. Neonatal intensive care had not progressed to where it continues to struggle today. "Your baby has a 50/50 chance of surviving the first 24 hours," my OB/GYN told me after talking to the NICU doctors.
J. stayed in the hospital 26 days, most of them spent in an Isolette, or incubator, like a little chick. Someone suggested I tape record my voice and place the recorder in the Isolette to both comfort J., who'd been hearing my voice from inside for seven months, and help him to bond when I could actually hold him and talk to him close up.
I read Robert Louis Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses. The nurses would flip the cassette and play it for J. when I couldn't be there, though I came every day with bottles of my own breast milk--the best possible start for my baby, according to my OB/GYN--that for weeks went down a tube through his mouth to his stomach before he graduated to red-nippled bottles--the red nipples indicated numerous large, easy-to-suck holes. The milking machine paid for by our insurance was as big as a small appliance--it looked like it could milk a cow.
At a robust 4 pounds, 12 ounces, J. was released from the NICU right into my twenty-year old and my husband's twenty-one year old arms. We couldn't have been more excited. I'd to say we couldn't be more unprepared, but that's not entirely true. We were young but about as prepared as any parents who bring home a tiny infant for the first time. And as the first grandchild for all our parents, we would have no lack of advice or help with anything we could possibly need.
We knew J. had had a rough start, but we doubted not one bit that he would become an amazing person, someone we'd be very proud of. And that has come to be the case, if I can speak for my ex, J.'s father. I know it's true for me.
But that pride accepts that life has not been real easy on J. And, at times, the pride turns to sorrow that J.'s continuing challenges keep him from the full, exuberant life I always dreamed for him.
Despite his clean bill of health upon leaving the hospital, J. would be diagnosed by age six months with left hemiparesis (weakness/paralysis on left side) and craniosynostosis (a skull malformation that had led to his head's being somewhat large and unusually shaped). He would have two neurosurgeries in his first year of life that would improve his head shape significantly but not enough to prevent other kindergarteners from calling him "football head" a few years later.
To show J.'s spunky attitude--a trait that has waxed and waned over the years but which I believe is fundamental to his nature: J. responded to my apparently stricken face after he came home from kindergarten with the "football head" news with the following: "Oh, don't worry about it. I think all of your heads look like pumpkins."
In a massive condensing of the story (which includes yet another neurosurgery and a grand mal seizure that nearly killed him), skip ahead to J.'s twenties, a decade that is so difficult for many young persons trying to make the transition from childhood to adulthood. (I'm still not sure I've made it yet.)
Not surprisingly, J. struggled. He struggled mightily. His anxiety and depression eventually led to a psychotic break and the diagnosis of Bipolar I, the more serious type of bipolar, once known as "manic depressive disease." Getting J. to return to a more steady mood and intact personality took years.
And J.'s years of seeking a "normal" life (whatever that is) have left that goal unmet in at least one key area--the ability to keep a job on a long-term basis and fully support himself. He is on federal disability but gets a paltry $700 or so a month and $40 in food stamps.
I defy any person living in he United States today to live on $740 a month and not scrape miserably by, most likely under a bridge. I've had to use my sadly meager financial resources (after losing my own jobs to major health problems and recently beginning my subsistence on my own disability benefits) to help keep J. afloat.
I'd be happy to support him to the moon and back--but I do so want him to be happy. A job he enjoyed and the self-satisfaction that comes with such a job would do wonders for him. And, yes, the financial stress and worry about Jason's psychosocial needs weigh heavily on me, so his being happy and employed in a job he enjoys would do wonders for me as well.
That goal apparently remains elusive. I say "apparently" because I still hope against hope he will be able to return to the call center where he began working a couple of months ago once treated by his doctor. Of course, J. may indeed decide to leave the job, and certainly ongoing stress is not something to court, considering potential for the disastrous consequences.
J. has an emergency visit scheduled for tomorrow, and I'm going with him to give the doc some of my impressions (with J.'s permission) and make the suggestion that he may need a medication tweak, since his anxiety about the job has been way out of proportion with the difficulty of the job.
Over his years of adulthood, J.'s mood has normally stayed mostly in the mildly to moderately depressed range, but he'd had a couple of serious depression episodes by the time he was in his mid-20's, and not long after that he had a complete break with reality. This tragic, terrifying episode formed the basis of an essay published in The Sun: A Magazine of Ideas, so I won't get into details here. It's difficult to even look back at those days.
