Maybe I’m the Crazy One

Maybe I have this all wrong?  Good God, what if I  do have this all wrong?!  Maybe I’m the crazy one!  My son might be the one on the meds, but perhaps it is me that needs them (Before I get a whole bunch of comments about disparaging my son by inferring he is crazy from the title of this post, I’d like you to remember my recent post, Less Judging, More Loving…mmmkay?  So quit your judging and just embrace me in a warm and loving virtual hug.  We’ll all be better for it.  Oh…and read on…because it will all make more sense in the end, because this is really all about me).

There have been many moments with Noah.  So. Many. Moments where I think, did that really happen?  That couldn’t have just happened. Did I imagine it all?  ALL OF IT.  Just my imagination.  Right?  There is NO WAY, that just happened and I’m still standing here upright, not crying.  I should be curled up in a ball about now. In a corner.  Asking for cookies.

Often, these surreal moments only happen when I’m around.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, Noah’s episodes happen with me and only me.  No one else sees them, experiences. them.  There’s no one else to vouch for them.  And this isn’t unusual.  It is common for those suffering from mental illness to have the ability to hide it from those around them.  To try their hardest to hold it all together in public, to be ‘normal’ in front of their friends and family, coworkers, and peers.

To the public, my son is charming, smart…and HAPPY.  He is full of laughter and wit.  He is charismatic and polite.  The sadness and torment are not readily displayed.  He holds it together with all his might, just trying to be like everyone else.  Just trying to be happy.

But then at some point, usually with me, the mold starts to crack and all of the real feelings he is having start to come out.  Sometimes in a slow leak (sadness, weepiness) and sometimes they combust, as if in an explosion (rage, anger, utter despair).

It is hard to put into words the depth of these feelings.  The seriousness of them all.  Because all kids – hell, ALL people, experience sadness, rage, anger, despair, weepiness at some point or multiple points in their lives.  But what’s different is how we each manage those feelings.  Sometimes we ignore them.  Sometimes we numb them with food, booze, drugs, laughter.  Sometimes we work through them with conversation, friends/family, therapy, church, etc.

Then there are feelings so grand that the person experiencing them feels ill-equipped to manage or make sense of them.  And this is the place Noah often lives.  The feelings are so big, bigger than him…and he is so overwhelmed he can’t make any kind of sense of them.

These feelings manifest themselves in varying ways for him:

• Uncontrolled weeping
• Running away – from school, from home…just running…looking for calm and peace
• Completely shutting down, not talking to anyone, not looking at anyone
• Removing the screen from his second story bedroom window and going up on the roof of the house in the middle of a thunderstorm
• Picking up a knife in the kitchen and looking at it, admiring it’s possibilities to take away the pain
• Attempts at choking himself
• Dissembling scissors at school to make it easier to cut one’s self
• Cutting himself in the mouth
• Swinging a hammer at his own head
• Climbing a tree, higher than one should, on branches that aren’t strong enough to sustain his weight
• Wondering out in deeper ocean water than normally comfortable with
• Repeatedly banging the side of his head on the window in the car
• Thinking of jumping off a balcony
• Punching himself repeatedly in the temple
• Banging his forehead on the scale at the Psychiatrist’s office until it was bloody
• Throwing objects, from something small like Legos to large items, like his scooter
• Burying himself under desks, clothes, blankets, tables
• Furiously and angrily chasing his beloved dog
• Screaming, yelling, sobbing
• Wedging himself in small and narrow spaces, like between the back of a couch and the wall
• Repeatedly stating he doesn’t want to be, just can’t manage to be on this Earth anymore

All of these things have happened over the course of the last few years.  Noah has done all of these things…and for most of them, I was the only one around.  Agonizing to watch, to stand by and feel helpless as it happened.

And when I think about the list of memories above, it seems surreal.  It seems like there’s no way we could have experienced all of them, Noah and I, let alone survived them all.  So then, they must not have happened, right?  Especially if no one else witnessed them.

This is why I often feel like I’m the crazy one.  Everyone else sees Noah as this smiling, happy, healthy kid.  I see that too…but that’s only part of the story.  I see the dark side too.  And when you are the only one who sees it, it’s nearly impossible to not start to doubt it.  Did that really happen?  Or am I just losing my mind?

The mind does a funny thing when it tries to protect itself and the heart and soul it is married to.  Our memories become hazy.  Or rose colored.  Or the complete memories fall apart altogether, leaving only remnants of moments to be pieced together.  And sometimes those pieces aren’t even from the same moment.  But nevertheless, our mind puts them together, forming a new picture.  One that is less brutal than reality.  One that is a little more fuzzy, a little less real.   One that allows us to move forward and survive the most traumatic experiences. We may still be wounded…or even broken.  But we are still here.  Taking one step after another.  Living one day at a time.

And that’s all I can do.  All any of us can do, really.  Maybe the feeling of doubt about whether I’ve really experienced these moments is a gift.  A gift that allows me to keep pushing forward.  Keep living.  And keep hoping.

And if so, then I’ll take being ‘the crazy one’.  Because so far, it’s what has helped me survive.

Well, that and this bright light.  This is my Hope.  And each ray?  Each ray stands for what my Hope is wrapped in:

Courage…Love…Faith…Devotion…Vulnerability…Comfort and Humanity.

So call me Crazy, but also call me Hopeful.  I’m okay with that.  In fact, I might just wear them both as a badge.  The fact remains…regardless of what happened and who saw it, we survived it, Noah and I.  And maybe it takes the Crazy ones to make it through each day, Hoping we are blessed with another.