May 31st

Profound title is it not?  Per Vale’s request WalkingThroughWithVale has been deleted.  I apologize if that causes any inconvenience, he just felt he didn’t do enough on the blog and wanted it down for the time being.  Perhaps one day, he’ll pick up a keyboard and start blogging again.

Yesterday is one of the first days that I’ve been able to open my eyes to progress.  I am so thankful to our Heavenly Father for all his gifts, His goodness and His fingerprints all over Vale.

“Hope is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul 
And sings the tune without the words 
And never stops at all.” 
― Emily Dickinson

A letter to the school…

I was looking for a password for Payne among her school emails and I came across the following email I sent two school years ago on March 22, 2011.  Things had gotten so out of control with Vale and the aftershock that the kids were really suffering being the collateral damage and it was greatly impacting their school work.  I’m going to share the letter with you.  I’ve removed names for anonymity’s sake.  The three kids referred to in this letter go to a special school for academical advanced students.  If they start sliding in school, the work overwhelms them quickly.  I think by reading this letter I sent to the school, you can get a pretty clear picture of our daily level of stress in the home.  It makes me pretty sad reading it and remembering.

 

Good Afternoon, This was an email I thought I could avoid but the situation is getting far too out of hand. I wrote to Mrs. F and Mrs. F a few weeks ago about the current crisis in our home, hoping we could circumvent real trouble, but the fall out was greater than I anticipated. My USP students are for the most part really suffering.
About 4-6 weeks ago we discovered that my son (who isn’t in this school) is engaging in self harming behaviors, developed an eating disorder and was brutalized by sexual abuse 5-6 years ago while in a former foster home. Needless to say we all are a wreck. Before that day, Feb 15th (the worst of anniversaries) we knew nothing of this at all. He had carried that secret in silence for years. There is a constant strain in the home due to my son’s suicidal ideologies, putting therapy in place, watching for his safety, dealing with the aftershock etc. I have no desire to cultivate sympathy for me, but I want you to know what your students are going through.
This is a picture of our last month:
  • multiple trips to Hershey (that’s at least 5-7 hours)
  • phone calls to try to get therapy and treatment into place
  •  placing locks on doors putting all cutting implements in locked boxes
  •  fielding phone calls from police due to mandated reporting
  • going for forensic interviews
  • therapy 3+ times a week
  • 5 days of PSSAs, 3 of which I need to stay at for safety plan reasons
And none of that reflects the actual hands on work I need to do with my son. Honestly, this has had a devastating impact on me, and really, I’m trying to keep it together. The kids aren’t sleeping. The vigilance they feel they need to have, even though we try to reassure them that they don’t, is breaking them. They can’t talk about this outside of the home due to stigma and my son’s shame. And they can’t talk too much inside the home because my son cuts and starves himself because of his self loathing and shame and they are afraid to exacerbate him. Many days feel like we are walking on very thin ice. As much as I try to shield my children from the full impact, I am not sleeping, have headaches almost every day and struggle constantly: to get my son to eat, to gauge his mood (how dangerous it is), to keep him from purging, to watch where he is and what he’s doing all the time, to get him the help he needs (which surprisingly is very difficult). I can’t leave the house, take a nap or be away from my son, because I am his sole security and his anxiety ratchets up when I’m ‘gone’. I have become a terrible home facilitator.
I share this because my children’s academics are sliding. E is pretty good at compartmentalizing, she’s older and close to Vale so she understands more, so she’s doing “okay”. In S’s case, he’s sliding a lot. S is failing nearly everywhere. S sleeps in the same room as Vale (the one in crisis) and feels responsible for Vale’s safety. S can’t sleep because he’s worried he’ll wake up and find his brother dead. He worries that Vale will cut in the night. S is pretty innocent and doesn’t fully understand why Vale does what he does. S can’t seem to focus independently very well at all. Unlike E, S doesn’t have the good scholarly habits to carry him through, on the best of days S lacks the discipline to stay on task. He is so far behind that he sees no way out and is so discouraged. J is restless and distressed. She is coping by utilizing a lot of escapism into books, or role-playing etc. So her schooling isn’t that stellar either, but I don’t think she’s in as bad a shape as S.
Honestly, I’m at a loss as to what to do. I can not be home to handle what’s going on with their schooling, and S is so far behind I don’t know how he’ll catch up. I would hate for him (or the girls) to fail school or lose their spots in the University Scholars Program. E is making transcripts and I would hate to see her GPA lower because of this. Our family values education so much and work hard together to see that our children achieve the best that they’re able to. But to be frank, keeping the children together has really taken precedent. We value that the USP has an integrity that they have to uphold to keep their program where it is at, but I’m asking for your help. I believe they’ve all proven themselves capable of working at a USP level (even if S hasn’t demonstrated a true scholarly approach to his work ~ he had improved). Please help us. We will work weekends, longer days etc to get the kids back on track. But we need help. Would you please help us?

Something to be proud of

One of the neat things about using a Wordpress blog is the analytics.  They tell me how many views my blog had on a particular day, which blog post people were reading and where some of these viewers came from.  A lot of time my views come from people clicking on a link I post in twitter or facebook, but also they come from search engines like Google.

