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.

An Open Letter to My Children, From Your Annoying but Ever so Insightful Mother Who Loves you So Much

Dear Children,
Its me again, your annoying, embarrassing but ever so insightful mother (who you whole heartedly believe doesn't know anything about life).
Let's see, what other crazy things have you believed since you were ripped from my loins?? Well, there was that whole Santa thing, and the years you believed that the white grape-based beverage in my glass was juice. Oh! And what about what we fondly refer to as the "magic hat" incident, when you believed that your new baby brother got into my belly through some magic trick your father performed? It is ironic that you, in fact, know EVERYTHING whereas I know nothing whatsoever. I always knew you were brilliant, after all you share my brilliant genetics, but I sincerely hope you still remember all that EVERYTHING when you are an adult- we will all be rich.
Based on your (not so pleasant sometimes) words, you also are convinced that I'm Old School (a tag that I'm actually proud of-though I wouldn't admit it to you in a million years), stubborn (another positive in my mind) and overly expressive (yeah, yeah-that one not always my best quality).
I'm writing this letter because, due to the current average college tuition, the outrageous cost of clothing and shoes, and of course ever rising gasoline prices, I'm afraid there won't be much for me to leave you as an inheritance when I'm gone. I'm spending all my money (and your grandparents' too) while I'm alive and kicking. Be grateful that you have shoes at all at 100 bucks a pair. After I'm gone, you will have to figure out how to afford hundred dollar shoes for yourself and your own children. Good luck with that. You do know EVERYTHING, so i'm sure you will be fine. I suggest opening a Sears credit card-they have great sales sometimes, and the rustic look may be "IN" for a while.
You've told me a hundred times that I don't know anything, and are currently convinced you have all the knowledge and wisdom there is to have about the world and how it works. You have it locked up! Good for you!
I realize that because you have somehow managed to harness all this worldly wisdom in your few short years on earth, that any advice I offer you is surplus and pointless, but humor me just this one time and read on.
While I don't claim to be an expert at anything except for screwing things up, I actually have learned a thing or two that may come in handy to you on your journey through adulthood. I fully expect you to disregard every bit of it, because your tendency is to do the exact opposite of what I suggest, but as I said, there's no money or stock options for you after I croak, so take what you can get. I leave you with all the wisdom my 37 years have wrought.
Lesson #1- Love Well and Love Deeply (even when it hurts)
Love from your soul. This is guaranteed to grant you a spiritual experience that no church or drinkable, smokable substance will ever top (um, not that I know a thing about any of those substances myself of course, I'm just basing it on what your grandmother told me...). Love people for who they are, and NOT what they do for you. Money is not life or love. If someone hurts you, love them anyways, flaws and all, knowing that nobody is perfect, and humans have no road map for how to live life. Give more love than you are given, saying "I love you" often, and you will actually fill your own bucket that way. Love your family, friends, lovers-wishing the best for each one, even if their role in your life is over.
But don't just love PEOPLE, love things too (and I don't mean your hockey cards and video games). Love ideas. Love places, experiences, and moments in time. Fill your heart with the pleasure of the sound of your best friend's laughter, the feel of a lover's kiss, the majesty of the sunrise over an Adirondack or Ozark mountain range. Love the earth, the land, the trees and the air, and all the creatures that live here with us. Remember, love is FREE to give, and will make YOU richer for giving it.
Lesson #2 Your Heart Will Break
People will disappoint you, even the ones you love. Lovers will lie, manipulate or betray you. Friends will stab you in the back. Your children (yes, even your own spawn) will make your heart ache so badly you will feel the walls caving in, and you cannot breath. It will feel like someone died. You will feel disenchanted, confused, bewildered when someone you have invested in hurts you. You will feel dead inside, only you will still be alive, and have no choice but to live. So keep on living. I wish that this lesson, more than any other, was one you didn't have to learn, but sadly, I can't protect you from it. People are imperfect. They are self-centered. They are cruel sometimes. I'm sorry ahead of time that you will ever have to experience it. Your own kids will one day rip open your chest cavity, and leave you holding your own cold, bleeding heart in your hand. Believe me when I tell you it will suck. Big time. The experience may cause you to go slightly insane, but don't be too hard on yourself (thank you Dr. Kinan). There won't be a damn thing you can do about it, as you can't control other people's actions, only your own. It will hurt, plain and simple, and you have to keep waking up, because of-
Lesson #3
Don't Give Up on Happiness
You are likely to make many bad choices in your lifetime, ones that lead you to bad places. You will screw things up grandly. You will fall in love with the wrong person, take risks that end in disaster, treat someone close to you badly. You will screw up to the point of no return. You will also experience crap that is no fault of your own. Sometimes life hands you a very unfair, and unearned plate of bad karma. You may find yourself laid off, broken hearted, or unexpectedly alone. Don't give up. You never know what tomorrow will bring-and that's the truth. Some days are small days, and some are great ones. Some tomorrows bring mind blowing shit storms, and some bring sunshine and butterflies. Live for the sunshine and butterflies-they WILL come, and you will find yourself hopelessly in love, well employed, and with a house full of friends once again (as long as you follow my advice from Lesson #1 young Jedis).
Lesson #4
Work Hard for What You Love, and Love What You Do
You get ONE (listen up-ONE) chance at this life. Don't spend a single second in a career that makes you miserable, or in a relationship that hurts. But know that both careers and relationships are hard-ass work! Be prepared to give your all for someone or something that is worth it. Blood, sweat and tears my babies. When you find something or someone you love-hold on to it with all your might. Make it a success. Now, there will be times that despite herculean efforts, things will NOT work out as you thought they would. But do NOT give up. Hard work really does pay off.
Last, but not least (drum roll please)
Lesson #5
Be Careful What You Do, and Even MORE Careful What You Say-(aka-think before you do something stupid)
Stop! Listen to me-THINK before you do something stupid. There are consequences to everything we do, and sometimes they are life-altering ones. Some things create scars that will never be healed, and that is the WORST lesson to learn in real time. Treat your relationships with loved ones like fragile glass objects. They can be broken in one careless instant. The most valuable possessions you will ever have on this earth are the relationships you have with people your life. Shattered glass can be glued together, but it will always show its cracks.
I guess that's it for now. Let me think,anything else? Oh yes. Don't forget to put the toilet seat down, wear your seat belts,wear clean underwear and all that. Most of all your mother is ALWAYS right. It took me years to learn this one, but listen to your mother. You really will realize that someday when you are like me, 37, somewhat crazy, and with no blueprint for parenting. Everything on earth comes with a set of directions but babies, but do the best you can. I have.