While his social struggles might have brought on J.'s neuro/psychiatric symptoms, J. may also have underlying organic brain disease that contributed to or brought on these dramatic episodes. He also has a hefty genetic load--bipolar and other issues on his dad's side, and depression, anxiety, ADD, and Asperger's Syndrome on his mom's (my) side.
But despite my worry over the job and the rest of J.'s life, I can't help but be thrilled by how far he has come over the past decade, given all he went through (not to mention how difficult life has been for him since the very beginning). J.'s strength amazes me. Thanks to a phenomenal, if quirky psychiatrist (I think he's either an alien from a benevolent planet or a wizard), family support, and the perfect medicine cocktail, J. has really made a comeback. He was able to work three difficult years as a grocery checkout person, but eventually the all-too-frequent negativity from some of his coworkers and the public just wore him down. He was living in a small city about 2 hours away from me, shared an apartment with his brother for a while, and loved the area. He had to give all of that up when he couldn't do the job anymore, and then he returned to his exile, as he sees it, unfortunately, in Appalachia.
He'd hoped to finish his last year of college while here, but finances have made that impossible thus far. (J. owes the local college his tuition for one semester when he just couldn't finish. I think he was on academic probation at the time, or something like that. Despite appealing the decision and having support from his doctor, the university decided he has to be liable for that $1,200 or so, which might as well be $12,000 for J.)
When J. lost his identity, I wasn't sure I'd ever talk to my "real" son again. While he did retrieve that identity and is, indeed, my very real son again--he continues to struggle. Despite all his gifts that are so obvious and so valuable to me and others, J. continues to stay fairly sequestered at home. His social anxiety prevents his going out to places where he could meet other young folks, though he does like to go out and dance when he can--but that means traveling to the more urban areas for good gay bars, and since he's living a subsistence life he can't afford to do that very often.
J. is very much a metrosexual, and my woodlands cottage in the Appalachian Mountains is not his cup of tea. But I own my house, and it gives him a place to live where he isn't charged his entire monthly check for rent. If he could financially manage living in a more urban area, I'd heartily support him. Unfortunately, the numbers just don't add up for that right now.
And, as his mom watching all this and experiencing it with him, I struggle, too.
I've written about my smorgasbord of chronic disease in many episodes of The Mary Dell Show. For the most part, though, I've tried to leave my kids and other family members out of my chronicles to respect their right to privacy.
But it dawned on me today what a huge toll stress has taken on my life--and much of that stress has been due to being at times a caregiver and at other times merely a major part of J.'s support system since he came into this world three-plus decades ago. I don't want to call this a burden--it's simply part of being a loving parent, and I wouldn't change a thing I've done unless I could in some way know it would be more helpful for him than I've tried to be.
[My mother's pounding honesty into my head from a young age makes me back off slightly from that last statement--I've certainly made mistakes as a parent that I regret to this day, but for the most part I think I did a pretty good job.]
So why this epiphany after so many years of these ongoing struggles?
I think it's because, since Jason's anxiety led to his not being able to handle a job that should have been almost a cakewalk for him given his talents and abilities, a thick, heavy blanket has been laid over my head and shoulders. "Feeling the weight" of stress is NOT a metaphor; I literally feel the stress lying on top of me like that elephant in the asthma commercials.
Jason can't handle stress, either--and here we are, living this life defined by stress.
Time has proven that, like his mom, J. has a severe problem with job anxiety. As tough as this crushing anxiety was on me through the years whenever I changed jobs, I bulled through it and eventually found confidence and competence as I continued working in each position. (I also started taking Effexor, a drug I sometimes worry has a role in my neurodegenerative disease, but one that truly kicked major anxiety in the ass without making me feel spacey whatsoever). I know this would be true for J., too, if he could bull through as well.
And there's the rub. I just don't know that J. is going to be able to bull through this "perfect" job despite its obvious benefits: it's a part-time position, a necessity at this point, 5 hours a day, no weekends; he can sit rather than stand--he has developed painful foot problems due to his neuromuscular problems/hemiparesis after two years standing as a part-timer in a grocery store and can probably no longer handle a standing-only position; he does not have to physically face a public that has, at times even since he reached adulthood, been less than kind about his appearance and capabilities.