What the analytics also tell me is some of the search terms people used to find us.  One of the terms used was ‘boys who self harm’.  I’m extremely proud of the fact that we are here when a person searches that.  I remember when I was doing a similar search nearly two years ago and all I could find were articles about teens and self harming.

I just think about another mother out there who just discovered that her son was cutting himself.  I can imagine the shock and pain she’s experiencing.  I can visualize her desperation of trying to find help.  And I can also know that in one small way, we’re here to help.

Hours from Penn State, children’s charity shows new way to heal

Sun, Sep 2, 2012 6:30 PM EDT

STATE COLLEGE, Pa. – Penn State is trying desperately to move on from its past, with a new season, a new coach and new leaders in a new administration. But while the school had a nationally televised opportunity to start a “new chapter” on Saturday in Happy Valley, there was true healing being done only a half-day’s drive away. On a farm in the small town of Lake Ariel, not far from Scranton, Saturday morning meant another chance for victims of child abuse to feel better.

Strawberry is the horse that bonded with one victim and helped launch Marley’s Mission. (Special to Y! Sports)There are no victims of former assistant coach Jerry Sandusky there, as they are all adults now, but the novel approach taken at a place called Marley’s Mission is a rare insight into how abuse victims begin to recover from the most horrible of suffering. And although it’s correct to say nothing good came out of the scandal involving Sandusky, the subsequent attention drawn to places like Marley’s Mission may turn out to save kids who might otherwise have nowhere to turn.

The story begins with tragedy. In July 2009, a 5-year-old girl was brutally attacked in her home by a complete stranger. The man had attended a family picnic, introducing himself as the friend of a family friend, and he entered the girl’s room after she had gone to sleep. Then he savagely raped the little girl, leaving her with her severe injuries. Her parents, completely distraught, took their daughter, left their home and never came back. The rapist, named Felix Montoya, was eventually sent to prison. But the girl’s fate was potentially much worse.

Her parents tried intensive therapy of all kinds – talk therapy, art therapy, everything. Nothing worked. Even the best psychologists have trouble getting children to describe their feelings, especially when those feelings are so unbearable. So the therapist of this little girl, a woman named Ann Cook, began to think of other ways to get her to share her feelings. The girl loved a guinea pig, named Marley. And that led to another idea that changed not only the girl’s life, but the lives of more than 160 other victims.

Press coverage of the assault and conviction drew an outpouring of sympathy and money. The family moved into a new house and bought their daughter a present: a horse named Strawberry. And soon something changed in the girl. She spent hours around the horse, petting him, feeding him and just walking around with him. The horse became a companion. And then a minor miracle took place.

Slowly, the girl began to speak. She talked about what she thought was going on in the horse’s mind. And in doing so, the girl began to share what was buried inside her heart.

That proved to be the seed of a cause, started by the girl’s mother, April Loposky. She teamed up with Gene Talerico, the assistant district attorney who prosecuted Montoya, and Cook, the therapist, to start a horse farm dedicated to helping victims of child abuse.

“You get to have a conversation about the horse with the child,” Talerico says. “Instead of talking in first person, now we’re saying, well, the horse is behaving this way because of this. The [children] superimpose their struggles on the horse. The horse’s struggle becomes their struggles.”

One year to the day after the rape, Marley’s Mission opened. “We wanted it to go from a day of hurt to a day of hope,” Talerico says.

That is what’s happened. Marley’s Mission was named “Best New Charity” in 2011. And that was before the awful news of the Sandusky scandal broke. Referrals increased sizably as Sandusky’s victims came forward and bravely testified this summer.

“The strength of survivors was crucial,” says Talerico. “It allows people to be buoyed by the courage of others. There are more people inquiring as to what we do and how we do it. When this was on the forefront and people were saying, ‘No more, this is no longer a secret,’ the ripple effect of that is incredible.”

Marley’s Mission now has six therapists, 10 horses and four equine specialists. It serves approximately 80 children, at no cost to their families. On a typical Saturday morning, there are up to a dozen kids at the farm. There is no riding for the children, who are ages 5 to 18. Instead, they walk with the horse and care for the animal while both the therapist and an ever-present equine expert look on.

For one boy we’ll refer to as “Vale,” Marley’s Mission has been life-changing. He was abused between the ages of 6 and 8, and he faced all kinds of hurdles to recovery, including an eating disorder. But Vale says he felt comfortable almost right away with one of the horses, named Lacy, and as soon as he got into the car for the ride home after visiting Marley’s Mission last year, he turned to his mom and said, “I’m hungry.”

Marley’s Mission has used horses to build a connection with child-abuse victims. (Special to Y! Sports)”The connection I had with that one horse was really awesome,” Vale says. “I felt like I really got to know her. I didn’t feel like it was just an animal. They really have a sense of how they affect people. They understand how the people are feeling. Around children, they have to be safer about where they are stepping. They can’t actually understand ‘I’m sad today,’ but they can tell by the way you act.”

Vale is now 15, and he says he’s “a lot better.” He returned to the farm this summer to help out. He says Marley’s Mission has not only allowed him to be more comfortable with his own feelings, but also to better express himself to other people.

The hard work of therapy shouldn’t be diminished here; survivors of these heinous crimes will work to overcome their pasts as long as they live. But for victims and families, the idea that there is something that can be done to make a child feel better is the most reassuring feeling imaginable. When asked if equine therapy really works, Talerico is almost gleeful. “I’ve spend two decades doing this stuff,” he says. “The successes of this kind of therapy are remarkable.”