Love,
Mom

Read for GOD's Sake! READ!

The second installment of a two-part series, this week's Lock On Literacy reports on another of EPIC's early literacy programs, Ready-Set-Read!
“Once you learn to read, you will be forever free.”- Frederick Douglass
Born into slavery, Frederick Douglass found his path to freedom, and by his own proclamation, found it through reading. Fighting the tyranny of repression, Douglass discovered something that all book-loving citizens can attest to – there are benefits to literacy that are life-altering.
According to the office of Buffalo Mayor Byron Brown, 30% of Buffalonians cannot read, write, speak, and listen for information and understanding. They are unable to read the newspaper; fill out job applications; and in many instances, to competently perform many jobs, Simply put, within Western New York, nearly one out of three people are not sufficiently literate and therefore have a deficit that impacts every part of their lives.
It’s no surprise to any of us that children who struggle with reading are more likely to drop out of school prior to graduation. Historically, those who do not learn to read and write are more likely to commit crimes, and end up in jail than those who develop strong literacy skills. One area program, sponsored by non-profit Every Person Influences Children (EPIC), is determined to provide parents with the tools they need to help their children become readers. Based on the notion that Family Literacy creates children who can read, Ready-Set-Read! is designed to reach out to parents who need an extra boost in developing a literacy-rich environment at home.
“An Active Learning Model really encourages parents to come up with their own ideas about how they can help their children at home,” says Jeffrey Bell, Director of Development and Marketing at EPIC. “A facilitator goes to where the parents are, and starts a conversation.”
A community-based program funded by donations by the Ronald McDonald House of WNY, the Children’s Foundation of WNY and others, Ready-Set-Read! provides family support services, most notably parenting skills and literacy education. Not only does EPIC provide parent education workshops directly in their center, but they piggy-back on to other workshops, slipping in during the lunch break or at the end of continuing education seminars for example.
Partnering with an array of local agencies, including refugee centers, battered women shelters and local GED programs, EPIC seeks out an audience that often slips through the cracks. "These are parents who don't have confidence to seek out help," explains Bell.
EPIC is determined to bring the program to the parents, providing trained specialists to assist in developing literacy skill – which in turn, they can use to help their children at home. What Bell describes as a “strength-based system”, Ready-Set Read! begins with parents offering advice and sharing tips. Once the ideas begin to flow, the facilitator makes suggestions aimed at improving parents’ understanding of how learning occurs through active involvement with books.
Following an initial adult-oriented session within the framework of other programs, participants are encouraged to bring their children to the Parent Involvement Center for additional training. Here, specialists gently guide parents as they work with their young children, sometimes even providing transportation to and from the workshops. There are actually seven sessions in all for parents, covering an array of topics from how to develop phonemic awareness, vocabulary and comprehension in young children to choosing quality books for their home. "We are teaching parents to be their child's first teacher," says Bell, and the outcomes are proof that it works. Parent surveys indicate that as many as 45% pf participants report putting what they learned the workshops into practice. Their confidence in communicating with their child's school, as well as in their own ability to support their child's learning increased as well.
Parents participating in the workshops not only get advice and training, but hands on instruction, and perhaps most importanly, a confidence boost. All of this, of course, is free of charge.
If you’d like to become involved, or to get more information, check out EPIC,
http://www.epicforchildren.org

