Going Through the Rubble
Details of the story she told the night before materialize, and I lose my breath. With shaky hands I gather them together like puzzle pieces, desperate for answers.
With confusion and sorrow, I wonder. Will these become a part of my forever story? I stand, peering down the road ahead, trying to see as far as I can. Surely there must be a way through.
When Lydia entered a Residential Rehab two weeks ago, we hoped for healing and clear understanding. We had been here before, we knew the drill.
Attend classes and therapy sessions: one hour on Saturday, two on Sunday. We hear the same things over and over again. Lydia is engaged, compliant, insightful — a star pupil. We sit quietly listening, agreeing, watching a rerun of our least-favorite show.
Something is wrong, but nobody knows what. From the outside looking in, she appears to have her act together. Lydia is goal-oriented and intelligent. She comes from a “good home with supportive parents” (her words, not mine). She participates in and knows the program; she’s gone through it all twice before.
Looking for Answers
They take notes. “Are you sure you have no issues with your mom or dad?” They’re always surprised. “None, they use dialectics all the time.” The Residential’s go-to therapy is tossed aside as they desperately try to figure her out.
I wish I had something to give them, some place to start. All I have to offer is something I just found out about, so not much back-story. As her mom I feel like I should have more insight, but I sit dazed, perplexed. Stunned.
A med-change was suggested. The psychiatrist called Paul a week ago, in the middle of class. I always list myself as the primary contact. This too is a familiar step. I call back. No answer, no returned call. One week later, I called again. There’s a fine line between advocate and pest.
But I’m determined. We need help.
Tools of the Trade
She comes home in 15 days. I’ve barely had time to catch my breath as we carefully sort through her things. Can’t miss a thing. Each new piece Paul and I stumble across as we work our way through laundry and trash sickens me. Not sure if I want to throw up or cry.
Details of the story she told the night before materialize, and I lose my breath. With shaky hands I gather them together like puzzle pieces, desperate for answers. I want to turn my eyes, but can’t.
Thoughts run like old family vacation slides through my head. I see her using all of it: cutting, sniffing, inhaling.
Who taught her this — how to make these things? My mind is aflutter with questions and doubts. The hospital blood test came up negative. How is that possible? I stare blankly at the collection of well-used, homemade bongs and straws. It just doesn’t make sense.
And blood stains the sharp edges of broken glass. The exacto knife. I thought we had already walked this road, found a different way. But here it is, slapping me in the face again. I asked all the right questions, offered support. “None is needed,” she said, “I am fine.”
What Next?
I’m constantly on the verge of tears now, never knowing when they’ll fall. In the middle of a 504 update, in front of her teacher, principle, therapist, and counselor over ZOOM as I thank them for encouraging and supporting her. Walking across my front yard and back again, after placing a sewing needle safely in the trash bin at night, not wanting it in my house one minute longer. Driving down Hwy 18, stopped at a red light. And not just little tears, crocodile-sized ones.
I’m a mess. In shock. Grieving for her unrelenting pain and struggle, for everything lost. Senior pictures. College applications. The hope, that with enough love and support, she wouldn’t have to walk this road. The realization of my own shortcomings. And despite everything, she battles alone.
Before she left she told me she didn’t want to come back. She was done. “Send me to that ranch in Utah, or Georgia.” But no matter how much I want to let go, I can’t. There must be another way.
This is where I find myself. Broken. Trying desperately to figure it all out. I have two weeks. Two weeks to come up with a plan that will work better than the last.