Only a few weeks ago, J. was in McDonalds eating (something J., a total food snob, still deigns to do now and then) when an old man--J. said he looked to be about 92--asked him about his head scars. (In addition to all the other ways Nature or God or Genetics or Fate decided to mess with my kid, J. went bald in his early 20's and, thus, both his head shape and multiple surgical scars are on prominent display wherever he goes.)
J. explained about craniosynostosis and what had had to be do to correct the problem as much as possible.
The old coot snickered and said, "Well, did you sue the doctor for screwing up the job?"
Honestly, J.'s distress when he came to see me at Honey's house just after that episode is utterly painful to contemplate.
Working speedily can be difficult for J. due to the paralysis on his left side, and some members of the public--the old man is only one of J.'s examples, and I can even think of worse--can be amazingly impatient and rude--but on the telephone he can always place callers on hold or otherwise stall while he gets his wits together; he could never do that in a face-to-face customer service position.
Not only those advantages accrue to the job, but the management has been fabulously compassionate and patient with J. and has stressed that he can work his way into the job with their full support. There just ain't too many employers willing to do that, as I've stressed to J. several times. (Ha. Stressed.)
But not even this kind of safety net has made J. feel safe, and on his first day at his own desk after training he pretty much panicked and said he couldn't do it. His HR manager and trainer talked him down somewhat and suggested he take off and see his doctor. They know he is on disability and are wonderful mentors to help him work toward a full-time job--but even these assurances haven't been enough to give J. the confidence to do the job.
J. sees his wonderful psychiatrist tomorrow; I'm accompanying him, and we'll talk about the situation. Though I far prefer an approach to mental and all disease with no medications, as the mother of a person with long-time mental health issues, I have come to accept the need for these biological agents to treat what is largely a biological disease. Something has to make those synapses connect, and when J. gets to a certain point no amount of coaxing, coaching, or pleading will do any good and can, in fact, do harm.
Stress plays a huge role in J.'s equilibrium, just as it does in mine, and the last thing I want to do is force him over that edge where he loses every shred of confidence, loses, in fact, his very identity, as happened during his major mental break a decade ago.
I simply cannot watch that happen again. And so I teeter on tenterhooks of not wanting to coddle him and not wanting to push him too far.
No one who hasn't lived through a similar experience can know the psychic pain of watching your child wish for nothing more than acceptance from others and a decent wage without major anxiety and seeing how hard it is for this amazing person you know and love to achieve those things.
May God, if he, she, or it exists, bless the individuals going through disabling neuropsychiatric disease as well as those who love them. It's not an easy row to hoe. I wish I had some kind of pithy, hopeful "dismount" to this episode, but I don't. Reality can be harsh.
That doesn't stop me from hoping, though. I still believe in all of J.'s capabilities. He would make a fun, interesting, loving partner for some lucky guy. The right job for him does exist. I just hope, for his sake and mine, that job is not too far in the offing--and a romance with a really good person would do wonders as well. I just want J. to get his mojo back--he's so great when he's in a good place mentally. I hope the tweak in meds does the job!
______________
Update: J. did give up the job. However, the increase in his Effexor has already made a big difference. As he put it, all the noise in his head has quieted. Those negative, debilitating voices have shut up--thank goodness. (Anyone with anxiety will know what I'm talking about there.)
The great news is that J. is feeling so much better that he is eager to find a job. He doesn't want to go back to the call center and, despite all the advantages of that job for him, if he hates it and it makes him feel "cray," as the young folks say, it's simply not the right job for him.
We are so grateful for his psychiatrist who listens and counsels and has always been there for J. in the most difficult of times. He saw J. (and me) after hours on a Friday evening. How many docs would do that? And his counsel is truly wizard-like. He is a sunbeam in the darkness of J.'s struggles. What a difference the right doctor can make. And "right" is not nearly the adjective this man deserves.
And, because I do share this blog with a couple of closed Facebook groups I'm in (for hypersomnolence, etc.), I'll just say that J. is very lucid these days and has, until quite recently, had his issues very well controlled on his meds, and during that time has given me permission to write about his plight.
Of course, as biology has shown in recent years, particularly since the advent of the functional MRI (fMRI), "mental illness" is truly biological illness. And, as in any illness, psychological factors come into play as the condition manifests itself.
 |
| Examples of functional MRI images of structural brain changes in schizophrenia from Dialogues in Clinical Neuroscience at http://www.dialogues-cns.com/publication/understanding-structural-brain-changes-in-schizophrenia/ |
I've told J.'s early story in other episodes. In a nutshell, he was born two months prematurely for no clear cause other than the leaking of amniotic fluid (my water's "breaking") when I was 31 weeks' pregnant. This occurred while my then-husband and I calmly watched television--totally unexpected, and nothing much has been calm from that day forward. (Very) long story short--there's so much more to this story--J. was born five days later, two months to the day before his due date.