Ready-Set-Parent!

Do you remember your favorite book from when you were a child? I bet you do. One, which you maybe flipped through so many times the pages yellowed? How about your earliest memory of sitting on your parent’s lap, reading about Mother Goose and her wayward friends, or that lying Pinnochio and his poor wooden nose? I do. My favorite was Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott, a copy of which I still keep today.
Can you imagine a life without text? Without words? When you were sitting there with a grown-up, you were getting so much more out of it than a lesson on honesty. Whether you know it or not, reading at home taught you concepts about print, how to read from left to right, and from top to bottom. You learned to feel comfortable with text, and that words have meaning. Now imagine a home with no books. And consider what it would be like if your parent never read to you. Sadly, this is the experience of thousands of local children.
As an educator, a literacy specialist, and a passionate reader and writer, I have researched and interacted with dozens of literacy programs, both school and community based. I have found we tend to focus on reading, writing and speaking within the framework of schools, and justifiably so. Parents, as a whole aren’t trained to teach their children to read and write. In schools, students are exposed to books, drilled in the relationship between sound and letters, and taught the basic sight words needed as the basis of strong literacy development. These things happen routinely, beginning at age five when the typical Western New York child starts formal schooling, but really, it isn’t enough.
Recently, I was excited to learn about one locally based program I had to check out. Aimed at helping new parents, and sponsored dually by non-profits EPIC (Every Person Influences Children) and Baker Victory Services, Ready-Set Parent! is a free, community based set of interventions and workshops. Focused on helping at-risk families learn the value in play and in creating a literacy-rich environment within the home, Ready-Set-Parent! provides moms with information and the tools they need to use it. Answering questions, and gifting children’s books, trained specialists ensure babies born in local Buffalo area hospitals have resources to give their babies the very best start possible.
I spoke with Jeffrey Bell, the Director of Development and Marketing for EPIC, who clearly shared my excitement over putting books into the hands of babies. The first thing I discovered, surprisingly, is that Ready-Set-Parent! makes direct contact with at least sixty percent of all new mothers who give birth at Sisters Hospital, Mercy Hospital or Women and Children’s Hospital of Western New York.
Asked about funding a community based parenting education program, Bell described it as tricky, but positive. This past year, Ready-Set-Parent! was verbally ensured a two-hundred thousand dollar earmark, which was later (not surprising to anyone in this fiscal climate) junked by legislators. Funding, as with all non-profits, depends on the year. Supported by some small philanthropic donations, The United Way, as well as both the Catholic Health Services, they receive some direct payment for portions of the program from Health Insurance companies. The literacy component of this initiative is an extra, able to be tacked on to nutrition and wellness education that occurs right in the hospital rooms.
Over the years, Bell said, the level of educational programming within area maternity wards has declined due to restricted funding, frugal minded hospitals instead opting for the most basic of medical care for their new moms. Bell sees Ready-Set-Parent! as filling the gap between medical services and needed family support services.
Describing the families they serve as well intentioned but overwhelmed, and often isolated, Bell identifies the value in bringing the support directly to the hospital. Sometimes working two jobs, frequently teenage mothers estranged from their own parents, these folks usually won’t seek out help on their own. Bell says these new moms typically welcome the help.
Partnering with Baker Victory Services’ Health and Nutrition programming, EPIC facilitates visits from community-based grant funded specialists. These specially trained community members are people who can relate to those they are serving. “People are more comfortable taking parenting advice from someone they can relate to,” says Bell. So EPIC sets up sessions right in the hospitals. Bringing a uniquely crafted version of the children’s classic “Goodnight Moon”, specialists aim to build relationships with new moms, which translates into a positive parenting education program. The book, encased in a special cover containing step-by-step instructions on how to read to an infant, also includes an application to the Buffalo and Erie County Library. Moms are encouraged to seek advice and ask questions in a private setting, and are provided with information about how to engage their baby in educational play and develop a literacy rich home.
In short, they piece together enough money to give new moms books, and teach them how to use them. Considering that the greatest brain development in our lives occurs before we even begin school-I’d say this program is key to supporting a well-educated Western New York Community.
Obviously, illiteracy isn’t called a societal ill for nothing. You may know that children who struggle with reading are more likely to drop out of school prior to graduation, but did you know that historically, those who do not learn to read and write are more likely to commit crimes, and end up in jail than those who develop strong literacy skills? Students who graduate from high school have a higher lifetime income earning potential, making it less likely they will end up seeking welfare and public assistance. Most importantly, the ability to communicate successfully improves quality of life, positively improving a person’s contributions to their community.
We can all support literacy development within our WNY community. Consider becoming a Literacy volunteer, or supporting fundraising for literacy programming!