Marley’s Mission is moving to a newer, bigger farm. Plans are to open it on the fourth anniversary of that unspeakable 2009 crime. The new land will be closer to the center of the state, to help children from a wider span of Pennsylvania.

And most importantly, the little girl who was raped that night is still healing. Talerico remembers seeing her in the hospital after the attack, desperately wondering what could possibly be done for a child so young and so hurt.

He remembers the look on her face, but also the design on her hospital gown. It had unicorns and horses.

“I guess it was fate,” he says.

Penn State football will continue to be a reminder of terrible things that happened over the past years, but the hope is it can also remind millions of quieter places built for heroism and healing.

Eric Adelson

Author
Award-winning writer Eric Adelson is a feature writer for Yahoo! Sports. A graduate of Harvard University and Columbia University’s School of Journalism, Eric previously wrote for ESPN the Magazine and is the author of the book “The Sure Thing: The Making and Unmaking of Golf Phenom Michelle Wie.”

Another wonderful article about Marley’s Mission that mentions Vale!

Children At Risk: A survivor’s story

By Denis J. O’Malley (Staff writer)
Published: September 18, 2012
His family called him “Seething Sean.”

“He was very quiet… an undercurrent of anger was (in him) all the time. He was belligerent,” his mother said. “We had no idea.”  His family knew there had been some “inappropriateness” in Sean’s past, his mother said, but even the Pike County authorities who facilitated his adoption were unaware of the details.  Like many victims of child sexual abuse, it wasn’t something he spoke about. But then again he didn’t talk much at all.

The Times-Tribune does not identify victims of sexual abuse.  Find the original article here

His family could see that Sean had an eating problem - rejecting food, sometimes starting his day on nothing more than a slice of toast and burning out within hours.  ”I remember being tired all the time. I would be exhausted by 11 o’clock,” Sean, now 15 years old, said in an interview with the newspaper. “I’d be like sitting on the couch and falling asleep.”

By early 2011 it had been somewhere between six and eight years since he lived in a foster home in Greeley Twp.  The dates are hard to remember - the details harder to share - but it was in that home where Sean’s then-foster parents’ 14-year-old grandson began to “groom” Sean in the bedroom they shared.  It started with the boy asking Sean, then between 6 and 8 years old, to sit on his lap while he played video games.  Later, the boy began baiting him with twisted quid-pro-quo offers.  ”He kind of eased into it,” Sean said. “He said stuff like, ‘If you do this, I’ll let you play on my guitar or play video games.’ “

Over the course of months, how many he could not say, the abuse escalated into repeated instances of rape.  But the 14-year-old grandson wasn’t the only one - he had a friend.

One day, as Sean walked to a chicken coop on his foster parents’ property to gather eggs, the teenager followed him.  ”He just came out of nowhere,” Sean’s mother said, aiding her son in the difficult recollection. “He was gathering eggs and all of a sudden this guy raped him.”  The grandson’s “grooming” would signal the imminent abuse, at least enough for Sean to brace himself, Sean’s mother explained.  But after the shock of the second abuser’s attack, he was left stunned, scolded for breaking a few eggs and asking himself unanswerable questions.

By the time he turned 14 his parents learned what Sean hid beneath the long sleeves he always wore.  ”The first thing he disclosed to us was that he’d been cutting. He had around 200 scars on his forearm,” his mother said.  They sent Sean to an adolescent medical specialist to seek treatment.  Asked about his eating disorder and the cutting, Sean simply answered the specialist’s question.  ”I think I told him because I thought that the eating disorder and the cutting could have branched off from that - the abuse. I think because it was relevant,” he said.

The admission did not offer the instant relief one might expect. It instilled in Sean a new fear: tomorrow.  ”I knew what I said was a big deal… I remember being very scared of what was going to happen next after telling somebody,” he said.

Faced with her family’s new reality, Sean’s mother saw in her son a change that put him not on the road to recovery but on the precipice of disaster.  ”I think in the disclosure, he finally felt it. Now it wasn’t covered up any more,” she said. “If you can think of it as water - he just started to sink into it.”  The family’s reaction was immediate and all-consuming.  Scissors, staples, razors, “you name it,” every possible cutting implement had to be locked away, his mother said.  Bedroom doors were locked, where his siblings and parents would leave their shaving razors to keep them out of the bathroom.

The doctors wanted him in a residential treatment program, but there wasn’t a local option.  So they started searching for an alternative.  ”When they tell you your kid’s going to commit suicide you try to get help as soon as possible,” his mother said. “You fly.”  Before they found the answer, there were “many nights” she spent awake, “waiting until he went to sleep before I went to sleep and getting up before he did because I wasn’t sure he’d be alive when I woke up,” his mother said.

Among his symptoms, Sean had selective mutism that all but ruled out one-on-one counseling as a solution.  ”So we were looking for therapies where he didn’t have to sit and talk, where he could work,” his mother said.  A few weeks after Sean’s disclosure in February 2011, a friend and fellow foster parent told his mother about Marley’s Mission, an equine-assisted psychotherapy program in Wayne County for survivors of childhood trauma.

