Addicted to the Addiction

When you have a sick child, the illness takes on a life of its own. If your child’s life is at stake, it is common for the very illness causing such harm to become an obsession of those battling it. It may be inconceivable for those who don’t experience it first-hand, but addiction is an epic battle between living and dying, especially when the addiction is to opiates, which can cause overdose, trauma or death with one exposure. In my quest to discover answers and treatments, in my struggle to find the silver bullet to quell my son’s addiction, I have had the opportunity to speak to many parents on a similar journey. Our stories are all uniquely our own, but we are the same. Our heartbreak, our fears, our challenges and our successes literally mirror one another’s. Our stories are ours, but in some ways, this is the story of us all. One thing I know well is that mothers of addicts often become addicts themselves. Yes. The family members who care for an addict, the very people the addict depends on for support and guidance often fall into an addiction trap of their own. I have fallen into this trap. Only my addiction isn’t to opiates or alcohol, but to the very thing that has caused our struggles. I have become addicted to my son’s addiction. The truest definition that I have found labels addiction as compulsive, harmful behavior that causes destructive consequences to health, finances, relationships and careers. I have an obsession to my son’s illnesses, and like most moms of addicts, my obsession borders on addiction. I am addicted to my son’s illnesses, and I am obsessed with keeping him alive. My obsession is what keeps me awake at all hours of the night, reading research, searching the internet for resources and treatment plans that may be the “right fit”. My obsession is what causes me to plot out the day at 3 am, certain if I make just one, or three or five more phone calls when the sun rises, that I will discover someone who has successfully treated kids like Tim, some untapped expert who is different from the many others who have failed. My obsession has infested all areas of my brain, so that there is room for little else, because the voices in my head telling me this is life or death are louder than the voices telling me to pay the electric bill, or get to the grocery store or that I have piles of work waiting. The voices of fear are louder than the voices of responsibility, telling me to spend time with my younger two children, to make sure they do their homework, and to get them to sports practice on time. The voices of fear are louder than the voices of love, telling me to invest in my relationship, to connect with my boyfriend, to not sacrifice the love of my life in the name of addiction. And the voices of fear are far louder than the voices of obligation telling me to return phone calls of family, get the oil changed in my car or focus on required meetings or deadlines. And listening to those voices compelling me to save my son leaves me emotionally bereft, unavailable for normal feelings like joy or pride, because the voices in my head speak of the sheer terror of a life in jeopardy, a life that I created and that was born of me. And the fear of losing that life is far too powerful an emotion to deny. It takes over everything. Every conversation, every relationship, every moment of the day. The terror causes me to be absorbed in finding solutions, causes me to obsess over the intricacies and minutia in every decision that must be made in Tim’s treatment. It causes me to ignore people I love and the realities of life, because in survival mode, I am obsessed with staving off death. My obsession tells me that Tim’s needs are so vast that none of us will survive the consequences if I make one wrong decision. And so I am obsessed with the decisions and with the fear and with the voices. They say that addiction is a family disease. And it is. Everyone sacrifices and everyone suffers. But this is my child. And giving up isn’t an option.

This is the Beginning......I think....

