Day by Day*

*This song is one of many odd ones that has gotten stuck in my head over the past couple of days. It's there now, so it seemed fitting to use it to title the post.

I have to take Bob to the psych later for his follow-up. It's been three weeks since our last visit, when he looked at the long list of meds Bob is taking and said, "that's a great combination of meds...I wish it was working." And I struggled to keep from yelling "no shit, Sherlock, so do we" and throwing a knicknack at his head. At that visit, the doc opted to bump up the dose on (I think) three of the five prescriptions, told us to "see how it goes" and return in three weeks.

Yeah. It hasn't gone so well. I can't say I see any noticeable difference. I had hope for about a week or so, when it seemed like Bob was less manicky in the mornings (he still sang, but less like Robin Williams - the Cocaine Years), he seemed to smile more often, and I'll be damned if he didn't start playing outside with the little girl down the block. If he wasn't being a perfect angel during the day, well, at least no one was beating down a path to tell us about his latest drama when we arrived to pick him up. The summer school assignments he was bringing home were obviously half-assed, but at least he was doing something. And I had hope. Maybe this ridiculous amount of pills was working. Maybe we'd finally found it. You know, "IT"--the magic combination.

And then last Wednesday happened. Ben was handed a sealed envelope addressed "To The Parents of" and inside was a lovely narrative of how Bob used "inappropriate language" and grabbed the teacher's keychain (on a lanyard around his neck) and pulled it until it broke. Bob did the description one better--some kid was bothering him, so he called him a "fucking idiot" and when called out by the teacher, "I tried to choke him with his keychain."

O, dear lord, as the song goes.

It's not so much the f-bombs that concern me. Anyone who's ever met me knows I'm not averse to the more colorful terms of expression (to put it fucking mildly). I don't use that kind of language around Bob (Moosetoddler doesn't count, because he can't talk yet, and fortunately shows the signs of being a late talker, so I've got a while yet) and I certainly don't condone his use of it around others. He knows this. He is, however, a 7 year old boy who gets his jollies from shocking others. And let's be real--dropping f-bombs is not the same thing as attempted assault on a teacher. If he would keep his hands to himself, I wouldn't care how many f-bombs he dropped in the course of a day. (Well, I would--but not as much.)

So Wednesday happened. And hope tipped its hat and flew out the window, as it so often does when it comes to visit us. So I guess we can safely say we gave this combination a fair trial and it. does. not. work.

Next.

I think we can also safely say therapy isn't helping. His therapist admitted as much and suggested some sort of in-home "intensive" family therapy. I reluctantly looked into it, and was turned off by the language "for families where one or more children is at risk for placement outside the home." We haven't gotten to that point. So thanks, but we'll pass. The problem is not our ability to handle Bob at home--we can. And 98% of the time, he can handle himself at home. Home is a reasonably quiet, calm, welcoming place where he can either interact with us (and there are only three of us) or have his own space, at his discretion. No, home isn't a problem. The problem is the outside world, which he has zero control over. Where he's often crowded into a small space with many people who are loud and disruptive and he can't just walk away when it gets to be overwhelming. And I can't change the outside world for him. My only hope of his ever being able to function in that world is to change him so he can deal with it. Therapy won't change his chemistry. And until I find "IT" that does, therapy makes about as much sense as putting a dress on a pig. All it's really doing is making Ben and I look like we're making an effort.

I have tried lately to stop criminalizing Bob. For a long time, I feel like I've been looking at him as the kid who fucked up my vision of a perfect happy family. The kid with the problems. The kid who doesn't fit into my plan. And I've come to realize I've just been taking a bad situation and making it infinitely worse.

That's part of the problem with a mental illness as opposed to a physical illness--if Bob had, say, a congenital heart defect. Something that potentially shortened his lifespan, with risky and often ineffective treatment that was ridiculously expensive. Something that was not readily visibly apparent to others, so we'd have to field the same stupid questions about it, like "when are you guys going to get these drugs figured out?" and "he was doing so well, what happened? Did something change at home?" Something that forced us to really think through things most people take for granted--child care, family outings, daily schedules, school--for the fact Bob just can't do many of them, or at least not without a lot of careful planning and special accommodations. Something requiring a lot of time at home and at doctors' offices and therefore, time taken off work. Say Bob had something physical like that--yes, I'm sure I would probably get angry from time to time. I would probably find myself resenting him now and again. But I don't think it would be as much, because a "physical" illness can't be helped, it's not something he would have any control over. Because mental illness manifests itself as behavior, it always seems like it's something he should be able to control. And outsiders especially see it that way. Furthermore, we're expected to take measures as parents to make sure he understands his symptoms are socially unacceptable. You wouldn't think of punishing an asthmatic kid for having an asthma attack in public, would you? No, but if Bob flips out at school and as a result pops a classmate in the face, we're expected to provide consequences. And all this, it makes it a helluva lot harder to be compassionate. And harder to not blame him for it.

So in essence, I've made Bob not only the victim, but the perpetrator. Yeah, I'm Mother of the Year.

I'm working on it. I've been trying to remember it's not within his control. He's a 7 year old kid. He is not his father. This is not his fault. I wouldn't be angry at him for having an asthma attack. And it's helping. I find it easier to enjoy him and focus more on his positive qualities (he has many) and less on the negative. I've stopped even considering a scenario wherein he didn't live with us, because dammit, if it weren't an option, we'd all just have to deal with it as a family--and that's what we're going to do. Because it's really not an option. It never has been. It never will be. He isn't perfect, but he's mine, and I love him.

So now I brace myself for another round of new meds. Another round of questions, both from me and of me. Another possibility for disappointment. And another visit from that bastard, hope.