J. was not the tiniest of premies, but he was small, a mere 3 pounds, 13 ounces. And this was the late 1970s. Neonatal intensive care had not progressed to where it continues to struggle today. "Your baby has a 50/50 chance of surviving the first 24 hours," my OB/GYN told me after talking to the NICU doctors.
J. stayed in the hospital 26 days, most of them spent in an Isolette, or incubator, like a little chick. Someone suggested I tape record my voice and place the recorder in the Isolette to both comfort J., who'd been hearing my voice from inside for seven months, and help him to bond when I could actually hold him and talk to him close up.
I read Robert Louis Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses. The nurses would flip the cassette and play it for J. when I couldn't be there, though I came every day with bottles of my own breast milk--the best possible start for my baby, according to my OB/GYN--that for weeks went down a tube through his mouth to his stomach before he graduated to red-nippled bottles--the red nipples indicated numerous large, easy-to-suck holes. The milking machine paid for by our insurance was as big as a small appliance--it looked like it could milk a cow.
At a robust 4 pounds, 12 ounces, J. was released from the NICU right into my twenty-year old and my husband's twenty-one year old arms. We couldn't have been more excited. I'd to say we couldn't be more unprepared, but that's not entirely true. We were young but about as prepared as any parents who bring home a tiny infant for the first time. And as the first grandchild for all our parents, we would have no lack of advice or help with anything we could possibly need.
We knew J. had had a rough start, but we doubted not one bit that he would become an amazing person, someone we'd be very proud of. And that has come to be the case, if I can speak for my ex, J.'s father. I know it's true for me.
But that pride accepts that life has not been real easy on J. And, at times, the pride turns to sorrow that J.'s continuing challenges keep him from the full, exuberant life I always dreamed for him.
Despite his clean bill of health upon leaving the hospital, J. would be diagnosed by age six months with left hemiparesis (weakness/paralysis on left side) and craniosynostosis (a skull malformation that had led to his head's being somewhat large and unusually shaped). He would have two neurosurgeries in his first year of life that would improve his head shape significantly but not enough to prevent other kindergarteners from calling him "football head" a few years later.
 |
| Types of craniosynostosis, from Cranio Kids South Africa, http://www.craniokids.co.za/cranio_faq.htm |
To show J.'s spunky attitude--a trait that has waxed and waned over the years but which I believe is fundamental to his nature: J. responded to my apparently stricken face after he came home from kindergarten with the "football head" news with the following: "Oh, don't worry about it. I think all of your heads look like pumpkins."
In a massive condensing of the story (which includes yet another neurosurgery and a grand mal seizure that nearly killed him), skip ahead to J.'s twenties, a decade that is so difficult for many young persons trying to make the transition from childhood to adulthood. (I'm still not sure I've made it yet.)
Not surprisingly, J. struggled. He struggled mightily. His anxiety and depression eventually led to a psychotic break and the diagnosis of Bipolar I, the more serious type of bipolar, once known as "manic depressive disease." Getting J. to return to a more steady mood and intact personality took years.
And J.'s years of seeking a "normal" life (whatever that is) have left that goal unmet in at least one key area--the ability to keep a job on a long-term basis and fully support himself. He is on federal disability but gets a paltry $700 or so a month and $40 in food stamps.
I defy any person living in he United States today to live on $740 a month and not scrape miserably by, most likely under a bridge. I've had to use my sadly meager financial resources (after losing my own jobs to major health problems and recently beginning my subsistence on my own disability benefits) to help keep J. afloat.
I'd be happy to support him to the moon and back--but I do so want him to be happy. A job he enjoyed and the self-satisfaction that comes with such a job would do wonders for him. And, yes, the financial stress and worry about Jason's psychosocial needs weigh heavily on me, so his being happy and employed in a job he enjoys would do wonders for me as well.
That goal apparently remains elusive. I say "apparently" because I still hope against hope he will be able to return to the call center where he began working a couple of months ago once treated by his doctor. Of course, J. may indeed decide to leave the job, and certainly ongoing stress is not something to court, considering potential for the disastrous consequences.