There really is a ton of research out there on bipolar and other psychiatric disorders, as well as on addiction. Both have been recognized illnesses throughout modern medical history. When Tim first began to show clear signs of mental health problems, I mistakenly assumed that treatment would take the form of counseling. When I realized he was abusing drugs, I naively thought that chemical dependency counseling would “fix” the problem. Not so fast. Although there is a wealth of research on both addiction and mental health, their roots and causes and treatment suggestions, it is often confusing or contradictory research. For instance, older research on bipolar suggested that it was caused by abnormalities in brain chemistry. More recent research indicates that the cause of bipolar may actually be in the mis-wiring in certain synapses in the brain. I have even read recent studies, which suggest that chronic inflammation may play a role, and certainly, it is a long held scientific belief that bipolar has a genetic factor. You’re either born with the gene or not, and if you have an immediate family member with bipolar (my son does), you are more likely to have the bipolar gene. So how can a psychiatric disease be caused by chronic inflammation, and also by a mis-wired brain? The answer, I think, is that we just don’t know. The nature of body chemistry and brain function is an elusive bit of science. Addiction is equally as well researched and misunderstood illness as bipolar. Most research supports the idea of an “addiction gene”. Like bipolar, there is a familial trait within some people, that makes them more likely to become addicted to things. All kinds of things. I have read about people who are addicted to food, to pulling their hair out, to sex, to gambling. Those born with an addiction gene appear to be more likely to engage in repetitive, harmful behavior. These behaviors provide a satisfactory feeling in the brain and change the way the neurotransmitters communicate, encouraging the likelihood of the behavior being repeated. When it comes to drug addiction, there is most certainly a chemical or structural factor involved. Drug addicts appear to have either a lack of certain “feel-good” chemicals in their brain, or the connection between the “feel-good” receptors works improperly. When an addict uses the drug, they often report feeling “normal”. They are, in fact, searching to replace the normal brain chemistry that the rest of the population takes for granted. The problem with using chemicals to “feel good”, of course, is that the very drugs that make an addict feel good, (including prescribed medication and street drugs), can cause additional harm to an addicted brain. With repeated exposure to chemical substances, the human brain appears to change the way it receives pleasure. Once this physical addiction occurs, the drug of choice is the only pleasure input that works. The contradiction in current addiction research, in my opinion, is that idea of addiction being a genetic predisposition negates the important role the environment plays. Not all addicts grew up in crack houses, or to alcoholic parents, but the ability to access a chemical high isn’t always present. So if someone is born with the addiction gene, and has a chemical flaw in their brain, but are never presented with the opportunity to use drugs, what happens? The jury is still out. Some theories suggest that as many as 90% of addicts suffer underlying mental health issues. Meaning, besides the addiction gene, they additionally have bipolar or depression or anxiety. These underlying mental health disorders, particularly when left untreated, act as an impetus for drug-seeking behavior. And in the case of my son, mental health disorders can cause impulsive behavior, increase risk-taking, and impair judgement prior to any drug being used. Some other current research indicates that many mental health issues are “triggered” by pervasive childhood trauma, meaning that someone can be born with a predisposition to bipolar that quietly lays dormant until some event or issue of significant proportion activates it, or speeds the progression, or worsens the effects. This was true for my son as well. Throughout late adolescence and his teens, Timothy experienced a series of traumatic events that were both mind numbing and life-altering. Could these have been the “triggers” that set him on this path we are on now? I think it is certain. Although current research doesn’t give us all the answers, most opinions of the day are that both addiction and mental health have both biological and environmental factors. This is why both are so difficult to understand. It is also why “experts” have such conflicting views on treatment, and critically, why public perception of these illnesses is so pervasively harsh. It is also what it makes our story so difficult to start. Odds are, even if you aren’t aware of it, you are in contact with people who suffer from mental illness. Odds are, even if you don’t know it, there are addicts in your family and in your social realm. Odds are, they are struggling even more than they otherwise would because you don’t know, because of the stigma attached to these issues, and because of the misinformation and misconceptions surrounding them. I am not sure which of the biological indicators Tim has for mental illness or addiction, as there are no conclusive medical tests for either at the current time. I do know that there have been signs since childhood that I consistently missed. His reluctance to socialize, his volatile mood swings and his periods of (near genius) productivity were apparent for as long as I can recall. The fact that I missed or dismissed these things for years has been forefront in my mind all along this journey, and it is one of the reasons that Tim and I recently decided to openly share his struggles, which we’d always held so private. Maybe Tim’s story is like your daughter’s story, or your friend’s story or your father’s story. Maybe our story is just like yours