For registration information, contact EPIC at (716)332-4153.
To find out how EPIC can help YOU, check out their website: http://www.epicforchildren.org

WHILE WE

(My amazing son Timothy wrote this-such a grown-up perspective from a young one. He is amazing)
While we sit down and relax on the couch
Millions of people are without a house
While we go to the sink and drink some water
A young girl is crying about the man who just bought her
While we go outside in the sun
Many innocents run from the guns
While we go home to take a long nap
Hungry Children go looking for a scrap
While we out and have a good time
A poor family sleeps in grime
While we go to school and learn a new thing
Millions of people just try to keep breathing
While we drive our cars to work everyday
Millions of people fight just to see the next day
While we complain about a little recession
Half the world is fighting oppression
While we sit around with these truths we ignore
A great deal of people suffer on another shore
While we take advantage of the things that we have
All of these people wish they had what we have

No one Ever Promised Me a Rose Garden……

But rose gardens are so pretty….

Life is funny sometimes. Not “ha, ha” funny, but ironic. No one ever promised any of us that it would be easy, just the opposite in fact. We learn from a very young age how cruel it can be. Playground bullies, unnecessary bumps and bruises, transpiring pointlessly sometimes, if only to show us that the world and the people in it can be cold. Yet we still, for the most part, continue to fight, kicking and screaming to find our rose garden.
In my life I have experienced the very highest of highs and the very lowest of lows, a record all, of a life lived. I have had the biggest of disappointments, interactions and events that I expected and counted on dissolving before my eyes. I have made the biggest of mistakes, life altering and damaging mistakes, ones which forever changed the course of my future. The irony, of course, lies in knowing that my own choices, my own actions brought me exactly where I deserved to be by anyone’s standard. A variety of errors on my part, insecurity, procrastination, laziness, each have played some role in speeding me along towards failure.
I have acted stupidly. I have been afraid to own choices I have made, frozen by the knowledge that I should have been smarter, and that really, stupid has no excuse, only consequence. I have acted cowardly, begging for mercy when I have been too weak to handle my own reality alone, protesting the tomorrow when I should have been stronger today.
In my life I have experienced the worst of luck, done the right thing, worked my hardest only to end up in failure. I have pushed myself until my body collapsed, until my mind faltered, until my will dissolved, only to watch the fruit of my labors rise in wisps of smoke and dissolve in a pile of ashes. I have struggled, witnessing things I worked towards for years crash and burn. I have been abandoned when I was burning, sacrificed selfishly.
In my life I have survived the most devastating of heartbreaks, the crushing and cruel realization that life is no fairy tale, but a drama with characters, all with their own agenda. I have felt unworthy, not good enough, numbed by the tearing of my heart, the disappointment of loss, of what never will be. I have struggled to breath through tears, turning off all emotion, so as not to feel the pain, disappointed to even wake the next morning.
In my life, I have experienced violation, scarring and altering, events beyond my control, which damaged my home, my body, my security, and my soul. I have lived through pointless cruelty by others who either didn’t know or were too evil to care how their actions hurt. I have survived trampling of my rights and privacy, which forever cemented deep seeded insecurities, injured my family and those who I love.
In my life I have experienced the greatest of joys. A soul created from part of me, breathtaking beauty touching the core of me, gifts from Heaven I know, as there is no other possible explanation. I have been gifted with the glory of motherhood, where sacrifice is offered willingly and without question, and the simple existence of that soul provides me with the breath and desire to climb the highest of mountains and fight the greatest of wars without care for any injury that might be inflicted on myself.
I have experienced the greatest of loves, deep and pure. Heartrending feelings of devotion, lust, obsession even, wrapping myself up in the ecstasy of being loved. I have lived romance novels and fairy tales and waterfalls, emotions so strong that my world stopped spinning and I was perfectly happy to jump right off, not knowing or even caring what lay beneath me. I have allowed love to envelope me, selfishly sometimes, no thought or even care what the outcome may be.