“His affect was always very flat. He was very depressed. He was suicidal,” his mother said. “And the first day he left Marley’s Mission he said, ‘This was fantastic, Mom. I love it. And, by the way, I’m hungry. Can we get something to eat?’”  For some other family, one not sharing the collective effect of a son’s sexual abuse, a trip to McDonald’s would hardly seem notable.  But for Sean, the young teen who went a year without gaining a pound, “to admit that he was hungry was monumental,” his mother said.  ”He had a 20-piece chicken McNuggets all by himself,” his mother said. “I remember exactly what he ate. This is a kid who had a hard time choking down a piece of toast… so it was a very big deal.”

It’s hard for him to remember his mindset when he began visiting Marley’s Mission or how he reacted at first - the 18 months that have passed seem a lifetime.  ”I liked that I didn’t really have to talk a lot,” he offered.  In time, that comfort fell in line behind the healing his family hoped for.  His therapy with Lacey, a horse who also self-injured - chewing wooden rails, a possibly life-threatening habit for horses - proved successful.

But a less obvious benefit came just being there, where people like Gene Talerico, Lackawanna County first assistant district attorney and president of the Marley’s Mission board of directors, would “put a hammer in his hand and they’d go and fix fences,” his mother said.  ”You have men who, they know his story and he knows that they know his story and they do not care. They’re men working,” his mother said. “When you’re in a therapy session you know you’re in a therapy session. Well, that was also a therapy session but it didn’t feel like one.”

Little more than a year later, Sean is no longer receiving treatment at Marley’s Mission, though he does continue his biblical counseling.  Now, Sean is the one helping others - serving as a junior counselor for a summer camp held at Marley’s Mission for children who have suffered trauma.

His abusers never saw criminal charges - his family brought his disclosure to state police, but after so long and without any physical evidence or other victims to speak of, his family knew there was little chance of that.

But recovery far outweighs retribution in Sean’s mind.  He recently began speaking to the media on occasion, telling his story, and is also a speaker for RAINN - Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network.  He tells his story not for himself, but for the others. For the kids at Marley’s Mission. For the friend he’s helping recover from his own trauma.  ”I think a big part in my recovery is going to help other people with theirs,” he said. “Like helping with the camp - I think that’s going to be a big deal, and I’m going to be happy knowing that I helped other people with it.”

Contact the writer: domalley@timesshamrock.com, @domalleyTT on Twitter
And if you’re wondering… yeah, this article is about Vale.

A Bittersweet Day

Today I watched my boy run his first race on the Junior Varsity team of the local high school.  I chuckle to myself when I think of the folks who may say ‘big whoop’.  I know, I know, there were 100 other boys there today doing the same thing.  But those other boys aren’t Vale and that makes all the difference in the world.

One this day, just a year ago, Vale was so trapped in ‘starving and carving’ that running to the mailbox would have put him in bed for the day.  Staying awake much past 11:00 in the morning was a bit too much for him.  He was encased in so much anxiety that it taxed his already too thin body beyond what it was capable of.  So little peace did his mind have, so few calories did his body contain.  At this very time, just a short year ago my son wasn’t sure that being alive was worth it.  A future anticipated was so far out of his reach.  Sport was an enemy.  Hope was a memory.



But today I saw my son be a true contender in several races, congratulated by peers, lauded, admired for his skill.  One young girl stuck by his side at every opportunity, a barnacle at his helm, pulling every girl trick in the book (“Oh, it’s so cold, can I borrow your jacket?”) to get his attention.  But he was beyond even that.  He was competing.   I watched him tear down the track, mouth gritted and firm with effort and concentration, muscles taut, reveling in the thrill of competition.  My son who had to limit himself to only four events due to the rules, because he could have done several more.  He could be *that* good.  He wore a uniform.  He was part of the team.



And I think of that year past, I can’t get away from it.  I sit and type with tears in my eyes never forgetting how close I was to putting him in the ground, his body cold and silent.  I remember the terror he had about playing just pick up games of basketball with his youth group.  How he yelled at me how much he hated sports.  Every day was a battle: to put food down his throat, to keep it there, to keep him from cutting too deep, him straying too far.  Being alive was the hardest thing for him.  Keeping him that way took every thought of mine.  My heart now is still broken from the strain.

At the meet, I screamed his name, cheered every step and marveled at how impossible it all would have been a year ago.  Is this the same Vale?  Did a mere 365 days make so much difference?  How can a mother be so thankful to God, so joyous and so incredibly sad all at the same time?

Flashback to July: Let’s get this over with

I think I’ve drug my heels about finishing this long enough, wouldn’t you agree?  I have so many other things I wish to write about, but I feel as though I can’t go on to those things until I’ve put this one to bed.  Not really sure why.  Not entirely sure why this is so difficult to sit down and finish either.  Insights anyone?

It’s our final week down in Hershey.  We arrive on a Sunday, Vale chomping at the bit to get back to Nicki, me dreading the week.  In an effort to get him out of the house, I suggest we go out to dinner to this restaurant he’s been wanting to try since February.  The name of it is Houlihans, and although I don’t believe he actually wanted to eat at it, he wanted to go in it, so he was agreeable.  At least initially.

