Can an Ocean Apart Bring Us Together?
Andrew and I were recently faced with the most difficult decision we’ve made as parents. We agonized over what was best for our child, our family, and her future before making our final decision. We decided to try a second treatment center for our daughter, who has been suffering for a long time. Four weeks ago, we sent Sydney to a three-month therapeutic program 2,500 miles from home. We’ve been faced with countless uncomfortable decisions regarding Sydney’s treatment, but this was different. This felt drastic and intense. The distance alone was overwhelming.
As parents of a child with labels stemming from depression and anxiety, it is easy to feel suffocated by the shame and blame we put on ourselves for failing along the way. It is easy to feel isolated on our journey when our friends’ children are attending school and joyfully experiencing their teenage years. It is even easier to hide behind the diagnoses and pretend everything is okay. It is more comfortable for us and others if our truth is kept within the confines of our home. But, I am learning this no longer serves me. I’m also learning this teaches my daughter to feel shame for her diagnosis and her struggles. Truth matters. Authenticity matters. Keeping our truth hidden has hurt my girls and me. So, we are sharing our story this time because we have come to value truth and authenticity over belonging and acceptance. We value compassion and empathy while rejecting the judgment of others.
There are no words to adequately describe what went through my mind and body as I watched Andrew drive away with our fifteen-year-old child knowing they would soon catch a flight across an ocean to another state and be met by strangers in baggage claim who would suddenly become responsible for my child. Those strangers would drive her to a new treatment center, one she had no desire to attend, and Andrew would head back in the terminal to fly home…alone. Words are not big or powerful enough to describe a morning like this. I struggled to find a hug tight enough or long enough to communicate my love, my hope, and my desperation as I clung to her before she left. The guilt, sadness, and worry wrapped me so tightly that morning I could barely move, barely breathe, and barely make sense of what was happening to my family.
I went back into the kitchen and composed myself. Lola never took her eyes off me that morning. She was watching the pain pour out of me as they drove away. She ate breakfast and went to school as if everything was normal. She performed in her school’s “Spring Sing,” which is historically painful but excruciating on this day. I attended both afternoon and evening performances. I held back tears as memories of Sydney performing in this same show for over nine years flooded my consciousness. I remembered the outfits, hair bows, and ice cream treats after the shows. I remembered a particular Spring Sing when Madilyn and Sydney wore navy sailor-themed outfits. We took pictures in our front yard. I wanted to go back to that moment. I wanted to hold little Sydney and ask for a redo. I didn’t take pictures of Lola before this Spring Sing. I avoided small talk with other parents. I cried the moment Lola got in the car after school. She didn’t ask why; she knew. We went home, changed for gymnastics, and carried on with our day as if everything was normal. I could barely focus without crying. I wanted this day to be over…I needed the 12 weeks of treatment to be over. I was desperate to believe this would be the “thing” that would bring my not-so-little Sydney the peace she needed most.
Andrew called me when they landed, and I had one last opportunity to hear her voice before the 4-to 5 weeks of silence began. Her voice was shaky, and she acknowledged my words, but I doubt she heard them. Andrew later told me the people picking her up were waiting nearby. Sydney was noticeably (and understandably) emotional and nervous. We hung up, and Andrew called me back a few minutes later. His voice was now shaky as he told me how awful it was handing our child over to strangers. He was emotional as he said his goodbyes and then gathered himself before calling me. We sat on the phone and realized this decision was so much bigger than when we first sent her to residential treatment just two months prior. After all, she was only 20 minutes from our home; now, she was a 6-hour plane ride away. Not only was this the hardest decision we’ve made as parents, but it was a decision that came with extreme consequences. We didn’t sleep for days and went back and forth with therapists, a consultant, and “experts” before committing to this plan. Now, our decision was playing out in real-time. She was in a van, traveling with strangers for two hours, and would soon begin one of the most emotionally challenging (and hopefully healing) chapters of her life. There wasn’t much Andrew, and I could say to one another, but there was comfort in the silence.
I was parked directly in front of the window at gymnastics per Lola’s request. I didn’t join the other parents at the window as they watched their daughters in class. I sat in the car and cried on the phone with Andrew. I tried to hold it together. After all, he was the one at the airport. He was the one who did a physical handoff. He will never be able to unsee the fear and sadness on her face as she walked away from him. Yet, I was the one who couldn’t stop crying. The suffocating sense of worry and guilt had taken hold once more, and I had to let it out…I had to breathe. So, I cried in the gymnastics parking lot as I watched the other moms gather around the building’s windows and wondered if any of them felt the aching pain I was experiencing at that moment.
