I have that head cold feeling. The slightly salty taste at the back of your throat. The stuffed up nose, but not so stuffy that you can't breathe through it. Just sort of swollen. Sort of raw or itchy skin under the eyes. I also smell atrocious--too much sweat on the back of my neck which is, um, unattractive. My throat's tight too. My head hurts. My eyes are achy too.
Except I'm not ill. I'm not sniffling and my throat isn't scratchy or hurting. Just tight.
This is all the aftermath of crying.
Or maybe it's the aftermath of trying to hold all those tears in. The dyke is cracking.
I hit the wall this morning. Great big HMO-named-Kaiser wall. I went to an appointment at Kaiser to get a prescription for my son and had to jump through one more hoop. Except I really couldn't do it. Couldn't get that lift to jump high enough for them. Instead I just stood at the reception desk and cried.
I eventually stopped crying, but then again I've been crying off and on all day. Really, whenever I least expect it. The taste of salt will not get off my tongue. I think it's just all those tears of frustration that I've swallowed over and over again. Ever since October really. And here it is April. Well, almost May.
I walked out of Kaiser with nothing. No meds. Nothing except another appointment for next Wednesday. And that appointment (with a whole NEW psychiatrist) may not give me a prescription for this kid either.
Fuck. All I want to do is just TRY some anti-anxiety meds for him. Just try it. Been wanting him on a prescription since October.
But Dear Butcher was reluctant to go forward without a deeper diagnosis. Which is fair, but frustrating. So we got the diagnosis, and now Kaiser won't take the evaluation. They want to re-evaluate (and essentially medicate him as ADD instead of anxiety). The doctor who wants him to be ADD has never met my son, never read a single report, and has never talked to me for more than five minutes. And now I get to fight all over again. A whole new fight with a whole new person.
Meanwhile my son is spiralling further and further out of control and there's not one fucking thing I can do about it. I just get to watch it happen. I don't even know if the anti-anxiety meds will work. There's no guarantee that any of it will "work" -- I mean, there's no magic pill here.
So far this year I've put up with teachers harassing my son, cops harassing my son, aides tackling him in the hallway, teachers dragging him through the library, tearful meetings, angry meetings, changes of personnel, trainings of the new personnel, watching him develop a school phobia to the point where he "elopes" from school repeatedly, chauffeuring him back and forth to tutoring, medical appointments, therapy appointments, hearing rumors of teachers talking about him behind my back to other parents, more meetings -- this time with lawyers, hearing from another trusted teacher that I was being too lenient with him, more meetings, more signatures, problem solving with him about how to deal with recess stress, learning that he is now kicking other students at recess, problem solving with aides, problem solving with professionals, more meetings, convincing him three or four times a night to go back to bed, trying to wake him up he's only had four hours sleep, losing his only babysitter since her husband was beating her, more meetings, more evaluations and more tears.
This has all been since September.
He's always been a tough kid. A prickly kid. No Doubt. No Question.
But shit. This is all in one year. He wasn't like this last year. Not at ALL. He was in a classroom last year. He was at recess last year. He was even at the wrong end of a bully early this year and kept cool and collected during that.
Now, watching him spiral, trying to hold on to that whirlwind, I have totally hit the wall.
I would like to hand in my parenting card now. I am no longer interested in this board game. Let's pack up the pieces and go swing on the swings.
I think I have done all that a reasonable person could be expected to do for her son. I've probably done more than some (although that isn't saying much). And I get to do most of it myself. Dear Butcher has two butcher shops to run and works seven days a week. I get to juggle this crap along with raising two other kids and serving on the school board. Have I mentioned laundry? Yeah. I don't do that anymore.
I wish, I desperately wish that all these people who are asking me to try one more thing, to sign one more form, would just come live at my house for a day. Maybe a week. You tell me how to get him to eat. You tell me how to relieve the tantrum two hours later when he's so hungry that he's seeing stars. Go ahead. Be brilliant. You get him to stay at school. You get him to sleep. You get him to stop throwing his clothes and books around him room. Go ahead.
"Maybe he's allergic to wheat."
"Maybe he needs Anger Management courses."
"Maybe he's Asperger's."
"Maybe he needs self-visualizing relaxation techniques."
"Maybe he'll grow out of it."
"Maybe he needs less access to the computer."
Fuck. Maybe it's all of that.
In the meantime, can you give this poor eight year old some fucking medication? He's eight, guys. Remember eight? Third Grade? No eight year old should have to go through this.
And I shouldn't be made to helplessly stand here and watch him crumble. Because I love him too much to leave him alone through this, but it's killing me to stay and watch him dissolve.
Because today I can't stop crying, and I don't much like crying.