J. has an emergency visit scheduled for tomorrow, and I'm going with him to give the doc some of my impressions (with J.'s permission) and make the suggestion that he may need a medication tweak, since his anxiety about the job has been way out of proportion with the difficulty of the job.
Over his years of adulthood, J.'s mood has normally stayed mostly in the mildly to moderately depressed range, but he'd had a couple of serious depression episodes by the time he was in his mid-20's, and not long after that he had a complete break with reality. This tragic, terrifying episode formed the basis of an essay published in The Sun: A Magazine of Ideas, so I won't get into details here. It's difficult to even look back at those days.
While his social struggles might have brought on J.'s neuro/psychiatric symptoms, J. may also have underlying organic brain disease that contributed to or brought on these dramatic episodes. He also has a hefty genetic load--bipolar and other issues on his dad's side, and depression, anxiety, ADD, and Asperger's Syndrome on his mom's (my) side.
But despite my worry over the job and the rest of J.'s life, I can't help but be thrilled by how far he has come over the past decade, given all he went through (not to mention how difficult life has been for him since the very beginning). J.'s strength amazes me. Thanks to a phenomenal, if quirky psychiatrist (I think he's either an alien from a benevolent planet or a wizard), family support, and the perfect medicine cocktail, J. has really made a comeback. He was able to work three difficult years as a grocery checkout person, but eventually the all-too-frequent negativity from some of his coworkers and the public just wore him down. He was living in a small city about 2 hours away from me, shared an apartment with his brother for a while, and loved the area. He had to give all of that up when he couldn't do the job anymore, and then he returned to his exile, as he sees it, unfortunately, in Appalachia.
He'd hoped to finish his last year of college while here, but finances have made that impossible thus far. (J. owes the local college his tuition for one semester when he just couldn't finish. I think he was on academic probation at the time, or something like that. Despite appealing the decision and having support from his doctor, the university decided he has to be liable for that $1,200 or so, which might as well be $12,000 for J.)
When J. lost his identity, I wasn't sure I'd ever talk to my "real" son again. While he did retrieve that identity and is, indeed, my very real son again--he continues to struggle. Despite all his gifts that are so obvious and so valuable to me and others, J. continues to stay fairly sequestered at home. His social anxiety prevents his going out to places where he could meet other young folks, though he does like to go out and dance when he can--but that means traveling to the more urban areas for good gay bars, and since he's living a subsistence life he can't afford to do that very often.
J. is very much a metrosexual, and my woodlands cottage in the Appalachian Mountains is not his cup of tea. But I own my house, and it gives him a place to live where he isn't charged his entire monthly check for rent. If he could financially manage living in a more urban area, I'd heartily support him. Unfortunately, the numbers just don't add up for that right now.
And, as his mom watching all this and experiencing it with him, I struggle, too.
I've written about my smorgasbord of chronic disease in many episodes of The Mary Dell Show. For the most part, though, I've tried to leave my kids and other family members out of my chronicles to respect their right to privacy.
But it dawned on me today what a huge toll stress has taken on my life--and much of that stress has been due to being at times a caregiver and at other times merely a major part of J.'s support system since he came into this world three-plus decades ago. I don't want to call this a burden--it's simply part of being a loving parent, and I wouldn't change a thing I've done unless I could in some way know it would be more helpful for him than I've tried to be.
[My mother's pounding honesty into my head from a young age makes me back off slightly from that last statement--I've certainly made mistakes as a parent that I regret to this day, but for the most part I think I did a pretty good job.]
So why this epiphany after so many years of these ongoing struggles?
I think it's because, since Jason's anxiety led to his not being able to handle a job that should have been almost a cakewalk for him given his talents and abilities, a thick, heavy blanket has been laid over my head and shoulders. "Feeling the weight" of stress is NOT a metaphor; I literally feel the stress lying on top of me like that elephant in the asthma commercials.
Jason can't handle stress, either--and here we are, living this life defined by stress.
Time has proven that, like his mom, J. has a severe problem with job anxiety. As tough as this crushing anxiety was on me through the years whenever I changed jobs, I bulled through it and eventually found confidence and competence as I continued working in each position. (I also started taking Effexor, a drug I sometimes worry has a role in my neurodegenerative disease, but one that truly kicked major anxiety in the ass without making me feel spacey whatsoever). I know this would be true for J., too, if he could bull through as well.