I have had dreams come true, lived moments some only imagine, pleasure others don’t realize exist. I have watched magic created from thin air wrap itself around me and felt as it penetrated my core, surreal but present. I have been witness to incredible kindness, selfless and healing, both to myself and to others. I have received gifts, emotional and material, which I was desperate for, but often undeserving.
I have been the recipient of the fiercest of loyalty, love and commitment to my well-being. I have been nurtured when I was in pain, nursed when I was broken, coddled when I was weak and loved when I didn’t deserve to be, sometimes by people who I least expected, sometimes by total strangers.
I have put the pieces back together. I have picked myself up from the bottom of the trash heap again and again, struggling to believe that it is all worth it. That the joys, the love, even the pain is somehow making me a better person, a wiser person, capable of waking again the next day to face the next battle.
I have learned through joy and pain, loss and love. I have evolved, grown, changed, and become stronger. I have realized I am capable. I am unique, that there are people who love me even when I screw everything up. I have learned that I can touch a child’s life and shape their future, teaching them how to give and receive love, and that I don’t have to be at my best to do it. I have learned that we can’t protect the innocent from pain, we can only guide them through it. I have learned that everyone leaves their footprint, and we can choose to
recognize that as beautiful or damaging. I have learned that we can’t make people love us, no matter how desperately we try. I have learned how to pick myself up, how to keep breathing, how to close doors against my will and how to open up new ones, shaking and raw. I have said yes to opportunity, to clarity, to the sun and the stars.

I have learned I am worth it.
That love should be easy and if it is a tough decision, then it isn’t really love.
That I shouldn’t trust others for my happiness.
That dreams blow up in smoke but the next one is likely manifesting itself as I weep.
That loss makes us humble.
That I should cherish those who are willing to walk across the fire to be with me when I am burning.
That it takes courage to be happy.
That we sow our OWN rose garden, seed by tiny seed and we must nurture and care for it to grow.
That people who love us water our flora, pluck out the weeds.
I have learned through my ups and downs, through my highs and lows.
My, oh my, I have learned.

One Tiny Lesson at a Time....

“Those who live on hope, die of starvation”… not sure who to credit those thoughtful words to, but I saw it last night on a best friend’s Facebook status. It struck me on a personal level, and I assumed she posted it for me. Not so. And not so oddly, it seemed to be a quote that many related to.

The thing is, I’ve also used hope as my sustenance in life. Hasn’t really gotten me where I’d like to be, though it has absolutely gotten me through trial after life trial, which (my GOD) I am thankful for!

I guess, though, at some point, it is equally important to begin feeding my future with something more filling than hope alone. Hard work, sweat and tears are equally, if not more critical than the illusion and emotional umbrella that hope can offer. And most importantly is to feel the successes and failures that are occurring daily in every aspect of my life. Feel the pain, accept loss, realize and forgive myself for my mistakes. Otherwise, the lessons I am constantly encountering aren’t really teaching me what I need to learn, in order to figure out where I am going.

That path, very nearly always lonely, for certain a struggle, is mine alone to walk. It is, in fact, each of ours alone. We all chose our own lives. THAT is one lesson I’ve learned for sure! Once in a while, we encounter someone whose path seems so clear. Yet we can’t ever direct another person down one path or the next, no matter how strongly we wish we could. People we encounter along our personal journey are all just doing their best to find their own personal truths. They may touch us deeply, and play some role in the lessons we are learning. Yet, they too, are struggling with their own realizations.

Just as we are struggling to find success, love, happiness that fills us in magical ways, so too are others we meet along the way. But truly? The lessons that sink in for us may not be the same ones that others are learning. The key to survival is to live fearlessly, and be unafraid. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of judgement, fear of disappointment, or in disappointing others, are our biggest blockades in life. Climb over, dig through, go around…any which way…not getting stuck behind.

