For those of you familiar with the Final Fantasy video game series, then you already get the reference. Otherwise, I will take a moment to explain it to you.
Overdrive mode is the mode that helps fill the overdrive meter, where when the meter is filled, the character has the ability to perform a special move. Typically, most players have this function set to stoic, where when their character takes damage, it fills the meter. The more damage they take, the closer you get to filling your meter and having the ability to use a special move that causes the enemy to take significant damage.
Right now, I’m taking the damage throughout these little earthquakes. And I’m pretty sure I’ve reached maximum overdrive. (No reference to the movie.) However, I haven’t figured out my special move yet. So, I’m stuck with this overfilled meter and waning HP, (or hit points), and nothing to defend myself. Either, I need a heal or this player is going down.
Away from metaphors, this has been another one in the series of bad weeks. I wish I could report something back to readers that is inspiring and uplifting. Perhaps, the fact that I’m still standing, waking up in the morning, caring for my son, and going to work is enough.
Testing the Teacher
I am a music teacher for a local youth program. And, as many of you are aware, part-time teachers typically get laid off without pay in the summertime. Thankfully, I was invited back to teach in the summer program.
This was my second week back with about a 50% population of students that I am unfamiliar with. The other 50% remembers me from the after school program and of that 50%, probably about 10-20% worked with me on the musical production. That means, only a select number of students interacted with me daily, and know how I operate.
I am not a strict teacher. I find that loosening up the rules a little allows children to bring out their best creativity. But, that also means that children who are unfamiliar with me could come to think that I am a push-over. I am certainly not. They still had to push me to my limits this week, which incurred the wrath of Ms. Lulu. My behavioral management consists of a booming voice, followed by quiet time, and if that doesn’t cut it, then there is writing involved. Nothing like a good old pain in your hand to remind you to keep in line.
It didn’t come without repercussions. Did I mention that I contracted some kind of virus at the beginning of the month that produced flu-like symptoms? It also claimed my voice as a victim. As a music teacher, this is bad news. I never had it treated because of the giant discouragement to see a doctor. Every time I have to raise my voice, it goes away again. Losing my voice is depressing. I’ve always enjoyed singing. Now, I can hardly talk.
Worse, I have managed to make at least one kid cry in every class I’ve had this week. I had to go as far as to walk one of them to the water fountain down the hall so he could get a drink and calm down before he went to his next class. The poor kid is only five years old. Whenever children cry, I cry a little inside. There’s nothing worse than feeling like you hurt a child.
ASD – What it Means to Me
I’ve always said that nothing in life prepares you to be a parent like being a parent. Truly. In my youth, I’ve helped to raise so many people’s babies and toddlers, but it was nothing like becoming a mother myself. Sure, I had the care basics down, but that’s not even scratching the surface.
So therefore, nothing can prepare you for a professional telling you there is something wrong with your child. Not even if you suspect it yourself.
My son has been in Early Intervention for about four months or so. I noticed sometime around 18 months that he wasn’t really progressing like other children. But, the gap became noticeably wide after his second birthday. There were peculiar behaviors like refusing to participate in activities unless it was on his own terms, lack of eye contact, hyperactivity, intense temper tantrums, and more than occasional unresponsiveness when his name was called. At his first evaluation, he scored as almost having a total global delay. It was heartbreaking, but I wasn’t convinced. His second evaluation was at the Child Development Unit at our local children’s hospital. And at that time, the doctor suggested Autism Spectrum Disorder, but he was too young to diagnose. She wanted to see what his progress was in three months of early intervention, and then she’d make a final determination.
I went into this with some denial. My brother has autism, and my son and my brother are not the same. My son’s occupational therapist and developmental therapist suggested that he had Sensory Integration Disorder or, as it is sometimes referred to as, Sensory Processing Disorder. As time passed, I started to see the things that the therapists and psychologists were seeing. Repetitive motor behaviors, lack of pointing, sensory seeking and self-stimulation, delayed verbal and nonverbal communication, etc. I suspected it. His therapists suspected it. I thought I prepared myself before I walked into that office. I mean, my son had come so far in three months!
Pervasive Development Disorder Not Otherwise Specified – she said. Autism Spectrum Disorder – she said.