We arrive at Houlihans and it’s raining.  The parking lot is full, so we have to park in this parking garage type facility.  We step out of the van, and Vale starts.  At first it’s just simple kvetching, about how many cars are in the parking lot, how cold the rain is, etc.  When we actually get into the restaurant, I can visibly see him start to become unglued.  ”It’s too dark in here!  There are way too many people.  Why is it so warm in here??”

You ever have a moment in time where you look at your child and you’re unsure as to who that person is?  I was in this moment.  The space-time continuum had just shifted and I was in some type of alternate universe.  I started to look around to see if everyone was sporting goatees (vague Star Trek reference there).  He was antsy.  He was agitated.  He was very anxious.  He was completely eating disordered.  I asked Vale if he wanted to leave and he said no, so we were given a table.  Madness then ensued because they gave us the menu: it was huge and expansive.  He was consumed with anxiety over how in the world was he going to order, there were far too many choices.  At this point I sort of shifted into a survival mode, I suggested we leave.  Vale got even more upset, he was afraid it would draw attention to himself if we just walked out now, so I thought of something to do about the ordering.

A bright spot on the menu is that they had this whole list of entries that were smaller portions of their customer favorites, so that you could sample a couple of different items.  I suggested that Vale pick 2 or 3 of those, and he’d be ensured that the portions were at a manageable level.  But even those 20 or so choices proved to be far too many.  He did notice that someone had a french dip sandwich and thought it looked good, so I suggested that we split a sandwich and a salad.  Whatever he didn’t eat, we could always take home.  We had a tentatively help peace over that decision and we ordered.  Wouldn’t you know it that when they brought our food they would serve it on these over-sized rectangular trencher type plates??  I thought he was going to have a fit.  He did become a bit louder when he exclaimed something about the amount of food.  I quickly started reducing the number of plates and divvying up our food: one half of the sandwich for me, one for him.  One half of the salad for me, but no, I couldn’t put the entire half portion of salad on his plate.  There were also fries, but he couldn’t stand more than 3 or 4 on his plate.

The sandwich went down easily for Vale (and it was tasty ~ if you’re even in Hershey, PA try the french dip sandwiches at Houlihans).  I made a bold move and put the rest of his portion of salad on his plate, while it was somewhat cleared of food and he was okay with that.  He ate some of the salad and said he wanted to take the rest of it home.  Unfortunately the salad was the kind where they had pre-tossed it so I mentioned to him that if we took it home, it wouldn’t be very good the next day because it already had the dressing all over it.  He sort of loudly dropped his fork and looked me right in the eyes and said, “So you lied to me.”  I lied to him?  About the food?  Really?  I had the foresight to know that the salad was going to come like that and I purposefully lied so that he had to eat it?  I was dumbfounded at his accusation and I probably did some type of jaw dropping.  Now he was angry and it was all directed at me.  I don’t remember a whole lot about the rest of that night with the exception of that he did eat most of his salad, he wouldn’t touch a fry, and I was, apparently, the devil.

This last week at the Pennsylvania Psychiatric Institute was originally supposed to be a short one, only until Wednesday.  However, the week before, Vale had cut himself and coupled with the fact that his eating disorder is getting out of control, they decided to keep him the rest of the week.  Oh yes, I forgot to mention that little tid bit didn’t I?  Nicki was getting near to the end of her treatment, so the program she was in shortened her week by a day, then the next week by two etc, weaning her from the program.  So the previous week, Nicki had gone home on a Thursday and Vale was distraught, not knowing what to do with himself without her on Thursday evening.  If I remember correctly, I sent him to our room because he was being belligerent about something and so he used, can you believe this, the room *key* to cut himself.  Okay, it’s horrible enough when he used knives and box cutters to cut, but a key?  Can you imagine how painful that must have been?  Of course that event left me distraught and us needing to stay for the entire week.  Vale was completely oppositional Monday and Tuesday, combative, clearly not interested in his treatment and becoming worse by the minute.  His eating was getting worse, refusing to eat breakfast, escalated behaviors over dinner and I finally had had it.  We were leaving Wednesday, whether he liked it or not.

Tuesday evening I had him retire to the room early and we packed.  We took stuff down to the car and I happened to walk through the main eating area and found Nicki, another mother and her daughter sitting around the table talking close.  I walk toward the room and the other girl started frantically started making faces at Nicki to be quiet.  Obviously they were talking about me, and it wasn’t pleasant.  How in the world did I become the bad guy?  I wasn’t ‘in the world’ so to speak, around people who didn’t know about what was going on with him or what it’s like to have an eating disordered kid.  Why in the name of anything sacred weren’t these mothers on my side.  Now for her part, Nicki was a 16-year-old girl with a mad crush, I can understand why she was so unhappy with me keeping the two apart.  But these other mothers should have been standing shoulder to shoulder with me… I’m still baffled.  Fortunately, I’m not a parent who seeks popularity, I do what’s right for my family and I kept on packing.

Vale didn’t say goodbye to Nicki because I didn’t tell him we were definitely leaving until we were up in our room.  The next day I kept him busy up in the room until after 8:30 so he wouldn’t have time to see her then either.  In retrospect, I toss that around as to whether I should have done that or not.  But in the end I ask myself, what good would have come from him sharing a tearful goodbye with this girl?  I also wholeheartedly admit that part of me just wanted to cut this thing right off.  He was not happy with me and he pointedly asked me if I planned that on purpose, to which I replied honestly that I did.

