So, here I am. Back on Blogger. Reuniting myself with the girl with flour in her hair. Granted, most of you have no recollection of who I am anyway. After that year long tropical vacation, I didn't have a lot of time to blog. At least they told me it was a tropical vacation. They handed me a fruity drink with an umbrella in it, I gulped it down. I felt a little dizzy, but hey, you know. Alcohol, right? I didn't really question the white jacket with the straps on it, I just thought it was nice they were helping me to my room. The view was fabulous...palm trees, blue waters gently lapping the white sand. It seemed a little small, but my vision never has been all that great. Several months later, I woke up and realized that the palm tree poster was torn at the edges and it hadn't been a hammock I'd been laying in. The bars over the window weren't very encouraging either.
No tropical vacation, unfortunately. The past year has been a haze of depression, bipolar diagnoses, manic-depressive episodes, disassociative disorder diagnosis...chemical cocktails, medications, antidepressants...Lamictal, Paxil, Wellbutrin, Valium, Clonipin, Seroquel, Trazadone, Atarax, Cymbalta, ... many at the same time. 7 therapists, a drug pushing pyschiatrist...weekly appointments, recommended electroshock treatment. Surprised they didn't offer the lobotomy at a special price. 1/2 off the procedure if the electroshock fries your brain.
And all that would make fine blog fodder and perhaps will once I get back into the swing of things. But all that has been pushed aside. Why?
Because my seven year old wants to kill himself. He had written on his wall with a marker, "this is a hard world for me". At school, apparently, he's an angel. Struggling with every academic aspect and very likely to see second grade again, but he has beautiful behavior. At home, he's an aggressive, violent monster. Screams, throws things, hits...he ran to his bedroom the other afternoon after school and I gave him a few minutes to cool off. I went up and knocked, opening the door just in time to see him stuff a paper under his pillow. I asked him about it, and he reluctantly gave it to me. It said he was the "wrong kid", he was a "jerk", etc. Then the very carefully drawn picture of him, being shot. Then the next frame is a tombstone with his name on it. And beneath a line of dirt, he's drawn himself with x's over his eyes and mommy crying over his grave, with a flower.
He's already in play therapy with an amazing therapist, because his mom is a fucking lunatic. So, now I discover I passed down my twisted brain to a wonderful, amazing, creative child. Who wants to kill himself. Who cries if he isn't in a violent rage. He's seven. SEVEN! Life is not supposed to be so hard. My grandpa was in his early 80s when he shot himself. But Nick...Nick is seven.
What do you do when your seven year old wants to be dead? Seriously, what would you do? I can be with him, I can watch him 24 hours a day. But I can't change his brain, his emotions. What do you do? What do you do???