Prattle Inc.

Don't "Go Joe!"

For almost a solid year he wore that pair of faux fur lined, navy blue, rubber snow boots everyday. That first winter they served their intended purpose and protected his little feet from the frosty elements. Come Spring, we reasoned at his protest against any other form of sneaker, shoe or boot, they kept his feet dry. He called them his fire boots or his army boots. He played in them, napped in them and wore them to preschool and story time at the library.

By Summer the fur was a matted dingy gray, the metal grommets that held the laces to gather and tighten at the calf had fallen off and the waterproof fabric on the upper part was torn in many places. They smelled so rank that no amount of overnight machine washing, only after he was sleeping could we pry them off his feet, would remove the stench. He still wore them everyday with shorts and no shirt when it was 95 degrees outside with 80% humidity. At the age of 3 and 4 a child grows so quickly that no pair of shoes lasts very long and by the time I had to secretly dispose of the "fire boots", blaming the trashman for taking them when I had left them outside to dry, they were two sizes too small. Sadly, we have no evidence of that famous part of my son's childhood other than the retold story and a photo or two.

Jobie's childhood passions consisted of legos, "army men" (G.I. Joes), matchbox cars and anything firefighter related. With legos he was never really interested in the sci-fi sets, his favorite things to build were real life action vehicles - police cars, ambulances and fire trucks. Tee was pretty into legos too, and ofttimes the brothers could come close to bloodshed over a single minuscule lego emergency light. In fact, to this very second I have one of the little round legos on my dresser mixed in with my  jewelery. I used to keep a stash of two or three for when the bickering got too intense, these puppies were pure gold around here then. Now the toy blue "siren light" is nothing but dusty sentiment that makes me smile every time I rifle through my earrings and it appears.

Needless to say, there is a very large plastic container in our attic that is filled to the brim with legos. I don't know, maybe I'm saving them for my grandchildren. Or maybe I just can't let go because those little plastic bricks cost a damn fortune and I personally invested the equivalent of three year's salary on their purchase over the span of two boys' childhood. Whatever the reason, I plan on keeping them forever.

G.I. Joes were also a very big deal to Jobie. Many a Christmas Eve night I was still out hunting down that specific Joe that would bring the squeal of excitement that only that special want, the heart's desire gift, his version of the Red Rider BB Gun, could elicit on Christmas morning.Tee was never as enthusiastic as Jobie about G.I. Joes, but often they'd hole up in their room acting out elaborate scenarios, playing together for hours. Jobie would haul the Joes outside for "jungle missions" and a few ended up decapitated by the lawn mower, or were found half buried in dirt piles. Eventually, the collection became quite extensive and it took a 14 gallon plastic storage container to hold them and their 8 frillion weapons and accessories. (Which by the way, I have always thought was part of the appeal since I was adamantly opposed to toy weapons. Inch long G.I. Joe guns and knives were as good as it got for them.)

Although legos and fire boots were outgrown sooner, the Joes had a much longer lifespan. Jobie has been too old to play with toys for quite awhile, but even through the 9th or 10th grade he would occasionally pull them out of the closet and just look them over or line them up. Only about a year ago did I finally clean, organize and sort the dolls (if I may be so bold - the boys always hated it when I called them that) to store away. 

Today Jobie came over and said that he needed to go up into the attic. He brought the box of Joes down. I caught him at the door. He's been unemployed for weeks now and thusly has no cash. He'd negotiated a sale for the entire box. I emotively begged him, then ordered him not to sell them. He belligerently replied "They're mine," and stomped out of the door.

After the past 6 years with the bipolar, the resulting substance abuse, bad choices and all of the other shit, sometimes my mind goes back to before all of that - to my little boy.   

He's wrong about that box being "his". My memories were in there, too. 

"Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly..."

"Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next." -Lewis Carrol, Through the Looking Glass

I've been feeling down and hopeless. Not about my life, but about my son's.

I've asked Jobie to find another place of residence, again. He's turned in his key and is supposed to be leaving today. In my heart, I know that I am fully justified in asking for this. It is not abandonment (and he is 20 years old).

He's been provided a multitude of opportunities for the past 5 months and swings heavily from doing well to setting fires in his wake. The bipolar is hard enough to deal with, but he is considered a dual diagnosis as his chosen method of treatment when he feels off-kilter is "self-medication", code word for substance abuse. For the past month or so he has been spiraling further and further into the black abyss, but his problems aren't his alone, they are taking a toll on every member of our family, disrupting the harmony and holding our home hostage.

Even if I know that there is a fine line between "support" and "enabling", it still feels awful. Even if this is not the first time that we have asked him to either get help, or not to come around until he has, it still feels like I am throwing him into the lion's den. Even if I can't stand the sight of watching him mire, putting forth no effort to make things better, the thought of turning him out has placed a permanent knot in my stomach and there's this lump in my throat I can't seem to eradicate.

Having been through years of therapists, doctors, mental health treatment centers and hospitals, even the judicial system with him, I have picked up much of the Twelve Step lingo and philosophy (though I don't fully subscribe to it, per se.) There is a train of thought that loved ones can hold an addicted or mentally ill person in suspended animation, keeping them afloat, providing too much support to ever allow them to "hit bottom". The belief is that until bottoming out, the affected person will never truly break free and progress.

When he said, "I don't have anywhere else to go" I recommended the homeless shelter.

This is not what a mother ever expects to say to her own child.

I did, without a tear in my eye. 

In Good Company - RealMental.org

Although we see therapists, doctors, counselors and attend support groups, sometimes you still feel like you can't let it all hang out. Though we have supportive and understanding friends and family, sometimes it feels like no one really understands.