And there's the rub. I just don't know that J. is going to be able to bull through this "perfect" job despite its obvious benefits: it's a part-time position, a necessity at this point, 5 hours a day, no weekends; he can sit rather than stand--he has developed painful foot problems due to his neuromuscular problems/hemiparesis after two years standing as a part-timer in a grocery store and can probably no longer handle a standing-only position; he does not have to physically face a public that has, at times even since he reached adulthood, been less than kind about his appearance and capabilities.
Only a few weeks ago, J. was in McDonalds eating (something J., a total food snob, still deigns to do now and then) when an old man--J. said he looked to be about 92--asked him about his head scars. (In addition to all the other ways Nature or God or Genetics or Fate decided to mess with my kid, J. went bald in his early 20's and, thus, both his head shape and multiple surgical scars are on prominent display wherever he goes.)
J. explained about craniosynostosis and what had had to be do to correct the problem as much as possible.
The old coot snickered and said, "Well, did you sue the doctor for screwing up the job?"
Honestly, J.'s distress when he came to see me at Honey's house just after that episode is utterly painful to contemplate.
Working speedily can be difficult for J. due to the paralysis on his left side, and some members of the public--the old man is only one of J.'s examples, and I can even think of worse--can be amazingly impatient and rude--but on the telephone he can always place callers on hold or otherwise stall while he gets his wits together; he could never do that in a face-to-face customer service position.
Not only those advantages accrue to the job, but the management has been fabulously compassionate and patient with J. and has stressed that he can work his way into the job with their full support. There just ain't too many employers willing to do that, as I've stressed to J. several times. (Ha. Stressed.)
But not even this kind of safety net has made J. feel safe, and on his first day at his own desk after training he pretty much panicked and said he couldn't do it. His HR manager and trainer talked him down somewhat and suggested he take off and see his doctor. They know he is on disability and are wonderful mentors to help him work toward a full-time job--but even these assurances haven't been enough to give J. the confidence to do the job.
J. sees his wonderful psychiatrist tomorrow; I'm accompanying him, and we'll talk about the situation. Though I far prefer an approach to mental and all disease with no medications, as the mother of a person with long-time mental health issues, I have come to accept the need for these biological agents to treat what is largely a biological disease. Something has to make those synapses connect, and when J. gets to a certain point no amount of coaxing, coaching, or pleading will do any good and can, in fact, do harm.
Stress plays a huge role in J.'s equilibrium, just as it does in mine, and the last thing I want to do is force him over that edge where he loses every shred of confidence, loses, in fact, his very identity, as happened during his major mental break a decade ago.
I simply cannot watch that happen again. And so I teeter on tenterhooks of not wanting to coddle him and not wanting to push him too far.
No one who hasn't lived through a similar experience can know the psychic pain of watching your child wish for nothing more than acceptance from others and a decent wage without major anxiety and seeing how hard it is for this amazing person you know and love to achieve those things.
May God, if he, she, or it exists, bless the individuals going through disabling neuropsychiatric disease as well as those who love them. It's not an easy row to hoe. I wish I had some kind of pithy, hopeful "dismount" to this episode, but I don't. Reality can be harsh.
That doesn't stop me from hoping, though. I still believe in all of J.'s capabilities. He would make a fun, interesting, loving partner for some lucky guy. The right job for him does exist. I just hope, for his sake and mine, that job is not too far in the offing--and a romance with a really good person would do wonders as well. I just want J. to get his mojo back--he's so great when he's in a good place mentally. I hope the tweak in meds does the job!
______________
Update: J. did give up the job. However, the increase in his Effexor has already made a big difference. As he put it, all the noise in his head has quieted. Those negative, debilitating voices have shut up--thank goodness. (Anyone with anxiety will know what I'm talking about there.)
The great news is that J. is feeling so much better that he is eager to find a job. He doesn't want to go back to the call center and, despite all the advantages of that job for him, if he hates it and it makes him feel "cray," as the young folks say, it's simply not the right job for him.
We are so grateful for his psychiatrist who listens and counsels and has always been there for J. in the most difficult of times. He saw J. (and me) after hours on a Friday evening. How many docs would do that? And his counsel is truly wizard-like. He is a sunbeam in the darkness of J.'s struggles. What a difference the right doctor can make. And "right" is not nearly the adjective this man deserves.
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