WHAT DID I DO WRONG?! – my brain screamed at me. Did I do anything wrong when I was pregnant? Did I do something wrong when he was a baby? Is it my fault? Maybe it’s because I have Bipolar Disorder – he can’t develop normally because I’m so screwed up. I’m a terrible parent.
Until Death Do Us Part?
I’ve been married for three years and two months now. Nine months of that was spectacular. The other 29 months have been generally rocky. I blame some of that on untreated, and even treated bipolar disorder. I blame another part of it on the economic collapse in 2008, which caused chronic layoffs and underemployment in our household for 23 of those months. But the rest?
Don’t get the wrong idea. Here’s some backstory to his “love” story. I met my husband nine years ago when an ex-boyfriend introduced us. Throughout this nine years, we have been best friends. My husband saw me through four break-ups, two being engagements, two ex-fiances’ domestically abuse me, my party years, my resulting alcoholism, five years of untreated bipolar disorder, and being a roommate twice before we were even in a relationship. This man watched me destroy my ex’s bedroom in a drunken rage because someone let it slip at a party that my ex had cheated on me while we were together. And he even covered it up to make it look like I didn’t do it! So, I can safely say that he has seen me at my very best, and at my deepest, darkest worst.
So, how is it that he couldn’t accept the bipolar diagnosis when it occurred during our marriage and all of the resulting symptoms that surrounded it?
It doesn’t stop there. He refused to accept our son’s diagnosis too.
The divorce rate when one person in a marriage has bipolar disorder is cited as being as high as 90% in some studies.
The divorce rate when a couple has a special needs child is cited as being as high as 80% in some studies.
Our marriage isn’t on life support yet. But it hasn’t left it’s sick bed in awhile. So where the hell does this leave us? A 170% chance of divorce?
Anytime there is a hiccup in our life, and there are many, we fight. Fiercely. Can’t pay the bills? Go for the throat. Someone (usually me) is accused of not carrying their weight in their job / domestic duties / parenting / managing finances / etc? Rip ’em a new one and make it hurt. I’m not playing the victim here. I give it back. If domestic abuse taught me anything is that you don’t deal with that BS. But if I start a fire, it’s not like I mean to. However, that’s not the case with my counterpart, who is perfectly happy to pretend like nothing happened after I’m shredded like paper. And he’s even more befuddled when I’m hiding, curled up in a ball, sobbing my head off. The best he could do? Sigh – Why are you crying, again?
You should know why I’m crying. Again.
On Board or Not – STOP Rocking the Boat!
After the rant my husband went on about how my son’s psychologist is an idiot, how his therapists are idiots (the same people who have made substantial progress with him), and everyone who even remotely thinks that he has PDD-NOS is a ridiculous moron, I told him this. You may or may not want to accept his diagnosis, but you can’t focus on the label. It does not change who he is or the way we feel about him. The services that they’re offering cannot hurt, even if PDD-NOS ends up being misdiagnosed at the end. We can agree that he has special needs. So we can agree that he needs services.
This isn’t about how you feel or what you think. This is about our son. Either you’re in, or you’re out.
But what I meant to say more than anything is either you’re in or you’re out – for the both of us.
All I can say at this moment is I applaud you, and all that you are doing for your son. My dad and I “made up” tonight. Except for me it brought up more issues than it solved. Because he has an attitude of ‘I’ll put a roof over your head and provide you with medical insurance, and you give me a fucking trophy for that.’
Sorry. But you stay on track, no matter how unfathomable that moment was, and you tell your husband he’d better get his ass on that track, too, or one day it may come back to bite him – in the form of your son’s pain, hurt, and resentment.
Again, I’m sorry. I just am wishing my parents were half as involved in and supportive of my difficulties as you are of your son’s. And I know, I’m an adult. But when you have a child, they are your child when they’re born, when they’re ten, when they’re 18, when they’re 33, and if you hit 85 and they die at 60, they are still your child. You don’t get to just kick them to the curb (either literally or emotionally) when they come of age and say, “Alright, I kept you alive this long, you’re on your own now.”
Good job, Lulu. Whatever ends up happening, you are making the choices that are best for your little boy, and THAT is what makes a wonderful mother.
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