The Absence of a Village...

I was recently struck by a conversation I had with a colleague. Struck is actually putting lightly. It was more like I was kicked in the gut. She was sharing with me her sadness at the slow decline she’s noticed in the morality of our youth. So many of the students she’d taught years ago had taken the wrong path…drugs, crime. She wondered how we had raised an entire generation of humans with so few social values, and no moral convictions. She said to me something that I have said a hundred times as an educator, “I wish I could take them all home with me”.
Her comments stopped me short, giving me a heavy sensation in the pit of my stomach. As a child growing up, my mother was a school psychologist, and she actually DID bring students home with her. One, whose home life was so corrupt it made our hearts break, moved in with us for months during my senior year of high school. I never resented her presence as an infringement in my space, or my home. In fact, having that lonely young woman to nurture and support was an incredibly fulfilling experience for me. I found myself less self-involved, more empathetic than I’d been prior. My mother wasn’t crazy to bring this girl to our home. In fact, the experience may have provided Sherry with the love, empathy and acceptance she needed to get through a very rough time in her life. My mother understood this, intrinsically, and thus created her desire to provide her with those things.
I’ve felt that desire strongly several times as an educator, a pull towards that one student who I knew needed something more than what they are getting at home. Sometimes there is neglect. Other times things more sinister. Often though, it isn’t as obvious. There arises an innate awareness, maybe stemming from my experiences as a mother, that a child isn’t going to quite make it with their life the way it is. It is these children who we see “fall through the cracks”, in spite of herculean efforts by the staff members at school. Like the ones who, years later, are remembered by their teachers as “such a smart boy”, and “such a nice girl”, as they begin their third go at rehab. Like the ones sadly recalled as “so popular”, as they sit alone in a jail cell. Like the ones, I realized as I listened to my colleague speak…like the ones who had robbed my house this past Fall.
As she continued to talk, I had an actual physical response to her words. She explained things we all know, such as how children used to learn their values from their parents, and grandparents. It seems that now, she said, parents are too absent, too unaware, or too overwhelmed to take on the moral education of their children.
Oh, I’ll just say it…sigh…parents can’t seem to be bothered with teaching their children the English language, let alone potty training or (GASP!) to read. Guiding them towards becoming productive, law abiding citizens of our country is entirely too draining. Somehow expecting infants and toddlers to internalize these skills by osmosis, or through the efforts of more responsible adults in the schools, at church…anywhere but at home, so many parents of today’s youth have really lost the drive or even know-how to do it.
For many, its tough enough just to make it through the day, ensuring everyone in the family arrives where they are supposed to be. I know THAT all too well. Deep philosophical lessons on the importance of honor are last on my list of mothering duties when I am tired and hungry at the end of the day. I guess I am just as much to blame as the next-door neighbors.
Speaking of which, what happened to those dear neighbors of long ago? The ones who knew every little thing going on around town? You know, those darling, pain in the ass old folk who weren’t afraid of yelling at us when we trampled their flowers in a game of tag, and who called the police at a minute past ten if the music was too loud? I’m sure none of us appreciated their noses in our business at the time. We really couldn’t get away with too much before our parents were notified. Yet, that entire network of people watching out for us provided such a safety net. Any little thing our parents missed, would surely have been seen by the ever-watchful eye glaring out the window next door. I’m still afraid of my mother’s neighbors, now at age thirty-five. Where have those neighbors gone? I’d asked myself that very question a thousand times in the months following The Robbery of my house.
On top of the effortless parenting and the apparent lack of a village to raise a child, we have no great public heroes these days to be role models for any of us. My mother had an entire generation of Superheroes as an example of honor and responsibility. My grandfather, his peers, true heroes all, fighting for the freedom of entire nations, and against the extinction of democracy and justice.
In generations since, we have too often turned towards sports figures, or other talents in the public eye. Generally, they haven’t always proven the epitome of moral standard bearers. Only a small handful like Tiger Woods and Michael Phelps….oh wait….
What my colleague was saying were not things I had really given coherent thought to since The Robbery. Looking back, I realized I’d had very few coherent thoughts about anything at all since that time. Life itself, as we knew it, had been one constant disruption, interviews with detectives, locating suspects, identifying stolen property, haggling (arguing really) with insurance people. The invasion of our home, and the series of unsettling incidences that had followed had been all consuming, and sadly life altering. The Robbery had changed my perspective on so many things. Life in my safe little town no longer seemed so comforting. The world outside suddenly appeared huge and frightening in a way that it never had before. Causing disruption and chaos in every arena, The Robbery caused me to become consumed with anger, feelings of victimization, unfairness. Our most costly possessions had been thieved in one fell swoop. Already experiencing financial strain, the idea of replacing thousands of dollars of electronics, clothing, even food, seemed overwhelming. Resentment towards those who had created that chaos in my life overshadowed every waking moment, and each sleeping breath. My teenage son became vengeful. I sunk deep into an obsession for justice.
And then something beautiful happened. Something I hadn’t expected, and which made the world begin to seem right again. People began reaching out to us. Each person we came in contact with offered a kind word or a hug. My family, worried about my physical safety and my emotional health, sent money. My father offered to sleep at my house when we were frightened. My mother stepped in to shoulder parenting responsibilities when I was just too emotionally spent to do it right. My co-workers, concerned with my immediate well being, organized a donation drive for my family. Generously attempting to replace what had been stolen, they plied me with the necessities, food, clothing, wine, gift cards and even cash to cover the rest. Neighbors, near and unknown began to check in to see that we were safe. Shown love by both family and strangers alike, the dark cloud began to lift inch by generous inch. Through the love, empathy and acceptance of others, my community began to feel like just that, once again. Life resumed, and a new normalcy began, edged always, though, by that nagging resentment towards the criminals, the children, who had upturned my life.
As my colleague shared with me her sadness that day, jumbled thoughts rolled through my mind and feelings in my heart, because the children we had been discussing could easily have been the same ones who were responsible for robbing my house. In a sort of revelation, I remembered the kindness I had been shown by people I had never even met, and wondered if any of those children had ever been shown anything of that sort. Had they felt that same resentment for things they’d lost, not followed by the loving embrace of people who gave a damn?
All along, I had been struggling to bring peace back to my world, despite the anger and bitterness I felt. Seeing our Robbers not as children who weren’t loved but as a chaotic storm, I had never taken a moment to think about where they’d come from. Frantic to see each one of them behind bars, I’d focused all my attention on their capture, their punishment.
But that day, I realized something else. Punishment really was not what those children needed, or what I needed. Perhaps they weren’t really lacking any heavy lessons in morality, or social propriety. Maybe it was something else entirely that they were lacking...those things that had helped me to begin to heal. Perhaps because they hadn’t had that all along in their lives, things like empathy, love and acceptance despite their mistakes, maybe that was why they were weaving such chaos around themselves. And in that moment I discovered just what it was I needed to bring peace back to my existence, the one thing that I’d been lacking in order to heal my soul, and piece my broken family back together.
Forgiveness.