Armchair Expert

I am not a doctor, or a psychologist. But when you have a sick child like I do, and if you’re an avid consumer of information like I am, journal articles and current research become your best friend. In my experience, it is far better to be over-informed, than to be misinformed. When you’re making life-altering decisions for your child, and his life is literally depends on the treatments, psychiatrists, medications and doctors you choose, it is best to be armed with a knowledge that is at least equal to that of the ones providing services to him. As most parents will attest, I’m sure, when you have a seriously sick child, the illness becomes a living, breathing entity of its own. It is easy to become obsessed with researching causes, finding treatments, examining the whys and hows and what next. In some ways, a parent with a sick child becomes an “armchair expert”. I have had a few treatment providers and legal professionals tell me to let the “experts” make the decisions. But when it comes down to it, if the illnesses are psychiatric in nature, not even the “experts” have a clear-cut path for treatment. Even the most current research is often contradictory, and the nature of mental health, in general is not clearly understood. And this is my child. And his life is in danger. And receiving the wrong treatment can have a consequence of death. And that isn’t an option for my family. As the mother of a child who has bipolar and addiction, I can assure you that I am the primary expert on my child. I’ve known him for his entire life. I have been with him through every accomplishment, every struggle, every success and every bad day since he was born. I have witnessed his illness manifest from “shyness” and introversion and temper tantrums in childhood, to a rapidly spinning cycle of crippling depression, and dangerously impulsive episodes of mania as he neared adulthood. I have lived the depression with him. I am the one who watches him lay in bed, staring at the wall unblinking as though his soul has been stolen, looking at his body, wondering if my son is in there at all. I am the one who hugs him and kisses him, and tries in vain to compensate for his never ending self-doubt and lack of self-worth. I’m the one who coaxes him into the shower, and then to the car for appointments when his body is literally so depressed that standing is difficult and conversation is impossible. I am the one who recognizes when he is cycling into mania. I see it coming every time. I see the change in him, the agitation, the lack of clear thinking, the impending impulsivity. I am the one who calls for help, because a person trapped in the chaos of mania is unable to do that for himself. I am the one who has to keep him safe from unsafe environments and unsafe decision making. I am the one who recognizes first when his medication isn't working, or when it is making him worse and calls the doctor, begging for five minutes of her time. I am the one who the doctor rolls his eyes at when I tell him about serotonin syndrome, or anti-depressant induced psychosis. I am the one who sits in the ER waiting room overnight, hoping to catch five minutes of a doctor's time, and the one who sleeps in the plastic hospital chair next to his bed for four nights to be his advocate during a ten minute medical exam whenever the resident pops in. I am the one who has ushered Tim through five psychiatrists, six counselors, four treatment programs, most of which have been unsuccessful. I am his voice, because when he is ill, he doesn't have one of his own. And so, in many ways, I am the expert. I am the first-hand, front line researcher. I can tell you things about experiencing bipolar that no study can actually measure. I don’t have the medical degree, but I have the experience. So, yes. I will try to trust in the experts, but recognize that I am an expert of a different kind.

The Formidable Journey

I’m not really sure where this story begins, and I surely don’t know how it ends. I’m sure all stories like mine are that. These things are experienced on a continuum, and we just live it in real time. At some point, I stopped thinking beyond the here and now. That is a common and quite necessary state to exist in when it is impossible to determine what crisis or chaos may envelop the current day. I may not have a clear beginning or ending, but I do know one thing. Regardless of what the day may bring upon waking and throughout, each moment is a gift. Breathing is a gift. Smiling, laughing and dancing are all gifts. Eating, bathing and completing mundane chores, even. Those are surely gifts. Engaging in relationships with people around us is surely the greatest gift of them all. I have seen how difficult it is for people to understand these things, and I do get it. It is easy to take it all for granted; getting out of bed, going through the day, functioning as society expects. Before this journey began, I had little knowledge of psychiatric disorders or addiction. I am a well-educated middle class woman who was born into a family of psychologists, and the information and research is out there, so I really have no excuse for my ignorance. The only defense I have is that, until something like this touches you personally, it may be nearly impossible to relate to. I never bought in to the stigmas or judgement others seem to have, but I really didn’t know. How could I have? Sometimes, when I let my mind go there, I think it would have been in some ways easier if my son had been born with diabetes or even autism, than with bipolar disorder and addiction. At least those diseases are well-researched. At least there are clear treatments for diabetes and autism. At least those diseases aren’t judged by society as character flaws or chalked up to poor parenting. At least people wouldn’t blame my son for his illness. If he had been born with diabetes, no one would ever tell him to “snap out of it”, or dismiss him or his health issues as though he were worthless. If he’d had some other biological illness, I wouldn’t have felt compelled to keep it “private”. I wouldn’t have been “shushed” by well-meaning friends when I spoke a little too loudly at the coffee shop about the current opiate epidemic in America. I would have been able to discuss his challenges at social gatherings without the inevitable judgement that seeps into any conversation that arises relating to his struggles. If he had been born with almost any other illness, it would have been easy to take sick days to transport him to critical doctor appointments, and my colleagues might have understood why I couldn’t stay late for meetings or why I didn’t attend a workshop on a Saturday. I could have simply said “my son is ill”, and no one would have questioned it, or deemed me unprofessional. They would have offered empathy and support, perhaps share their own, similar experiences in understanding. Maybe that sounds dramatic or insensitive to say that I sometimes wish my son had any other lifelong disease than bipolar and addiction. Maybe it even sounds as though I am not accepting him for who he is, or that I am being insensitive to children born with those diseases. I don’t mean it to seem that way. We all have our own struggles to overcome. Yet our experiences have been made so much more difficult because of the societal stigmas and misunderstandings attached to them. The judgement, and lack of empathy, even from professionals in the mental health field, delayed proper treatment, and created an environment for my child which is practically impossible to navigate successfully. A person who has a psychiatric illness is often treated as though they are deficient in morals, or character. “He is lazy. Make him get off the couch.” “He’s being overly sensitive. He needs to learn to be tougher.” “He’s too impulsive. He needs to learn his lesson.” “He needs to learn to do things for himself. Let him figure it out on his own.” Add addiction to that, and they are expected to “cure” themselves through sheer will power and determination. “It’s his own fault for using drugs to begin with.” “If he doesn’t want to be an addict, he should just quit.” And my favorite: “Tough Love. Let him hit rock bottom. He needs to do this on his own.” These are all commonly held public beliefs about psychiatric disorders and addiction. And yes, I have heard them all, even from “experts” in the field. I imagine if my child had diabetes, no one would ever say to me “He needs to learn to be tougher.” Or “If he doesn’t want to be diabetic, he should just stop.” Instead of the supportive net of best-practice treatment and medical care in place for almost any other disease, those who suffer from psychiatric disease and addiction are isolated from the very things that would make their treatment most effective; support, understanding, guidance. We all have our own journey to live, and we all have struggles to overcome. Disease, illness and even death are inevitable. When you suffer from psychiatric diseases or addiction, the formidable journey to health is made nearly insurmountable by the misconceptions surrounding your illness. My son doesn’t WANT to be an addict. He doesn’t CHOOSE to be depressed or manic. He suffers from his illness similarly to those with any other disease. He WANTS to be healthy. He WANTS to feel normal. He struggles because of two research determined, biological illnesses that require medical treatment like any other. The manifestations of his illness are both physical and behavioral, and they deserve society’s empathy and support as equally as diabetes does. This is the story of our formidable journey. It has no clear beginning, but everything starts somewhere.