During that last week, I made an appointment for Vale at the eating disorder specialist.  This time we didn’t see the doctor like we usually did, we saw his physician’s assistant and that was a godsend.  Vale had, surprise surprise, dropped weight.  Apparently Vale didn’t keep his cards too close to his chest while he was in with the PA, asking if Nicki was there, was she alright, could he see her etc.  Of course the PA couldn’t tell him squat but she could see where his entire thought was bent toward and she got rather tough with him.  In short she threatened him that if he didn’t start getting with the program she would take action.  And no, despite what he thinks, she would never put him in a partial program there, to be around the girls, he would go in a lock down.  She then walked him through what a program like that was like: they would tell him when to wake, when to sleep, where he could go, when he ate, what he ate, how much he ate, whether he could see or talk to his family or friends, what privileges he could have, when he could leave.  She didn’t paint a pretty picture at all.  Vale was rather shocked by the entire conversation, but I was delighted.  This PA was taking the bull by the horns, something the doctor never seemed to do, and I was so relieved.

I don’t remember the ride home quite well.  I don’t think it was pleasant.  In fact, I don’t think we spoke to each other the entire 2 hour trip.  I’d like to tell you that within a few days he was back to himself and we started progressing back toward recovery again, but that would be a lie.  He kept up his restrictive eating.  He was ignorant and unkind toward me and the entire family.  He moved like a ghost through the days thinking only on his ‘lost love’.  He contrived how he was going to see her, talk with her, be with her.  He vandalized a restaurant bathroom, carving her initials into the stall.  That was a delight, let me tell you, and I made him tell the manager and fork over $60 in reparation.  We went to see a nutritionist who concluded that this wasn’t the time for him to be working on his eating disorder, because it was blatantly obvious he had no interest in recovery.  The nutritionist spoke with the PA and both agreed that Vale had too much therapy types and he was learning how to work it all, they suggested that we pick one and work with them and then slowly add others as he got back on track.  I agreed with them, that things had shifted into madness and we pared things down to just his Biblical counselor.  I think the kicker was that of the entire summer, which included a week-long vacation right on the bay in Delaware, his fondest summer memories were of the time in Hershey, with Nicki.  I wanted to kick him when he said that.  The time that cost us the most, that was so ruinous, painful was his favorite moments of the summer.

Why was this so hard to write.  Is it because I question myself?  Was it really the right thing to take Vale down to Hershey?  Was I foolish?  Should I have ended it sooner?  In the short-term it caused us so much pain and was so damaging to Vale’s recovery.  But as I look back on it 7 months later and see Vale’s progress I wonder if it didn’t come in part because of this time in Crazyville.  Is it possible that he is more solid now because he knows we’ll do anything to help him, to listen to him?  If it isn’t, will you at least not tell me.  I need that one small bit to keep from despair about that whole thing.  Placate me, okay?

Unhelpful friends

If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, And one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body; what doth it profit?  James 2:15-16

I’ve been thinking a lot about this principle lately.  We’re having revival meetings.  I realize there isn’t going to be much revival in me, especially since I go to church ‘propped up’.  I ask for it anyway.  I ask for ears to hear.  I ask that God would bring someone along side me to strengthen my hand and help me not feel so alone.  He hasn’t provided that yet.  But I have received, and not at the Hand of God, well meaning yet hurtful friends.  

These are the people who say, “why don’t you just give it to God”, or (and this is just sweet) if Vale committed suicide it’s “not your fault”.  They admonish me to get some rest.  They just. don’t. get. it.  Now they claim they do, because after all they’ve gone through heartache themselves.  One friend tells me they understand a loosing a child to suicide because they’ve lost two pregnancies.  Ummm, loosing a pregnancy is difficult, I know, I lost one.  Lemme tell you it, it’s not close to equitable to nursing a damaged child recovering from rape.  These friends wrote to me the following

As our children became young adults, they desired to stretch their wings and adventure past the four walls of our house, and this corner of the world. The Lord gave them many opportunities to do so, and it was with great fear in my own heart that I put them into cars and planes to travel across this country and across the world. Lying awake at night and worrying did nothing to keep them safe as they ventured out on their own. I was forced to trust them to the Lord. At any time He can choose to take them to Him.



…. and that’s supposed to equate to my son taking his own life, which has nothing to do with God?  Does it come close to the panic I feel every morning when he takes a medication that might actually exacerbate his suicidal ideologies?  Are you kidding me?  I have a child who drives.  Oh my word, my child could choke on a cookie and go home to the Lord!  I sometimes wonder if God gives me so many hard things to carry because there are so many weak folk like the writer above, who can’t handle anything outside the ordinary.

We went through this quite a bit when Vale’s twin was having a lot of health issues.  People went as far as to state things like, “oh I know what you’re going through.. why just last week my dog got so sick..”  WHAT!?!?  How is that even similar?

But back to that verse on the top.  Another quote from the letter from my ‘friend’:

You are struggling mentally, physically and emotionally through this trial. Let me encourage you to step back for a moment and consider what is happening. What good will you be to any of your children if you can not think clearly to guide them to all Truth? How can you minister to them if you are exhausted and unwell, physically? How can you guide them into all truth if you are not drinking from the well yourself?

