Oh boy

It's bad again, peoples. Bad, bad, bad. I'm losing it.

Many of you will recognize the question "Are you in danger of hurting yourself or others?" I was thiiiiis close on Friday.

This is what I feel like:

(This is a sculpture by artist Bruno Walpoth. His works are shown here.)

Cracked. And not ready to appear in public.

Of course it's the kids. Both of them angered me on Friday. Sproing missed the bus because he's an idiot. As soon as I got back from taking him to school, the school called about Diva. Shit. Diva's pants were in violation of the dress code, and would I please bring some appropriate pants. Shit.

I looked in her room for some pants. O.M.G. What a stinking mess. After poking around for about 10 minutes in the stink (she'd wet the bed and not washed the sheets, and I found other wet sheets bunched up in a laundry basket) I discovered her pile of dirty clothes (but not pee-soaked) and retrieved a pair of jeans. Took them to the school, but had to wait. I was so tired. And angry. Hadn't gotten to sleep until 4 that morning with the help of pain-reliever-PM, so getting up at 7:55 to deal with Sproing ... was unpleasant. I wanted to be home, take a shower, and go back to sleep.

But no, Diva's grade principal wanted to see me first, but she was in a meeting. Shit. (The school has one head principal and a handful of vice principals, each VP in charge of discipline for one category of students.) Well, lots of things happened in the waiting process. I didn't want to see Diva, but was escorted to the counselor's office in which she was waiting. And scowling. She's good at scowling. And was wearing tight, tight leggings, black with gold lame leopard spots. Hideous.

When Diva left the office to change her pants, this counselor (not Diva's regular guy) informed me that Diva has anger issues, is racist, and hates the fact that I am white because she (Diva) is black. Yeah, duh, this I've been suffering for years. YEARS!!! Then Diva's assigned counselor showed up so we moved to his office. Nice guy. Diva feels comfortable talking to him.

Then the vice principal came in. By then I had learned that the principal wanted me to take Diva home because of her behavior. Seems that when Diva was offered a change of pants from the school's clothes closet, she went ballistic. I can picture it. I've seen her do it thousands of times. Scream and yell and cuss at the adults trying to help her. Bitch. Oh, get this: the lady who offered her the clothes, a Mrs. R, has told Diva that she's a brat. My kids have dealt with Mrs. R before. Or rather, Mrs. R has dealt with my kids. Diva told us about the "brat" comment yesterday evening when Superman had his computer opened. (My computer hasn't been on since the day I wrote the previous post.) He looked up the definition of "brat" and lo and behold, it describes Diva (and Sproing) to a T. So I told Diva it's the truth. Diva has also been called a bitch (not by the adults, not in front of her anyway) and that's true, too.

I implored the administrators to keep her at school. By then I was a blubbering mess, eyes and nose leaking all over the place. Counselors kept shoving boxes of tissue at me. I said that she'd already been suspended for three days and it's so early in the school year. She was at school for one day, Thursday, before they wanted me to take her home. So they said if she could behave herself the rest of the day she could stay. Thank the gods in heaven and hell that she did. Stay at school, that is. Because by then I was a hot mess. I was shaking, crying, not able to think clearly about much of anything. I was honestly afraid of what might happen if I took her home. Really. I had a very strong urge to hurt her very badly. Either hurt her or harm myself. It could have gone either way.

This is actually a kind of progress, maybe. See, in the past I've always turned my anger and grief inward, always aimed to hurt myself. That I want to do serious bodily harm to this brat/bitch is, I think, a good sign. In context, anyway.

So Diva stayed at school and I went home, crying all the way. Took an Ativan (1 mg) as soon as I got home, then showered. After half an hour I still was wound up tighter than a watch spring, so I took another Ativan. By then my dear boy C was home, and he sat on the bed beside me and talked me down, so to speak. I had my bedside clock on my chest, waiting for 15 more minutes to see if I needed another pill. I didn't, thanks in part to C.

I was at the school for over an hour. The whole shebang, starting with Sproing, lasted a little over two hours. I finally went to sleep sometime after 11:00 and slept until Superman got home around 5:00. I had to cry on him for a while. He fed me some supper and I took another Ativan. I needed it. I sort of watched the Phillies beat the Braves (and anne marie cheers!) in a drugged stupor (me, not the Braves) before falling into a deep sleep once again. Sleep is best. It's the closest I can get to dead without actually dying. Not that I'd mind dying, but other people would be very upset. So I just sleep.

All day yesterday (Saturday) I felt pretty fragile. The brats were bratty, but I stayed in my room and Superman dealt with them. I tried not to take another Ativan because they are very addictive. Some of the stress and shakiness I felt when I woke up yesterday was an after effect of the drug. So I waited. By the end of the day I needed another one, but I didn't take it. Had some pain-reliever-PM instead and slept pretty well last night. Had a weird dream about an arsonist in New York City and a deaf girl, but that's beside the point. Probably. (Freud and Jung might have a different opinion, but I don't care.)