Already Gone...

I've lost my mind, and I am not sure where to find it.


It all began last night. I had a sickening, pulse quickening sense that something really, REALLY important was missing. I've had that feeling before, but in the past, I've managed to ignore it, suppress it, or pretend that it wasn't there. Not this time. This time, the feeling was its strongest yet.


Saying that it began last night may be a bit of misstatement. The vacating of my mind probably began long ago. I am not sure exactly when it started, but over the years it gradually deepened. Divot by tiny divot, my sanity has been etched away with each surreal event or extraordinary experience.

It is an odd feeling, the absence of one's mind, as though an appendage has gone missing. You realize something that used to be there is gone, yet sanity dissolves in such minute increments that the realization ultimately arrives like a slap in the face. It WAS there, once upon a time. Why did it ditch me? And where the heck did it go?

Although I am certain my sanity began its slow decline years ago, certain recent events have hastened its desertion. For instance, about a year ago now, my husband moved out of the house we'd shared. Those lonely and tearful nights I spent during and following our initial separation created some serious sanity dumping. Sitting in my garage so as not to be discovered dissolving into nothing, I'd curl my knees tightly into my chest, staring absently at the rafters. It was my own fault my mind left me then. I didn't really want to visit it at all at that point, thinking it was no friend of mine.

Even more recently, after my house and all of its valuable belongings were robbed, my mind slipped even further from my grasp. The trauma to my family was so complete, that I didn't really want to be sane, anyway. Initially, it was much simpler to just follow my mind on its slow descent into lunacy. After all, no sane civilian woman would consider staking out the homes of various convicted felons for entire nights at a time. Sanity would never have allowed me to continue pretending I was living an episode of "Charlie's Angels". Following suspects and casing hide-outs is too, well- crazy!
It was around this time certain friends and family members started to snap their fingers in my face.
"Hey! Keri! Hey! What planet are you living on?"
I soon decided to conceal my nocturnal habits. I no longer invited my friends on the stake-outs. I took my teenage son with me instead.