You know, they’re absolutely right.  But what they’re missing is that the level of vigilance and work that must be done 24 hours a day leaves no room for refreshment.  My children are so on edge that they’ve taken to finding me and reassuring themselves of my presence when I’m even in the bathroom!  So you’re telling me to find rest… when should that be?  hmmm?  How do I obtain that?  Where do I find that?  Or better yet, why not help provide that?  

Why do you think folks don’t actually help?  Do you think the situation is so messy they don’t want to get their hands dirty?  Do you think it’s because they don’t know how to help?  Admittedly I don’t know how to ask.  Is it because they’re so wrapped up in their lives that they can’t see past their own front door?  Then of course I have to end this posting by asking, how often do I do the same lazy, ignorant, selfish things myself?

Unhelpful friends

If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, And one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body; what doth it profit?  James 2:15-16

I’ve been thinking a lot about this principle lately.  We’re having revival meetings.  I realize there isn’t going to be much revival in me, especially since I go to church ‘propped up’.  I ask for it anyway.  I ask for ears to hear.  I ask that God would bring someone along side me to strengthen my hand and help me not feel so alone.  He hasn’t provided that yet.  But I have received, and not at the Hand of God, well meaning yet hurtful friends.  

These are the people who say, “why don’t you just give it to God”, or (and this is just sweet) if Vale committed suicide it’s “not your fault”.  They admonish me to get some rest.  They just. don’t. get. it.  Now they claim they do, because after all they’ve gone through heartache themselves.  One friend tells me they understand a loosing a child to suicide because they’ve lost two pregnancies.  Ummm, loosing a pregnancy is difficult, I know, I lost one.  Lemme tell you it, it’s not close to equitable to nursing a damaged child recovering from rape.  These friends wrote to me the following

As our children became young adults, they desired to stretch their wings and adventure past the four walls of our house, and this corner of the world. The Lord gave them many opportunities to do so, and it was with great fear in my own heart that I put them into cars and planes to travel across this country and across the world. Lying awake at night and worrying did nothing to keep them safe as they ventured out on their own. I was forced to trust them to the Lord. At any time He can choose to take them to Him.

…. and that’s supposed to equate to my son taking his own life, which has nothing to do with God?  Does it come close to the panic I feel every morning when he takes a medication that might actually exacerbate his suicidal ideologies?  Are you kidding me?  I have a child who drives.  Oh my word, my child could choke on a cookie and go home to the Lord!  I sometimes wonder if God gives me so many hard things to carry because there are so many weak folk like the writer above, who can’t handle anything outside the ordinary.

We went through this quite a bit when Vale’s twin was having a lot of health issues.  People went as far as to state things like, “oh I know what you’re going through.. why just last week my dog got so sick..”  WHAT!?!?  How is that even similar?

But back to that verse on the top.  Another quote from the letter from my ‘friend’:

You are struggling mentally, physically and emotionally through this trial. Let me encourage you to step back for a moment and consider what is happening. What good will you be to any of your children if you can not think clearly to guide them to all Truth? How can you minister to them if you are exhausted and unwell, physically? How can you guide them into all truth if you are not drinking from the well yourself?

You know, they’re absolutely right.  But what they’re missing is that the level of vigilance and work that must be done 24 hours a day leaves no room for refreshment.  My children are so on edge that they’ve taken to finding me and reassuring themselves of my presence when I’m even in the bathroom!  So you’re telling me to find rest… when should that be?  hmmm?  How do I obtain that?  Where do I find that?  Or better yet, why not help provide that?  

Why do you think folks don’t actually help?  Do you think the situation is so messy they don’t want to get their hands dirty?  Do you think it’s because they don’t know how to help?  Admittedly I don’t know how to ask.  Is it because they’re so wrapped up in their lives that they can’t see past their own front door?  Then of course I have to end this posting by asking, how often do I do the same lazy, ignorant, selfish things myself?

New Coping Skills

I’ve begun utilizing a new coping skill, and I’m not all together proud of it.  Honestly, I needed some help.  I am incredibly lonely and am working on keeping the family together by myself.  My husband, even thought he is a good man, can’t rise to the challenge and as he has often done in the past, is loosing himself in his work and denial.  He knows that I am strong enough to bear most things so it’s easier for him to put off, ignore or deny how badly he’s needed.  I think he honestly tells himself I don’t need him, but then I wouldn’t resort to.. *this*.

*This* is used to keep me more quiet and numb feeling, I have so much incredible noise in my head, although at times it makes me incredibly sad.  But I have had a good cry, so I guess that’s a good thing. Hmmmm, why write about it?  Well I’m thinking that when another mom views this blog looking for support in dealing with her child going through so much pain she won’t feel alone in looking for an artificial crutch.

Intellectually I realize that Vale was raped 6 years ago.  Before I even knew him, let alone when he was my son.  In fact I have adopted another son who was sexually abused as well, but we knew it going into it, and he didn’t have major fall out.  Because the disclosure happened now, it seems to me that it happened now.  I’m dealing with all the mess now.  We’re talking to police now. Going for therapy now.  Working with him through it now.   None of that occurred 6 years ago.  I just mentally draw myself up into a fetal position and think, “my baby… my baby… my baby…”

And then the kicker is the fallout of the other children… oh, that’s so hard.  My oldest withdraws from the family.  Vale’s twin wants to know every little thing so she can somehow come to grips with it or control it.  The next in line dreams dreams…the next puts on a facade and cries to me when she the mask slips.  The youngest just can’t seem to understand, and why should he.