Ode To My Doggies...

Ode To My Doggies… Oh doggies, why do you treat me so? I feed you Milkbones, but you still go. Under the fence, and up above, No loyalty towards my care and love. Walks twice a week, brushing and play. But at the first opportunity, you run far away. Science-diet, pigs ears too! You’re still not happy, oh what should I do? Dog park for social time, chew toys always. And then you take off, sometimes for days. Coming back, often with burs and a rash. The neighbors are beginning to think that I’m trash. This morning I opened a succulent can Of minced-white meat turkey, and laid it out in your pan. But before I could even call you to your feast, You scrambled under the fence and ran off like a beast. Your yard is all cozy, Fenced in and protected. But you still try to escape, Leaving me flustered and rejected. Do you have any idea the chaos you create? When you sneak on out, through a dead bolted gate? All day spent looking, for your wandering ass? Thats just NOT how it is done! Not middle class! Deep breath, now wait,I'm sorry, don't mean to snap, it's the scratches talking, and burs and other crap, From walking around and calling your name, in the woods and dark places, this isn't a game! Would it be all too much, To show a little appreciation? For the hundreds in vet bills, And the stark resignation… That I! I am your owner I say! Your master, your leader in every way! The neighbors are sick of it! The dog warden too! Tell me, what is the problem? What should I do? To stop you from leaving, to keep you at home? To prevent your running to wander and roam? I staked down the fence, I locked up the gate! But still you escape through holes you create. Is it too much to ask, for a dog who just lays? And chews on the grass and frolics and plays? Was it the spaying? Did it build up resentment? Instead of fostering trust and contentment? Some say, alas, gasp, that an electrical fence Is my last ditch sole option…and furthermore hence, If you continually refuse to keep yourself inside bounds, I may have to chain you like less independent hounds. So please heed my words, neither bitter nor gray, Please stay inside the yard when you want to play. I beg you, I plead! To stay put where you are, Forgo the back gate, when its slightly ajar. Leave off all your wandering, horn-dogging lust, And stay in the yard! You have to! You must! What’s so great out there anyways? Squirrels and skunks? Coming home at all hours after chasing those punks? I just can’t afford the Invisible Fence, I’ll have to restrain you, its my only defense. You’ll find yourself chained in a gated back yard, It will make frolicking so very hard. I implore you to consider these words that I say, and act like a good doggie in every way. I promise to praise you, throw the ball too, And show love, and affection and attention to you! Together we will lay in the grass and the sun, And in our OWN yard, we will have so much fun!

