It’s Hard…

It’s hard to know where to start sometimes, when I write. There’s so much to say, but so little energy to say it these days. All of it seems so overwhelming. Stringing words together in meaningful sentences to share my story in such a way you might feel you are walking along side me on this journey. There’s so much to say, yet at times it feels like there’s nothing to say at all.

It’s hard to know sometimes, which story to share next. Is it the post about mean kids in the neighborhood? Is it about the school thinking he’d just come back from mental health treatment all ‘fixed’ and fitting nicely in a little box, or rather desk, ready to sit still, raise his hand, not blurt out, not squirm in his seat, or argue? Is it the struggles I have to find energy every day to spread happiness to others, let alone myself? Is the post about more diagnoses than we can count on one hand which makes treatment for this boy like solving a 1,500 piece puzzle, that has missing pieces? Or is it the story about the ten minutes spent with him yesterday. The ten minutes in which I saw the brightest, most honest and carefree smile I’d seen on his face in months? Could it be that? Yes…today it is that story. Because I need to relive, re-share the sunshine of that moment.

It was an unpredictable day – both for the boy and his mood…and for the weather. In some moments, the sun shone through the clouds spreading warmth across your face. And in others, clouds rolled in, casting darkness across your space and occasionally letting out Heaven’s tears.

He has really struggled being back in school after being discharged from his treatment last week. There’s this mixed state of emotion that he lives in. Happy to see friends again, happy to follow somewhat of a regular schedule.  But then, being back also reinforces the pain he’s felt in this building, the trauma and uncertainty of who’s on his side. The inevitable feeling he is ALWAYS under someone’s microscope. Being watched closely, every move. Is he safe? Is he sad? Is he angry? What’s he doing? Where’s he going? Why’s he not talking? The weight he must bear when he walks through those doors is beyond my comprehension. He knows he’s being watched. He feels he’s not trusted. He says he doesn’t feel safe there.

Can you imagine?

Every. Day. Is. Hard.

This doesn’t mean every day is full of bad things. But it means every day he must gather his thoughts, corral his feelings and wear the cape of courage just to walk through the doors of a building that is supposed to make him feel possibility, potential and peace. At the very least, he should be able to feel safe and protected, supported and trusted.

Mid day yesterday, I picked him up for his weekly therapy appointment. You see, spending weeks in mental health treatment doesn’t ‘fix you’. It doesn’t take away your problems that cause you to live in the darkness in the first place. What it does is treat the acute symptoms that prevented you from seeing any light in the first place. His treatment was to address his issues of self harm, his inability to cope in his darkest of hours. So the journey to get him healthy and the attempts to keep him there may be a lifelong one. And it requires regular maintenance, regular interventions.

When I picked him up, he was recovering from a tough morning in school. He was struggling to adapt, to engage, to be still – in a figurative sense. We got in the car and he grabbed my hand. He held it on the ride there. When he does this, I know he’s in a vulnerable place, seeking comfort and acceptance.

To attend therapy, he had to miss recess, his most favorite part of returning to school full time. On the drive there, we passed a park. “Can we stop there on the way back, after therapy, Mom?”

The rule following, stay between the lines, side of me thought, No way. He must get back to school in a timely fashion.

But the mom in me that wanted to see his smile, the mom in me that wanted to give him a break from the place that is raising his anxiety said, Yes. Yes, we must stop at the park on the way back to school. We don’t need to spend the day there. We just need to  make a quick detour, run around a bit, and let loose.

And that is what we did. Let loose.

I pulled the car to a stop in the street, and just as I did, it began to rain. Big, heavy drops started falling.

“Run, Noah…get on those monkey bars, play a bit. Who cares if it’s raining!”

He started running, up the path to the park. Normally, we might instead exercise restraint, caution and rules – that playground equipment can be slippery and rain means we must go inside. 

But yesterday, not so much. We both needed to break free from the rules, we both needed to free ourselves from the restraints that this illness can sometimes hold you in. My mind still trying to shame me into following ‘rules’ said:

It’s raining. So what. Playground equipment might be slippery, just be careful.

We’re supposed to go right back to school. He could be missing valuable lessons. Who cares. It’s an extra 10 minutes.

This isn’t in the schedule, isn’t a part of the ‘plan’. And? What of the plan? Let him free…Let him run…Let him swing…

And that’s exactly what he did. He ran. He glided on swings. He hung from monkey bars. 

I could almost see the heaviness of all that he bears, float right up into the clouds. The veils were lifted. If only for ten minutes. And the rain? It felt as if it cleansed us from all that was unclean and unfair.

Those ten minutes were sent from Heaven, to be sure. It was the simplest, yet most happy ten minutes we’d experienced in months. He seemed lighter, less fearful, hardly burdened. For a change…he almost floated on the playground.

And I watched, and smiled, and committed to memory. I focused on the moment. Enjoyed the freedom from the restraints. And felt open, full, and loved.

We were moving about the playground, in the rain…yet all felt still. Full of peace and quiet with contentment.

Before we left, we paused to capture a moment in which we both felt the calm and the joy of the moment.

And we walked back to the car.

“Thanks Mom. I feel better now.”

“You’re welcome Buddy.”

And I closed my eyes for just a moment while walking. Let the light fill me. And thanked God.

Because, many times…it is hard. But it is also beautiful.