Graduation

Today my youngest son graduates from high school.

As I sit here writing this, it seems I can remember every moment of his 18 years. The baby who scared me our first night home from the hospital because he slept through the night; I, however, didn’t, because I had to keep making sure he was still breathing! The first time he and his older brother actually played together; we had just gotten home from the grocery store and I was in the kitchen putting things away. Zach was about 6 months old. I heard this hysterical laughing in the next room as Stephen, 2 ½, and he were playing a version of peek-a-boo and chase around our swiveling chair.

The toddler who was glued to my side; the little boy with an insatiable appetite for being read to. He especially loved tales of King Arthur, Robin Hood and Peter Pan; later this would switch to Shakespeare and Terry Pratchett.

His comment after being left in the toddler room at church one Sunday: “Mommy, there are crazy people in there!”

His unquenchable appetite for fruit of any kind; the only one of my children who truly loves and has loved every single pie I have ever made.

After his older brother boarded the bus for 1^st grade, Zachary saw me crying. “Don’t worry, Mommy, I’ll take care of you.”

Ah, all those moments and the years flew by.

They aren’t all sweet memories, however.

There was a time when I didn't know whether he would ever be able to live an independent life; whether he would ever be able to leave home.

Zachary’s graduation from high school is a triumph of the will and spirit of this extraordinary boy. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say, and when I look back now with my current knowledge and experience, I can see the beginnings of Zachary’s anxiety disorder back before he was 3. But his problems intensified with each passing year, making his elementary school years full of torment and heartache,

Mental illness runs in my family. The tendrils reach back generations on both my husband’s and my sides. My mother has struggled with low level depression most of her life; my father’s brother undoubtedly suffered from OCD/hoarding, my dad had a certain type of obsessive personality with hoarding tendencies, though he would have vehemently denied this. My husband’s great, great aunt apparently threw herself down a well! Several of my husband’s uncles also committed suicide, with several of my sister’s-in-law in recent years being diagnosed with depression. A nephew on each side of the family struggles with anxiety, another with bipolar disorder. I believe one of my sisters has OCD and another has fought minor depression. My oldest son has severe OCD and major depressive disorder, I have major depressive disorder with anxiety and my older daughter has OCD with generalized anxiety disorder.

Whew! What a bunch of loonies, huh?

The thing about all the above-mentioned people, including myself, is that none of them had yet been diagnosed when my children were struggling, and many of the older people never would seek treatment. There was little support for what my children were going through, especially from family.

Nothing is quite as isolating as a fight with mental illness, except perhaps leprosy or the plague.

By the time Zach was 9, I was telling his brother’s therapist of my other son, who couldn’t stop worrying, mostly about school, but pretty much about anything and everything. He couldn’t sleep, because the litany of worries, both real and imagined, would scroll through his mind all night long. If he could get them to stop, then he would worry about not getting enough sleep.

His worries about school were unfounded – he was an A student, was well-liked, never got into trouble. Yet, these were just the things he worried about, day-in and day-out, week after week, year after year.

That’s the thing about mental illness; your thoughts and troubles are often irrational and operate without your consent.

Why didn’t I just bring him home? Why didn’t we alter his environment instead of “labeling” him? These are questions I’ve seen asked of other parents who are concerned about their children’s mental health. As for my family, I did want to bring Zach home, but he didn’t want to leave school. I spent nearly every moment of every day working for him and with him to minimize his anxiety as much as I could.

As for the “label” – would I worry about “labeling” my child if he had a heart problem, diabetes or cancer? I tried everything to help him, literally for years, but realized I couldn’t ameliorate his suffering. He needed professional help.

My son has a mental illness. Saying that is no more of a label than any other biochemically-based disease or disorder of the body. Those who are concerned about a mental illness diagnosis need to examine their own prejudices and stereotypes regarding the mentally ill. I know I’ve had to confront mine over the past 10 years.

By the time he was 10, Zach was in treatment and on medication. It took several tries to find the right meds, though fortunately he never had issues with side effects. Yet, the anxiety continued to control Zach, not the other way around.

He began to have full-blown panic attacks. Shaking, crying uncontrollably, feeling as if he was going to suffocate or his heart was going to burst out of his chest. I’ve never felt as helpless in my life as during these attacks. All I could do was hold him, help him visualize calming scenarios. Sometimes, the only thing that would help the attacks subside my husband helping him take a cold shower.

I’ll never forget my little boy crying in my arms, saying “Mom, if this is what it’s going to be like, I don’t think I want to go on.”

Gradually, the severe panic attacks subsided, yet the anxiety lived on, crushing his every day. The only thing that made 6^th grade bearable for him was a fabulous teacher who worked diligently to help him handle his worries, and alterations we had made via a 504 plan at school.

Yet, despite the medication and the therapy, he really wasn’t making any progress. 7^th grade rolled around, and I could see he was in for yet another year of misery. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more, and my husband and I decided to take him out of school. Perhaps with a break from the unrelenting anxiety, he would learn to use the tools he’d been given to take control if his illness.

This was the best decision I ever made for him.

Zach still suffered from anxiety, as he always will, but the year and half he spent out of school gave him enough of a break from the worst of his anxiety that he could work on implementing coping strategies and come to terms with the fact that there was no “magic bullet” that would make it all go away. During this time he still suffered from unusually high anxiety. Public school did not cause his anxiety disorder and taking him out of school did not make disappear.

He chose to take 3 classes: band, creative writing and Spanish, at a nearby high school in what would have been his 8^th grade year in school so he could keep fighting to conquer his illness.

It was his decision to go to high school full-time his freshman year. He wanted to know that he could handle the anxiety and work through it during the four years of high school. He feared staying home for high school and perhaps merely putting off having to deal with the anxiety until college. It was a wise and mature decision on his part, though I must admit I was a bit of wreck at the thought that his suffering might return in the extreme.

We also sent him to a high school in Des Moines, rather than in the affluent suburb in which we used to live. We discovered the Des Moines public schools were much more willing to work with us and in our son’s best interests than we’d ever before experienced. We carried over the accommodations from his 504 plan, which included lots of communication between us and his teachers, his being given the schedule for the week regarding homework/tests from each teacher, extra time for tests as needed, etc.

We found that as the year went by, his need to use the accommodations decreased as his confidence and control of his illness increased. This would be the pattern throughout the following three years.

So, this evening I will attend his high school graduation, my heart full of love and admiration for this young man who never gave up. He fought so hard to be in control of his own life and won the battle. He has learned to live with this lifelong illness. He plans to study psychology and Spanish in college, so he can embark on a career as a therapist.

He plans a lifetime of giving; of sharing his compassion and first-hand knowledge of what it is like to suffer from a mental illness one’s whole life, while helping others deal with their own mental illnesses.

He is an inspiration to everyone.