Andrew got home late that night, and we went through the day’s events…again. We sat in bed, and I cried…tears of guilt for sending my child away, tears of sadness for my family and this crazy situation we’ve found ourselves in, tears of relief because the day was finally over, and tears of worry that this would traumatize my child, rather than help her. The tears didn’t stop for a long time. We finally fell asleep, only to wake up and be reminded of our new reality. The reality that comes with sending a child to treatment. I would no longer have 3 lunches to make. I would no longer have 3 children to check in with at the end of each day. Our table now had 4 place settings for an indefinite amount of time. I often reminded myself that this was temporary. I had an ongoing mantra that led with the words, “AT LEAST.” “At least she isn’t dead,” “at least she doesn’t have a terminal illness,” “at least….”!
The following day I left for a run and listened to a few chapters of the Brene Brown book I happened to be “reading.” Coincidentally, she talked about trauma, shame, and personal hardships. I almost fell over when she mentioned the shitty nature of “at least” statements. These “at least” statements are the things people say to us (and something we say to ourselves) during difficult times. We say these things to make someone feel better. However, these “at least” statements only make people feel shittier. They diminish and minimize our trauma and struggle. The litany of “at least” statements I told myself or was told by others led me to believe I was weak when I cried or fell apart on the hardest of days. The toxic “at least” statements convinced me that I was undeserving of the sadness and pain that came from watching my child suffer from mental labels.
Brene Brown then said something incredibly healing, “[an at least statement] lacks concern and empathy completely… At least is not a good lead-in for an empathetic response… At leasting someone is equivalent to shutting her down”. This sentence mattered. This sentence made my emotions feel valid. For years I’ve carried shame around the situation with Sydney and how I may have failed as a mother. Now, I felt shame for sending my daughter to a treatment center. The worst part was feeling guilty for simply feeling my feelings. All the “at leasting” shut down my emotions and made me unwilling to share my experience, my pain. My “at least” mantras made it impossible to offer myself empathy. Each time someone used one of these statements, my emotions felt like an overreaction. I’ve felt undeserving of my own feelings because my child was alive and physically well. This comparison game is a trap.
I was reluctant to express my emotions or cry about the loneliness and longing I felt each time I walked by Sydney’s empty bedroom. I know moms who have lost their children to cancer. We have a friend who is currently watching his daughter battle brain cancer. I convinced myself that my daughter’s struggles were not as severe or emotionally challenging because they were mental rather than physical. I wouldn’t allow myself to complain of mental or emotional exhaustion because some moms watch their babies suffer from a terminal illness. So, I said, “at least she doesn’t have (insert something I convinced myself was worse).” In reality, Sydney’s life was at risk. We were dealing with suicide attempts, debilitating depression, and chaotic home life due to her diagnosis. I could no longer mutter the words “at least.” This dismissive language leaves us feeling further isolated and minimized in our struggles. I needed to feel every feeling I had suppressed over the years. My daughter needed to feel every emotion she was trying to hide, escape, and deny so she could fit in the goddamn box.
So, why Instagram? Why post this? For far too long, I’ve wanted to scream this aloud. I’ve wanted to be free of the shame, the secrets, and the fear of judgment. Today, I am not okay, but I will be. I don’t want to force smiles and carry on as if everything is normal because it isn’t. One of my children is in a treatment center 2500 miles from home. I don’t know if this will help her, but I know we cannot carry on the façade any longer. Dr. Brad Reedy wrote a fantastic book, “The Journey of the Heroic Parent”. He writes about shame as a barrier to support, “We hide our story from others for fear of judgment. But when we do that, we also cut ourselves off from many sources of support and connection… We don’t consider cancer or heart disease shameful. Why, then, should afflictions such as bipolar disorder, alcoholism, Asperger’s syndrome, or depression be any different?” I’ve seen many parents share their battle with cancer online. I’ve watched parents bravely document their child’s battle with cancer on social media. We seek support and understanding from our community. We need this during difficult times far more than we do during times of celebration.
We are not conditioned to care about mental illness in the way we care about cancer and Alzheimers. Parents aren’t offered meal trains when their child commits suicide or ends up in the psychiatric ward because we don’t know what to say. Maybe, we don’t need to say anything. Maybe, we just need to love and care from a distance. Perhaps we should offer support rather than judgment. There are a record number of teens suffering in the way my daughter is today. There is no better time to begin offering empathy and understanding to all those impacted by mental illness. So, today I’ve put it out there…for my world to see that the Palosi family is indeed imperfect, and I could not be more relieved to finally be free!