Our Zoloft Journey 2

My little guy is three weeks in taking anti-anxiety medication, and the people closest to him have noticed a marked difference.

He is noticeably more talkative and less cautious at school. He has significantly less anxious behavior at home. He has become more independent, vocal, and sassy. His most obsessive OCD actions are fading a bit.

I should be happy, right? I am relieved that it is helping. However, I still am afraid.

I can't find any long term studies on this drug for children (other than the Zoloft website). I can't find any other momma out there giving it to a little one (which is one reason I started this blog).

I just want to make sure this really is in his best interest. I want to make sure our observations are accurate and not viewed through the screen of self-justification. As for now, I am convinced.

I also want to make sure all this vigilance doesn't keep me from enjoying the good moments with him. That's not too much to ask, right? I will let you know when I get good at doing those at the same time...

Impeccable...or just peccable?

"The first agreement is to be impeccable with your word." ~The Four Agreements

I am addicted to words.  I am constantly searching for the perfect word, the best phrase.  I analyze everyone's words during conversations.  It is common for me to amend, clarify, or apologize for my own words well after the person who heard them has forgotten everything I've said.  Even my living is made primarily by words.

I cannot help myself.  I keep the illusion that the right words can make anything better.

I think my obsession partly stems from being very nosy about other people's minds, and studying their words is more polite than asking personal questions.  I also believe sometimes I use words as a defensive screen - worrying over my words stands in for worrying over my Life.  Trying to phrase my thoughts carefully masks my vulnerability and fear that I have to say the right thing or I won't be heard...respected...loved...

Meanwhile, my personal indisputable proof of a divine sense of humor is the fact that my sweet son cannot understand words easily.  This means that searching for the right word to tell him is often a waste of energy.  So, I am learning to shut up.  That lesson is an uncomfortable and treasured gift.

I am great at filling the void with words...carefully chosen words.  However, I am developing the ability to sit in companionable silence with someone else.  At some point, I hope to have the gift of recognizing when an impeccable word is simply not necessary.

Accidental Meditations

I love meditation.

I love talking about meditation.  I love thinking about meditation.  I love the idea behind meditation.  I love the history behind meditation.

I love my meditation clothes.  I love my meditation space.  I really love the meditation timer app on my phone.

I love everything about meditation... except the part where I have to sit quietly and clear my mind.

I am not so good at that part.  Inevitably, I come to the conclusion that if this is the only way to inner peace I am in deep trouble.

I keep trying, though.  I make the time, I clear my space, I monitor my intention.  And every time, I accomplish more for my to-do list than for my soul.  In almost every clearly constructed session, there are flashing seconds of peace wrapped in a sea of whirling thoughts.

Those seconds keep me coming back.  They also keep me humble.  These tiny glimpses of the path to the well help me clearly see how far I have come, and how far I have to go.  Because when I am honest with myself, I must admit to being petty and egotistical.  I keep thinking that meditation will "cure" me somehow.  Through meditation, I believe I can be wiser, calmer, more creative (and thinner).

When the gong goes off, I realize I am still me.  My problems are still there, and just as painful and complicated as 30 minutes ago.

However...

 Often, later, unbidden and unexpected, that familiar peace will wash over me.  That moment I release (just a bit) my death-grip on the reins of my Life, I see the well.  For just a second.  It is enough.

What the Mother?

"Maybe we're all like that with our mothers.  They seem ordinary until one day they're extraordinary."  ~Shanghai Girls


I have been thinking about my mother often lately.  She died in 1994; I was 22.

I am lonely for a momma.  These past years I have learned how to mother myself pretty well.  It sometimes hurts, though, not having the comfort of someone a little further down the path, someone who can warn me about common mistakes and tell me she knows everything is going to be fine because she made it through.

My mother was extraordinary, and it was her best secret.  She taught me to stand on my own and never lose my sense of humor.

 She also was a cautionary tale illustrating everything you can lose when you refuse to feel the brunt of self-reflection.  I have never known anyone so brilliant and so brittle.  So understanding and wise, and so critical and defeated.