And the slow slide continues...

How To Lose Your Mind and Other Small Things…

Alarm didn’t go off? Stuck in traffic? Caught behind various slow moving public school buses? All true…but I’ve used those excuses a million times already. Absently, I waste time I don’t have debating the proper reasoning for my son’s late note of the day. Eventually, I know, I’ll be called out, or he’ll be getting detention of massive proportions. Maybe the car wouldn’t start? Seven minutes.
I cross two fingers on my left hand and write, “Please excuse my son Timothy for being late. He had an orthodontist appointment early this morning.” Hurriedly, I swirl my name and the date at the bottom, and shove it into his outstretched hand. He gives me an evil grin, “Yeah. They are going to buy THAT one. I had an orthodontist appointment last week”.
I stare at him, knowing it to be true, and sigh. Trying not to feel like a dismal failure, I grit my teeth and watch as he carefully packs up his ipod and cell phone at a snail’s pace. Glaring at him, I point at the car clock. 6 minutes. Get out!
“Go! If you’re late, you get detention. If I’M late, I get fired!”
I hit the gas as he slams the car door shut, and glance to the right. My tires squeal a bit as I turn out of the parking lot. Oh God. I sneak a peek back at the school, hoping no one notices.
I purposefully release my clenched, white knuckles from their iron grip on the faded black steering wheel. Turning up the radio volume high, I grab at my make-up bag on the seat next to me. Red light. Deep breath. Five minutes.
Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, I grope around in my sequined rock-star bag until my fingers find the cylinder-shaped mascara tube. With one hand, I swipe the wand over my lashes, one eye on the road, the other on the mirror.
Over the fuzz of the morning-show voices on the radio, I hear the sound of “Soul Sista” by Train playing somewhere on my body. I stop my make-upping in mid-stroke. My cell phone.
Left onto Ellicott, and I shove the make-up back into its bag, now fumbling with the mess in my coat pocket. The car slips a little in the snow, and I slide to a stop. Not today. Carefully I navigate the slickness of the road, squinting my eyes, and tipping my head, handling her as though I am at NASCAR. I brave another look at the clock. Four minutes. I can’t be late again.
I find my cell amongst the rubble, now vibrating to notify me that I have missed a call. I peek at the screen, one new voice mail. Sighing, I see that is was the phone call I’d been waiting for. No time to call back now. Like so many other things I long for, it will have to wait. Slowly picking up speed, I realize that the road is pretty well salted. Must have been just a rough spot back there. I might still make it on time. Two more traffic lights, both green, and I am feeling like Lady Luck may be smiling on me for the moment.
Chugging the final bit of vanilla-flavored coffee from my travel mug, I wipe a dribble from my chin, hoping the drop that lands on my brown shirt doesn’t show too badly. I carefully negotiate the curves around the creek road, letting myself, just for a minute, be wistful, longing for warmer days. The bubbling creek churns beneath a surface that is still frozen, and the bare branches of the trees seem so lonely without their leaves.
Reluctantly, I drag my focus back to this very day on my horizon, and realize I have two minutes left to get there. I corner the final turn onto the street where my school resides, speeding into the lot, then the last parking space in the row. Simultaneously, I grab my laptop, purse and the pile of papers I’d taken home to correct, while opening the car door and hitting the lock button on my key chain. One last glance at the clock tells me I have exactly sixty seconds to make it to the back door before our custodian turns the lock under direct order from my principal.
Summoning talent indigenous to my hometown, I plant my 3 inch heeled boots solidly into the slush and bolt, not missing a beat or step. Of course I don’t slip or fall. I am a Buffalo-Chick, born and bred. Juggling my bags, I arrive at the cafeteria door at the same moment Dave does, keys in hand. Arms straining under their load, I slide past him with a smile, slightly winded from the run.
I stride past the hundred students waiting in the main hallway for the signal to swarm to their classrooms. Pasting on a cheerful face, I call out “Good Morning!” to half a dozen of my own students, cover the ten feet to my room and slip inside. Arms shaking now, my toes pinched up into the tips of my boots, I drop my belongings onto my desk and sigh. I glance at the clock. Eight-oh-one. Another day has begun.