Leah and Jess have joined forces to try to alleviate those feelings for all of us who have, or are affected by mental illness in our day-to-day lives. Leah and Jess, along with such notable contributors as Schmutzie, Danny, Marrit, Jen, Amanda, Belinda, and moonflower, bring to the world RealMental.org, a place where truth speaks out loud and "mental health issues can be talked about in an open, loving manner".

I've got my fuzzy slippers on and feet propped up, it already feels like home.

Such Is Life

"Normal is just a setting on a washing machine."

I don't know who originally said that, but I repeat it to myself every single day.

Jobie is in the thick, again. Our sense of "normalcy" has been turned on end.

We are busy. Busy trying to help him find another job, a sense of balance and a little confidence.

He is testy and pissy, easily defeated and quite frankly, so is everyone else in the house.

Here we go, again.

Pull Up a Chair

Sumgirl, over at the shelf, wrote a piece today about her future dream house, and how it will have a grand suite for her autistic son because his disability is of the degree that he will be her only child that will not grow up and leave the nest. She confessed to a moment of sadness.

Have you noticed that I don't really talk much about Jobie, the oldest son who has bipolar disorder? Partially, it is because he is not totally handicapped (and could find this blog), is 20 years old, and I want to respect his privacy. Mostly, it is because I don't know how.

How do I convey to those that don't personally know him that he is a caring, funny, intelligent young man who is able to hold a job, live on his own, have a girlfriend and a social life but at the same time has frequented juvenile detention, been jailed for an extended time, had numerous stays in mental hospitals, and is an ex-(hopefully, 6 months now) hardcore drug addict?  He has been violent to me, stolen from the family, and has used and manipulated almost everyone he knows at one time, or another. His brain is wired funny, he has rushes of thoughts, depressive episodes and manic behavior. Our family has been through so much with, and at the hand of this young man -our son, their brother, that some of it is still very painful and raw.

Jobie's disability doesn't show. He looks and acts normal most of the time. My sister has a son with autism, and on a number of occasions, I have actually been jealous of her. She doesn't have to explain, it is obvious from the moment eyes are laid on her son that he has a disability. She gets support, understanding, and no one judges her parental skills or ability as a means of explanation. David is who he is. Period. Nobody's fault, no one to blame.

David was born this way, the knowledge that "something is wrong" presented itself within a few months of his infancy. Jobie's signs were much more subtle, many of them not fully understood until they became hindsight.  He was formally diagnosed at the age of 13, but had been showing symptoms since toddlerhood. His first test for disability was at age 5, then 6, then 7, and every year after with the end result being that he was above average intelligence, gifted. That didn't explain why my son would get so incredibly defeated and morose, sometimes hitting himself in the head, saying "I am so stupid", over misunderstanding his homework. Why, as a baby, he would bang his head on the side of his crib while I stood there holding a pillow over the bars for an hour, or pull chunks of his own hair out, when angry.

They didn't believe me, inferring my young age, while hinting incompetence, that yes, it is possible for a 7 year old to be depressed. The prosecuting attorney openly mocked me for seeking assistance from an from an out-of-state mental health specialist, and advised the juvenile court judge that his bipolar disorder was all a tactic to avoid prosecution for the crime that Jefferson and I filed the charges for, (in a totally misguided effort to get him help.)

Last year, I had the feeling of sadness that sumgirl feels today. Jobie had been in a bad way for some time, defying probation orders, addicted to hardcore drugs, living with friends because his lifestyle was disruptive to our family, he refused to abide by our house rules or to seek help for his problems. Then he went on the up-swing, went "clean", got a job that he loved, an apartment with some "good" friends, and began being a member of the family, again. He was doing so well...until the day his impulse control issues got the better of him. He walked out of his job with a fistful of cash. Embezzlement, they call it.

That night I slipped into the worst depression that I have ever had. I literally sobbed uncontrollably for three days, straight. My heart was absolutely broken. My son was not raised this way, it was not learned behavior, I felt helpless about what to do for him and to make matters worse, when he called me, his head was a mess. He couldn't explain his actions, he was not using drugs. He was sorry, he was confused, he was sick of "the people in my head", he was scared, and although he has threatened suicide many, many times, this time I really thought he was going to do it. 

This was the moment that the full realization of the magnitude and longevity of his problems finally hit me. I felt like there had been a death, I was so overwhelmed with sadness. The permanence of his mental health disorder is a lifetime sentence - for all of us.  It will never. go. away.

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Jobie has been non-medicated for about a year and a half, now, due to the fact that years of high dosage psychotropic drugs have irreparably damaged his liver, while never really working, anyway. We are no longer allowed to call him bipolar, he rejects that title, instead trying to focus on living in his own skin and doing the best that he can.

Jobie has since served his jail time for that crime, is "clean" and complying with probation. He has been living, mostly uneventfully, at home since his release, and has matured in a way that has helped him better understand himself and his mind. He has a job, a girlfriend, and good friends.

It's not always peaches and cream. He has a lifetime of living in his own head to deal with, and every day he has tug-of-wars with his own mind, but for now, he, and we, have some semblance of peace.

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The People In My Head

The people in my head tell me it's ok.

The people in my head bother me when I say, no way.

They yell and scream

piss and moan

not a single day, do they leave me alone.

They put the monkey on my back

and lay me on the torture rack.

I push them far behind

to the deepest places in my mind.

They piss me off, don't know what to do

They bring me down and make me blue.

I put things in my body to make them go away

but in the end, come more just to say

"You'll never get rid of us. We'll never leave."

They make me so sick I start to heave.

I just wish I could shoot them all,

or take out the leader and make them fall.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a skitzo (sic)

but these things really must go.

One more day and maybe they'll be gone.

They'll just be memories that aren't fond.

- Jobie, aged 16