Superman took both the brats to the skating rink last night to get them THE HELL out of my house for a while. I was asleep when they returned. (Oh, I tried to watch the Braves vs. Phillies game last night, but was too anxious to watch baseball. Baseball, y'all. The second most boring (maybe third if you count curling) sport on television! (Golf being the most boring.))

Curling in funny pants. Like golf: boring and the players wear funny pants.

To continue: When Superman got the kids home, he had a talk with each of them individually. He told me about it this morning. He told them it was their fault that I was going nutty, and that he did not want to put his wife into a psychiatric hospital due to them being such horrid children. And that if he heard either of them saying anything disrespectful to me, he would hurt them. Pain, he said. They were suitably intimidated. But that was last night. Who knows what they'll be like today. 

Diva got up and went to church with a friend, and Sproing spent the night with a neighborhood friend, so he's not home now either. Superman pretty much kicked Sproing out last night, knowing he'd go to his friend's house. Good enough for me. It will be interesting to see how long it takes the boy to come home today. It's just past noon now. 

Superman called my therapist last night. She talked to me for a while, I told her what all happened and how I feel. Asked her about psych units around here. The hospital in town closed its psych ward a few years ago, though there's talk of opening it up again. My therapist likes the one in Greenville, she said. Not that it's time for me to go there yet. Probably. She also said she is going to talk to a lawyer friend of hers on Monday about getting these kids deemed incorrigible, and perhaps they will be removed from the home on that count. I have my doubts. It's very difficult to get rid of one's nasty children. We've been trying for years. I don't have the strength to look for an alternative placement for them right now. Too traumatized. 

Today's post has been brought to you by the word Traumatized. 

Briefly, with bullet points

• OK, I like bullet points. 
• Diva went apeshit on me again today. She's currently spending the night in the psych wing of the emergency department at the hospital, where she will be further evaluated by the staff psychiatrist and the department of mental health in the morning. They will decide what to do with her. We suspect she'll be placed in another psychiatric residential facility. If I feel up to it I'll post more details of the precipitating events of this week. Short story: she attacked me again. Not as bad as last time, but seriously, how bad does it have to be? 
• I'm kinda stressed. 
• Have "entertained" 5 members of the city police department over the last two days in regards to Diva. Four of them came in response to Monday afternoon's call. 
• Having trouble concentrating. 
• Am really tired all of a sudden. It's time for sleep. 

Relief

This morning was a busy one. Superman and I both made a bunch of phone calls. He also had to work, so he did a lot of that, but I skipped my morning class (that indicates how serious this is) and a meeting with my advisor so I could get this mess settled.

It's amazing to me how many people will hear about a child threatening to kill her parents in their sleep, and say "Oh, dear. Well, she's on our waiting list." Please!

So I called my go-to gal, my hero woman at the kids' school. She's the one who helped us so much last fall when Sproing got all out of control. Sure enough, as soon as I told her what Diva said about killing us, she said "Whoa! We need to do something about that NOW!" She made some calls. Turns out that Diva's counselor with the state mental health agency was also making some calls. Superman talked to her this morning. I'd tried to call her but couldn't get through. Anyway, about 1:30 this afternoon we got word that there was a bed open for her at the psychiatric hospital in Columbia, the same place Sproing went to at first. Superman took her there this afternoon. It is 6:20 pm now, and I just got off the phone with him. He is just leaving the hospital and is on his way home.

He said that the intake counselor talked to Diva for a long time, and Diva had some very interesting things to say. I'll need to get some more detail from him once he gets home, but he told me Diva talked a lot about the voices in her head and all the many things they tell her. He and I both think that she will be gone from home for a good long time. We both hope so, anyway. I've been saying for years that the child is not right in the head. Haven't I said that here before? The girl is off her nut.

OK, time to take care of Sproing's needs. We picked up his furniture from the store this afternoon. Superman will put it together when he gets home, but Sproing and I are going to begin unpacking and de-boxing it. Pictures to follow, probably, unless I don't. (I'm bad about posting pictures. So sue me.)

TTFN

So what happened?

Picking up from here...

Superman and I got to where Sproing was on Monday afternoon sometime close to 4:30. He was glad to see us, gave us hugs, etc. I loved on him a bit. He allowed me to! I want him to know that the rejection isn't malicious or personal. He has some problems, needs help, but that doesn't invalidate his existence. He is of the opinion, and has been for a long time, that he is ugly and stupid and doesn't deserve to live and should never have been born.

We put him in the car and I surreptitiously flipped the switch on the back doors to disable the handles from working on the inside. I was afraid he'd try to open the door and bolt. Indeed, he threatened to. While on the way back said he was going to open the car door and throw himself out so he would die. Was he serious? Does it matter? Just saying that indicates a troubled mind.

Let me back up a bit. When Superman and I left Greenwood I started making calls. (He was driving.) I talked to the school social worker, to my counselor, and I can't remember who else. The social worker (my personal hero, btw) was very concerned. She said that he needs serious intervention, and NOT to bring him back to Greenwood. He won't get help here, and frankly he's too dangerous, too shaken up to be let out of sight. She looked up a few places, called me back and gave me phone numbers of mental health hospitals with adolescent wards. I called one but they couldn't take any new patients, they are full with a waiting list.

