I haven’t posted anything since Christmas eve. Just a few days ago I started writing something about spring and plants and some stupid shit, but today I’ve set that vapid nonsense aside for real life. This morning, we finally took the leap and agreed to admit Jesse to an outpatient treatment program for OCD and anxiety, at a local hospital that specializes in treating mental health disorders and illnesses.
I started out wanting to find some sort of support group for kids with OCD and extreme anxiety, to supplement the weekly private therapy sessions we already go to. It turns out, such a support group doesn’t exist in this area. There is, however, a local hospital system, called Rogers, that treats OCD. I spied them out on the internet and learned they have some outpatient programs for kids, and it got me to wondering. It didn’t take long for Anthony and me to acknowledge that the past 12 months have been the worst year of Jesse’s still-short life and our much longer lives. Every day is a struggle, in one way or another. She remains largely friendless, alienated, miserable. Lately she has developed a physical affect, her behaviors increasingly erratic, her eyes dark with misery and fear, her mind distracted almost completely and almost always by whatever lurks inside her. Every single weekday I wonder if I should bother to send her to school. As parents, Anthony and I are emotionally exhausted.
I was shopping at Whole Foods when the Rogers intake person called me back for the initial screening interview, to collect information to determine whether Jesse was a good fit for their program. I tucked my half-full shopping cart near the checkout lanes and sat at the bar in the hip eating area, staring out the store’s front windows. I answered question after question, trying not to cry too obviously or talk too loudly. We went through the laundry list. Does she have issues with cleanliness? Does she have obsessive thoughts about sex? Violence? Religion? Harming people? Is she cruel to animals? What percentage of her time do you think she has obsessive thoughts? What percentage of her time does she engage in compulsive behaviors? Is she afraid of school? Does she have panic attacks? Does she have temper tantrums? Does she try to hurt herself? On a scale of 0 to 10, 0 being totally functional and 10 being non-functional, where would you put her?
Is she ever happy?
The answer to this last one was so simple, and it required no explanatory clauses. “No.”
Clarity shaped itself around my answers. My child isn’t falling apart anymore: she has already gone to pieces. She can’t pull herself back together. Neither can I.
I waited anxiously for several days to hear back from Rogers. The doctors apparently looked at the screening interview notes and made some decisions. I got the call from the admissions lady today, informing me that they thought Jesse would be a good fit and they could get her in right away.
I promptly fell to pieces. Heaving, bellowing sobs unexpectedly took me from toes to shoulders. The nice lady was still talking. I spoke as clearly as I could through the convulsions. “Can you just wait a second? I just started crying and I can’t make out what you’re saying. I’m gonna try to take some deep breaths, give me a second.”
It was pretty clear this wasn’t the first time she had a parent fall apart at this moment in the conversation.
And so off we go on a new path in the journey. Three days this week, Anthony and I will accompany Jesse to 3-hour sessions with hospital staff to go over her situation and make a plan. Starting next week, she goes 4 days a week for 3 hours a day to a small group of kids and adolescents, for probably 8 to 12 weeks. A parent always has to be present. The commute is 45 minutes each way. The telephone lady remarked that she knew what a hassle it would be for us. I replied that it couldn’t be any worse than what we already endure at home every day.
I’ll try not to think about all the ways Nick is going to be overlooked in this process. He’s 6 years old and well-adjusted, and I think he’ll be glad to see some improvement in Jesse’s behaviors. We’ll make it up to him somehow.
When my call with the Rogers person ended today, the sobs came barreling back. I laid my head on the desk and wept, and wept, and wept. I almost vomited. I hyperventilated. I smeared blue ink all over my face as I wiped away my tears with my calloused fists, because the only pen I could find to write with when I was taking notes on the phone was one of the kids’ goddam washable crayola markers in baby blue, and that stuff just gets everywhere.
I eventually took a deep breath and called my dear friend Erin. I was supposed to help her with a tile job in her house tomorrow. Erin has known Jesse since she was three. “Hey Erin. I can’t help you tomorrow, I have something better I have to do.” There was silence from the other end of the line. “I have to take Jesse to a mental institution instead.”
Erin broke into peals of affectionate laughter. It was exactly what I needed to hear. And then she talked me down as I continued to shed tears.
I know this isn’t my “fault.” I know, rationally, that I’m not to blame. But my emotions aren’t there yet. Not only do I feel guilty for letting Jesse down and waiting too long to go this route, but I also worry about being too much of a martyr about it. I find myself trying to put Jesse’s suffering into perspective. Mental illness looks like nothing, really. I can easily say to myself that she’s better off than this person or that person — she doesn’t have cystic fibrosis, cancer, epilepsy, MS, physical disabilities, deformities, muscle weaknesses, intellectual disabilities, or any missing parts anywhere on her body.
But I know that’s a lie. Mental illness looks like suffering. It looks like self-loathing, self-injury, suicide. It looks like life cut short and lived hollow and imprisoned. Untreated, I know that’s what it’ll be for Jesse.
So we’re in. I’ll continue to let you know how it’s going when I can.