Like everyone's mother, she looms large over my Life. Like everyone's mother, she represents so much more than her human form.  I miss her so much; I am so grateful I knew her as well as I did.

Ironically, it is in mothering my own children that I have healed the most.  Being a mother, I know how much she loved us; how hard she tried; how scared she must have been raising us all alone.  Those doubts and regrets from the days right after her death melt in the laughter of my children.

I am not sure what I believe about an afterlife, but this is what I hope.  I hope she has found a bridge table, with lots of Coke, and a partner who finally knows what a bid of 1 no trump means.

I love you, Mom.

What parenting books don't tell you

I have read many parenting books. I am a classic pseudo-intellectual who is convinced all answers must lie in a book (or link) somewhere.

Turns out, as much as I love to read, there are no books with any of the answers to my Life that really matter. So, here is a list of the things that motherhood has taught me that I never found in a book.

1) These little people are supposed to break my heart a little. There is no scenario that is not at least a little bittersweet. My daughter stomping off to her room is both a rejection of my opinion and a healthy demonstration of independence. My son finally mastering some communication milestone makes me want to jump for joy, but also highlights how far he has to go before he catches up to his age group.

2) My children make me yearn daily to be a better person. I am all too aware that I am modeling everything - being a marriage partner, member of the community, professional, friend, sister, aunt. Everything I do takes on this second meaning of "what does this teach my children as they watch me". It is like living inside 1984 (without the rats...I hope).

3) That I am so glad I didn't know how hard this was going to be, because there is no way anyone could have convinced a younger, "so sure of the world" me of how happy this very difficult job makes me.

4) That every child needs a different set of parents. I laugh now at our hubris when our daughter was 2 and we thought "we got this! Let's have another!" What worked for our daughter hardly ever works for our son.

5) That I very much owe my mother thanks...and an apology.

Our Zoloft Journey

So, we've decided to medicate our child.

It has been an excruciating, lengthy decision. We have this bright, beautiful boy whose anxiety and nervousness are palpable. We have tried everything we could think of to try - predictable schedules and relaxation techniques among them. After a particularly tough evening, we made the decision to ask our pediatrician's help. We knew the implications; we knew exactly what she would suggest.

So,here we are. With a Zoloft prescription. And hoping. And I question the decision daily.

What is the price that my son will have to pay? Any? How will we know when to quit? Will it ever get better without medication? What does that mean for his future? Will he resent this,our intrusion into his brain? Will he ever know with how much love and fear and regret and hope I force this into him?

Does every mother in this position feel like a failure? I take every side effect (bad taste, loose stools) personally. Rationally, I know this is the best option for him right now. I am grateful we do have this choice. Without it, we would all be pretty desperate here.

We are at the beginning of our Zoloft journey; no measurable changes yet... Here's to hoping.

Where is the zen in screaming?

Where is the zen in screaming?

I ask myself that sometimes. I realize that I am in charge of my inner peace. I realize that the only thing I can control is my reaction. Then, my precious, complicated, anxious five-year old son starts screaming his frustrations at me. He is severely speech delayed, but his only diagnosis(so far) is social phobia. His anxiety level is often quite high.

And though he is mostly inarticulate during the screaming, all I hear from him is that he needs something that I cannot give him. Every molecule in my body gets drawn into that place with him. No matter how I work at trying to stay calm...stay calm...stay calm...

I feel my desperation rise and burst into tears. And I think "where is the zen" And I then hold him until he calms down, and wonder what he is thinking, what he needs, will this ever get better. I love him so much. He is so worth it.

In the good moments, I feel the deep peace of being his mother. In the happy moments, I have faith he will be ok. In the bad moments, I wonder how I can ever be good enough to give him what he needs. In the scary moments, I worry how he will ever make it in kindergarten if he refuses to talk. Most moments, I try to guess my way through motherhood and hope for best, trusting the peace is still there just waiting for us.