I was just too freaked out to call any other place. But the social worker had mentioned a place adjacent to one of the hospitals in the Columbia metro area. (We had to go through Columbia to get to Sproing.) I didn't have that phone number, though, and didn't know where that (or any) hospital is. I'm not too familiar with the city.

Well, we were driving along, getting close to Columbia, the traffic was getting heavier, and Superman was stressing. Duh. We made a wrong turn. It was easy to fix; just go up here to this road, take that to over there, then hook up to the road we need. It only took us very slightly out of our way... or did it? Guess what we saw on the "wrong" road? The mental health facility! I said "LOOK! That's where we're stopping on our way back!"

And we did. But back to Sproing. We got him, stopped for gas, then went to Haus du Waffel. I had a hankerin' for pee-can waffles. All three of us were hungry. It was weird, though. We knew Sproing had to be protected from himself. We had to be very careful. We hovered. We sat in a booth with Sproing "locked" in on the other side of his Daddy. The boy couldn't move. Neither of us got farther than three feet from him, both of us ready to spring if he sprung.

Back in the car he talked about being glad to go home to play with Scheherazade and his PSP. No, honey, that isn't going to happen. He alternated that with vitriol, saying he hates us, we hate him, he's ugly and stupid (a common refrain), and he won't live in this house ever again. He'll just kill himself. Or run away. He wants to live in a cardboard box beside the highway. Superman started to "reason" with him, but I told him not to bother. There is no reasoning there. But then Sproing said he was glad to be going home from that stupid boys' home. And he hates us. The pendulum was swinging wide and fast. It was strong evidence that the boy is off his rocker, and reinforced our decision to take him to the hospital.

Which we did. We pulled into the parking lot and tried to get him to come with us. No such luck. So I drove around to the patient-drop-off circle and sent Superman in to retrieve strong-arm assistance. What they did instead was give him a clipboard of forms to fill out. Doesn't that sound just like a hospital? Sproing and I waited in the car (doors and windows locked). He fumed. He bounced off the seat, ceiling, doors of the back seat. He screamed. (It's a small car. The sound was nerve wracking.) He lay on the seat and kicked the door as hard as he could. I'm impressed with the strength of that door.

Superman finally came out and said we could go in. He had to pull Sproing out of the seat by his arms, and I got behind the boy and sort of hugged him while leading him to the door. He was like a caged animal once we got inside. We were in a tiny interview room with an intake social worker. Sproing was pacing, banging the walls, bouncing off the furniture, crawling on the floor. He crawled under my chair and hid for a while. That was as still as he got. Superman and I answered the nice lady's questions. When she had the low-down, she assured us that he would be admitted, but she had to call the doctor-on-call to make it official.

In the meantime (and after speaking to me out in the hall, away from the boy, to ask if she should) she put us into another tiny room behind the locked doors. It's a good thing she did, too, because at one point Sproing ran out of the room and tried to run through the doors to the lobby. It took a really long time. We probably waited an hour or more. The nurses on the adolescent ward weren't ready to process him until nearly 10:00. Sproing was their third intake of the evening. I guess there are lots of crazy young'uns in South Carolina.

During our wait Sproing calmed down a little bit. We had some positive interactions. He and Superman played the license plate word game* with letters Superman made up. He let me hold him and scratch his back. Then he bounced off the walls and kicked things.

We finally went to the ward. Superman and I had to sign a few consent forms for medications. By then Sproing had shut down. He sat slump-shouldered in a chair, no expression. I gave him a hug (he didn't resist) and told him we'd be there to visit on Thursday evening (the next visiting time). And we left. And though I'm exhausted, I feel good about the whole thing.

Addendum: I spoke with one of the nurses earlier this evening. She said he had a rough afternoon. He insisted that I was going to pick him up and take him home this evening. He took all of his clothes to the lounge area, put them in a chair beside the door, and tried to open the door. Of course it's locked. Then he banged on the door. Then banged his head on the door. Then threw his clothes in the garbage can. He was taken to the "observation room" where he continued beating his head against the door (or wall, I'm not sure which) and then threatened to kill himself. The nurse tried to give him a pill (some kind of chill pill thing) but he refused it. So they had to restrain him and give him the medicine by injection. Oooh, consequences! I wonder if he'll accept the pill next time. Anyhow, he was asleep when I called.

She asked me if this was the kind of behavior we've seen at home. Well, not quite, but close. He usually doesn't get quite that violent, but what she described is consistent with the type of things he does. Nothing she described surprises me.

They only allow visits on Thursday, Saturday and Sunday from 6:00 - 7:30, and the patients can receive phone calls on the other days of the week, but only from 6:30 to 8:00. Since he was sleeping when I called at 6:30, I'm going to call again after 7:30 to see if he can talk. I don't know what to expect.

*SC license plates are alpha-numeric, with three letters. The game is to think of a word that contains those three letters in that order. Sproing is surprisingly good at it.

Post Script: To answer Karen's question; fortuitously, Twitch is on quarter break from school, so he was here to take care of Diva while we took care of Sproing.