I’m Fine…No Really…Okay, No…I’m Not Fine…But I’ll Be Okay

I’m fine. No…really, I am. How many times do we say this to people, when really, we AREN’T fine? Many. Like oodles and oodles. TOO MANY times we say this. I’m totally guilty of this. For two reasons really. First, because if I say I’m fine, I might believe I’m fine, and then I won’t make a damn scene crying my eyes out that I’m not fine. And second, do most people that ask this question really want your honest answer? Are they prepared for your honest answer? Let’s just say, someone asked me last night how I was. The night before admitting my son into a psychiatric partial hospitalization program. I would likely answer, ‘I’m fine. It’s hard, but I’m fine.’

But if I paused, really paid attention to my feelings, and shared my true emotions, it might go something like this…

Person: Heather, how are you?

Me: I’m…fine. No wait. I’m not fine. Actually, I’m barely holding it together. Some moments I feel normal, maybe even happy. Some moments I feel like I can conquer all of this, be a survivor, come out on top. But most moments lately, it’s a struggle to get out of bed. I cry because I wish my son didn’t have to feel pain. I get sad because he notices he’s different and he doesn’t like it. I cry because he says, ‘I just wish I could start my life over, and be a normal kid like everyone else, one that doesn’t have to take medicine.’ So yeah, I’m not fine. Because I have a kid that hurts himself. That feels the pain of those around him, and it weighs him down. I have a kid that mirrors my emotions sometimes, so I can’t be too sad around him, because then he owns my feelings like they’re a brick tied to his ankle. And they bring him down, down, down. He feels like he’s drowning in emotions and they’re just so hard to take sometimes, that not being here feels like the easier, better option. So yeah. I’m pretty damn torn up actually. And I’m exhausted. I’m exhausted from feeling like I’m walking on a frozen lake during the Spring thaw. Waiting, watching where I walk, hoping my next step doesn’t cause the cracking of the ice beneath my feet. Exhausted from never knowing the next time I pick up Noah from school if I’m going to see the totally laid back, mellow Noah…or manic, hyper, busy Noah, or depressed, sad, lethargic Noah. And my eyes are puffy with bags under them. Because I don’t sleep really well. I try not to worry too much about what’s not in my control, but telling a mother not to worry is like telling a meteorologist not to check the radar. It’s just part of the job. So, I guess I’m not fine. I often think I’m fine. But really, I’m just in survival mode. Just taking it moment by moment, step by step. Hoping, wishing and praying we’ll make it another day. So yeah, I’m not really fine, but most days I feel pretty good, pretty confident that we will make it through. How are you?

CAN YOU IMAGINE? Seriously, can you imagine if that was how I responded? Good grief. What would one do with that information?!

Here’s the deal…if you averaged out my emotions on a graph, I probably do land in the ‘okay’ range much of the time. I manage. I make it. Because I feel like I have to. What other choice is there anyway? People tell me all the time that they think I’m so strong. Which is so interesting to me, because I feel anything and perhaps everything, but that. I don’t feel strong. At all. I feel weak, and tired, abused and torn, bruised and bursting. But I am Noah’s support, his anchor, his ‘we’re going to get through this’. So, I don’t have a lot of time for anything but powering through. Pushing beyond. But then I hit a wall. Then I have days where I just can’t be ‘okay’ anymore, can’t be strong anymore.

Today, after completing the intake with Noah at the psychiatric facility, I came home – feeling ‘okay’, perhaps a little numb. I started cleaning and as I was vacuuming I hit my head, really, really hard. Like, I thought I might need stitches – hard. I immediately just burst into tears, my head hurt soooo bad. No stitches were needed. But I couldn’t. stop. crying. And then I realized, my head didn’t hurt anymore, but my heart did. My heart just ached. For Noah, for myself, for what we’re going through. For forty five minutes, I sobbed. Guttural, deep, clutching my chest, sobs. It was as if I needed to feel physical pain from getting hurt, to open and free the pain and aches in my heart that I’d been holding back, holding in for so long. After forty five minutes of gut wrenching sobs, I eased into softer, quieter tears. Somewhere in all of that, I managed to fold a load of Noah’s laundry. At least I was productive while releasing some pent up anguish, right? But then. Then while folding laundry, I pulled out one of his baby blankets. And oh did the sobs start again.

Because I looked at that baby blanket and thought of all the happiness, the innocence, the promise a new baby brings. I thought of all of the times I looked at his happy, bright, smiling face. And it reminded me of how many years it has been since he’s felt that happy, that bright, that smiley. More pain. More anguish. More sobs.

But I let it ALL out. Somehow, I choked down a chef salad. While crying. I finished vacuuming, while crying. I mopped the floors, while crying. Life. Goes. On.

And now? Now I have a headache. Now I have REALLY puffy eyes. But I feel good, because I have my boy home. He gets to spend the evenings/overnights at home. He had a good first day. He seems more calm, more comfortable, than I’ve seen him in a long time. He likes this place. He feels at home at this place. He feels accepted, less different. He’s been here before. This is our second round at partial hospitalization. The first happened when he was eight. It makes me feel calm, less worried – to know he feels so at peace here. And it leaves me hopeful, because it helped him so much the first time he was here.

And sometimes, you just need a treat to make it through the day. Because who doesn’t get fro-yo after your first completed day of intensive psychiatric treatment? Duh. We’re making this a tradition. Perhaps every Tuesday while in treatment, he gets fro-yo?

So today, it was hard. It was emotional. I let myself go there. I let myself feel it. But I was even productive while ‘feeling it’. So there’s that. The bright side is this, and I almost always look for a bright side…God had a sense of humor today. He’s a funny guy, that God. Inserting a little this and a little that when you need it most. First, when I came home after attending the intake with Noah, I walked in to this ——————–> Ruh. Roh. The dogs got in the trash. Again. Lucky for them, there were two containers of pasta left overs from last week. So they didn’t have to fight for it. They each got one.

And the other bright side? During intake this morning, we met some of Noah’s treatment support team. His social worker, nurse and psychiatrist. His psychiatrist sat down at the table, held out his hand, and said to Noah, ‘Put it there dude’. I like him already.

But even better? Midway through him asking Noah questions, Noah holds up his hand and says, “Wait…I’m sorry to interrupt you Dr. So&So, but you look like Buddy the Elf.”

Oh yes he did. He just told his psychiatrist, that he looks like Buddy the Elf. In all fairness, he does kind of look like Will Ferrell.

“Well, thank you Noah. I take that as a compliment.”

Noah, mimicking picking up a phone, “Buddy the Elf, what’s your favorite color?”

More laughs in the room.

Noah, “I like smiling, smiling’s my favorite.”

And so it went on, when the doctor said, “Oh Noah, I can go toe to toe with you in quoting this movie.”

And so we end on this. Knowing that in all the hardness, all the pain, all the hurt of today…we also had light and we had love. And although, we’re not always fine. We know we’ll be okay.

Because we like smiling. Smiling’s our favorite.