People who equate truth with fact are missing the point.

Yes, Jones family, there is a Santa Claus.

This day started out the way our days very often do: way, way too early. Carter was up at 2 am, unable to go back to sleep. By 8 am, he was running laps through the house, kicking dogs and spitting on everything. He called me names, screamed, and was just a little whirling . . . → Read More: Yes, Jones family, there is a Santa Claus.

Approaching the Cliffs of Insanity

In a dispositional cataclysm of apocalyptic proportions, Brian is feeling optimistic (even hopeful!) about Carter’s med changes, while I’m reduced to chronic heartburn over it all. I’d probably feel better if I didn’t read absolutely everything (Everything! Because I’m a good mother! Informed! Conscientious!) about childhood mental illness and its medications. The atypical antipsychotics . . . → Read More: Approaching the Cliffs of Insanity

Now it’s my insomnia…

When Carter really falls apart and the day is violent and frightening, I feel like I might never sleep again. I’m upset in my hair and toenails and skin. He’s asleep now, but his sleep is different after a bad day than after a good day. He moans and cries, rolls around, and breathes . . . → Read More: Now it’s my insomnia…

Anything but that. Seriously…anything.

When Carter is coming down from a rage episode, after he’s done screaming and cussing and trying to claw his face off, he sometimes looks into my eyes, and says, cold as a dead fish, “I’m going to kill myself someday.”

The prayers that start moving through my body when he says that are . . . → Read More: Anything but that. Seriously…anything.

Best Carterism ever…

“Mommy, did you know that when we die and go to be with God that we’ll be more alive than we’ve ever been here in the regular world?”

I’d comment, but it’s already perfect.

Just weary…

I have zero get-up-and-go today, or as I like to say, I’ve misplaced my give-a-damn. It’s worse than being tired, but not quite as bad as being depressed. I just want to sit on the couch and stare at the wall all day long, but of course that’s not an option. They boy needs . . . → Read More: Just weary…

Oh, the judgment…

I almost never watch Oprah, but I couldn’t resist today after I saw the promos. She spent time with Jani Schofield, a 7 year old girl with schizophrenia, and her family. Gut-wrenching show. So I spent some time on the web, hunting up the family’s blog, etc., and landed at Oprah’s web page, which . . . → Read More: Oh, the judgment…

For want of sleep, the blog post was lost.

On just a few hours of sleep, I can barely string words together in conversation, much less make sense with written words. Carter couldn’t sleep last night; by about 3 am (not a typo), the lack of sleep triggered a migraine, so he spent another 5 hours puking and screaming through that agony. He . . . → Read More: For want of sleep, the blog post was lost.

Note to self:

Writing about acutely painful things from my past is like exercise: it’s best done at least 3 hours before bedtime. I dreamed about suicide all night, and they were the kind of dreams that were excruciatingly real. I can’t shake them off; my mood is grim.

30 years is not such a long time.

Thirty years ago, when I was 8 years old, my aunt (my dad’s younger sister) took her own life. She was in the process of divorcing her husband (Let’s call him Stuart.) at the time. Stuart came to the funeral, but no one in my family has had any contact with him since that . . . → Read More: 30 years is not such a long time.

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