And All The Balls Fall….

And All The Balls Fall…… What? So sometimes I drop the ball. You know, that old saying when someone who screwed things up owns that shit and says “ I dropped the ball!” and everyone kind of nods and says “no problem”? Only it really is a problem when you’re a single mom to three kids who depend on you to keep all the balls in flux. You know, the balls? Like homework, and doctor appointments and orthodontia appointments, and track meets and baseball games and, oh, meals? Sometimes, when all those things are juggling around like some vast circus in the air, sometimes it can be really, REALLY hard not to drop one. Especially when work is especially demanding and something like a cold or the flu throws a really sharp edge into your day, it can be even harder than usual to keep the juggling act flying. This time it was a doctor appointment. , a simple check-in for a child who has high cholesterol at a particularly young age and needs to be monitored by a physician. I knew about the check-in. It was on my calendar. I heard the reminder voice-mail. I had it on my agenda. How could I forget? The doctor is SO nice. She has answered my every semi-crazed call for help over the past year about all of my children. Child #1 has a croupy cough…could it be swine flu? Child #2 is extremely moody…could it be depression? Child #3 has a strange rash on his leg…staph? And I stiffed her. And my son missed his check-in for a relatively serious medical issue. I don’t know how I forgot. My brain says it was the intense meeting at work that distracted me, or the phone call Friday afternoon to discuss missing homework from the teacher of my other son. Maybe it was the email from the baseball coach, changing the time and date of practice? Or the in depth conversation with another child’s counselor that consumed my thoughts. Whatever it was that made that doctor appointment slide off as a blip on the radar, it still sucks. I dropped that ball like I had grease on my hands, and I am the only one to blame. But, really, what can I do now? Pick that ball up, reschedule and keep juggling. I have, after all, had much experience managing this show, and I know that sometimes, just sometimes, if you just grab that ball up and throw it back into the mix, sometimes not everyone notices. Or sometimes they do notice and it feels really shitty. But you have to keep juggling anyways.

We Learn From History

Not afraid to admit I am somewhat of a history geek-I know-we learn from history. Officials, the really wise ones at least, study history as a blue print for the future of our civilation. The United States has been created, stone by heavy stone, constructed from times and events that occurred long before our very first breath. Such as the policies, direction and avenue for this nation has been dictated by actions of patriots who came before, so are our lives guided by our own personal history. Personal history, sometimes surreal, often illogical is manifested through both experiences we have with others, and choices we have made along the way. We learn to think, to react, to love to hurt, to heal, all because of exchanges of thought and emotion. What we take from it depends mostly on what we have learned through careful studying. One thing that is tough to learn, yet is an everlasting lesson is how to handle defeat. The truly great leaders have been able to decide when it is time to muster a rally, and when to give up and count their casualties. It is like this in life. We all aren't genius generals, but how we handle losing situations can direct our future. Losing a job is like that. Being told you are no longer needed is the most demeaning kind of defeat. You have worked hard for years, possibly spent years in school or training to accomplish the American Dream. When that fails, it is easy to find yourself feeling insignificant or unworthy. And what to do now? Go back to school? Take on a new career, effectively abandoning all you have worked so hard for? Sometimes retreat, and regroup is the only option, encountering life-altering financial devastation along the way.We spend so much time on our careers these days, away from our families, our children, our loved ones. Investing our very being into jobs, to which, ultimately,leave us high and dry. Losing someone you love is like that, too. Experiencing the painful realization that you are insignificant, meaningless, regardless of how much you have cared or sacrificed. Blood, sweat and tears can only get us so far. We, after all, are humans. Humans make mistakes, trust people who hurt us, choose unwisely often. Learning from this history can be devastating. Broken hearts and dreams make us harder, tougher, colder. No longer are we so quick to love, to trust, or to work at something we believe in, when there is little left us to believe in. The thing I think is most important is to maintain dignity in both loss, love and dismissal. Never is our path in life smooth or clear. We must leap over those hurdles that life sets before us, otherwise, we are always to be stuck alone on that same road. Sometimes retreat is necessary...regroup and reformulate. I think our forefathers might have seen that best-never questioning that the ideal is within all of our reach. Muster up, reformulate, and advance. A happy life is worth it.