Advocate

My son was Baker Acted yesterday.

He has ADHD/ODD and clearly did not want to do his work for the umpteenth time. So I got a call. Then his father got a call. And he spoke to his father the way he speaks to me for the first time ever. He knew he was in deep shit with me and his father and decided to divert our attention and tell everyone that he wanted to die. He proceeded to bang his head on a desk that is almost always designated for him in the school office.  When asked why he was purposely banging his head, he said that he wanted to “crack his skull open so he would die”. That’s the video I was sent via i message from the vice principal of the school.  I was on and off the phone all morning since I dropped him off. With this message, I ran. I left my computer on, coffee hot in the mug, and smoke behind me. My son was crying out for help.

I got to the school. He was already in the protection (from himself) of the Resource Officer at the school. She had to restrain him from hitting his head repeatedly. She asked him in my presence, several times, if he was sure he wanted to kill himself. He didn’t deny it nor did he show any kind of remorse for the display.  I cried. His father came. My fiance came. I cried some more. He cried. I had to explain to him what a Baker Act was.

Have you ever had to explain to an 8 year-old what a Baker Act is? The only thing he could hyper-focus on was that he would be somewhere for 3 days without the luxury of his home or seeing his mom or dad. He never uttered the words “I’m sorry” to me or anyone.  He was sorry, alright. But sorry for himself.

The counselor at school asked him what he thought the word “advocate” meant. He thought she said “adjective”. She said no, advocate is someone who fights for someone and speaks for someone. That his mom is an advocate for him. That I walked into the school this year for the first time and laid out what I wanted for him; the things I wanted him to accomplish and what I thought it took to get him there. She said that no one fights for him like I do. That i’ve made enemies trying to get everyone on the same page. That she envies him because he has such a strong and persistent mom.

I wish he felt the same.

We made it to the Emergency Room at the Children’s Hospital. My ex-husband, future husband, and me and my son. They watched me interact with him.  They watched me give up my license, walk him to the room, sit with him, talk to him. I felt sad eyes on us. Pitiful eyes. Concerned eyes. I wanted to scream at them and tell them to stop fucking staring. I wanted to explain that he isn’t normally like this; that he has never threatened suicide, ever. I wanted to explain that I really am a good mom; a great mom. YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!

He was released after a brief intake. He was found to obviously be in his right mind. That he was angry because he didn’t want to do his work. Because my step daughter broke her arm and got a gift from me to make her feel better. Because he doesn’t get anything from me. Because he has less attention. You name it, he used it as an excuse.

Later on, he was fine. As if nothing happened. As if all was right with the world. I can’t explain it. Or understand it.

The fiance and I fought. He called off the wedding and with my chin in the air, I said that that was fine with me. I knew he didn’t mean it. But I let him think I believed him. I told him to sleep in the other room. I told him that he needs to tell his family that HE called it off. He didn’t. He apologized. I forgave him. But I am still extremely angry.

So I went off the diet I have been on for a month. I ate four pieces of pizza.

Tonight I drank a bottle of wine.

Fuck it.

Cheers!!

 

 

Crying, Aging, and Pizza

So, I am really sucking at this.  For those of you that actually read what I write and like it, I apologize for my laziness. But I’ve been aging. And crying. And eating pizza (just now, actually).

Why am I crying?  I couldn’t fucking tell you! I cried in the car on the way home from school last night. I cried on the way to work this morning. I cried when I got to work. I cried during work. I cried eating said pizza, above. I cried when it was done. I just cried. For no goddamn reason.  Or at least, so I think.

I have battled depression my entire life. I began an abusive relationship when I was fifteen (fuck him) and it triggered my crazy I suppose. My mom was depressed all the time. My father was an alcoholic. My brother was favorite. So yes, I was depressed. Needless to say, I am on anti-depressants. Have been. But that one time of the month-you know this ladies-I want to cry, eat pizza, and kill people in no particular order. Apparently as you grow older, your Premenstrual Syndrome goes bat-shit crazy and out of control! I not only think I am going through pre-menopause at an early age (is it really at 38?) but I cannot handle this PMS. I emailed my psychiatrist that I haven’t seen in years and told him. He proceeded to tell me that if he puts me on this or that I’ll get fat (love him) and to schedule an appointment. Fine. March 7. At least my cycle will be going on and I can exhibit the nightmare I am when it is that time.

Aging is scaring me. I am a little over my ideal weight (ok so maybe 15 lbs over) and so my chin…or two…are exaggerated…or multiplied. I look in the mirror and only see this droopy skin and it reminds me of the nun that taught me in 8th grade and her “wattle” as coined by Richard Fish. So I have lotions and creams and try the exercises but all I want to do is have it removed. I should lose weight before I do that just in case it is weight related. I looked up Kybella and the needles going into my chin aren’t my idea of a good time. Cool Sculpting? Expensive. Botox? Not invasive enough. So not drinking, dieting, and running are what I am working on. Hopefully the fat on me will be shaken off while I run. Here’s hoping.  But first…pizza.