Add to this running for therapy, school, other obligations .. I sound like a broken record.  Can’t I please have a vacation?

Please?

New Coping Skills

I’ve begun utilizing a new coping skill, and I’m not all together proud of it.  Honestly, I needed some help.  I am incredibly lonely and am working on keeping the family together by myself.  My husband, even thought he is a good man, can’t rise to the challenge and as he has often done in the past, is loosing himself in his work and denial.  He knows that I am strong enough to bear most things so it’s easier for him to put off, ignore or deny how badly he’s needed.  I think he honestly tells himself I don’t need him, but then I wouldn’t resort to.. *this*.

*This* is used to keep me more quiet and numb feeling, I have so much incredible noise in my head, although at times it makes me incredibly sad.  But I have had a good cry, so I guess that’s a good thing. Hmmmm, why write about it?  Well I’m thinking that when another mom views this blog looking for support in dealing with her child going through so much pain she won’t feel alone in looking for an artificial crutch.

Intellectually I realize that Vale was raped 6 years ago.  Before I even knew him, let alone when he was my son.  In fact I have adopted another son who was sexually abused as well, but we knew it going into it, and he didn’t have major fall out.  Because the disclosure happened now, it seems to me that it happened now.  I’m dealing with all the mess now.  We’re talking to police now. Going for therapy now.  Working with him through it now.   None of that occurred 6 years ago.  I just mentally draw myself up into a fetal position and think, “my baby… my baby… my baby…”

And then the kicker is the fallout of the other children… oh, that’s so hard.  My oldest withdraws from the family.  Vale’s twin wants to know every little thing so she can somehow come to grips with it or control it.  The next in line dreams dreams…the next puts on a facade and cries to me when she the mask slips.  The youngest just can’t seem to understand, and why should he.

Add to this running for therapy, school, other obligations .. I sound like a broken record.  Can’t I please have a vacation?

Please?

A response to a letter I received

A gracious reader took the time to write me a lovely and lengthy note, but asked that I keep them anonymous.  I just wanted to share some wonderful ideas that they had and respond to their generosity.

Thank you so much for taking the time to write to me.  I’m always grateful when people care enough to read my blog let alone spend time on a note to us.  I am especially honored that you took so much time to offer support and ideas.  I think that even if I had heard your trips a hundred times before, I wouldn’t get tired of it, because it meant that someone cared enough to write them the 101st time.  I am going to implement your ideas, especially the color card one!  I hope you don’t mind that I shared your ideas, but this blog is for the encouragement of others, so I thought your experience valuable and wanted to pass it on.

*Note: anywhere the author of these ideas used identifiers such as Mom, Dad, boyfriend, girlfriend etc, I replaced it with (support) in order to preserve every bit of anonymity.

“Here are some things that have helped me in the past, and do daily, in case you haven’t thought of them;

Try and ask Vale to talk to you about the self-harm, and what about it helps him release the demons inside. If it’s the blood and the injuries, encourage him to use a red marker pen to draw on himself, then provide him with dressings and bandages to cover them with. I know that sometimes I just need to look like I feel on the inside - broken, so I hurt myself. Being able to have the pen marks, although not hurting me, it was a way for me to communicate my pain. And the bandages just backed that up, I guess, and encouraged me not to hurt myself any more. If it’s the pain, I’ve held ice in my hands, or ran my hands under the cold tap, or snapped a rubber band against my wrist. I know these could be seen as a form of self-harm, but they do not leave marks that last more than an hour; they do not cause damage or require ‘looking after’, but can sometimes give a release.

The two of you could try building a ‘distraction box’ together, where you could put anything that might help Vale keep his mind busy if he feels the need to cut. You could put things like; A sketchbook and pens/pencils, some Lego pieces, modeling clay, puzzles, a writing pad, books or films about anything he particularly loves. Another thing you could put in could be something like a card or a note, that he could give you when he is feeling bad but cannot communicate. He could just put it on the fridge, or slide it under your door or something like that, and then you would at least have a very simple form of communication when he is struggling to talk. My (support) and I have a color-coding system, because we’ve been using it for a while and practice makes it easier. For us, red means that I’m struggling and feel I can’t be left on my own, blue means I’m feeling down and don’t want to talk to anyone but I’m safe on my own, and green means that I want to talk.

With the ED, I’m in the early stages of recovery myself, and finding this difficult. But the one thing that did help me was always feeling in control. My (support) helped me form a meal plan. I eat at the same times every day and have the same number of calories at the same time every day so I always know what to expect. It’s helping a lot. I eat little at a time, but I have two meals a day and three small snacks. My calorie intake is lower than recommended, but is enough to keep my body functioning healthily without me losing weight, as long as I don’t exercise too much.”

Thank you again, writer, you were a blessing to us today. =) <3

It’s all about me..

If you would allow me, I’m going to indulge in a little self pity.  Today is exactly one month since we first discovered how much pain Vale is in.   I can’t get over how much I’ve aged this last month, how haggard I look, how drawn.  Now don’t get me wrong, I was no spring chicken to start with.  I’m over 40 and have an adult child.  My hair is rather grey, although I could really care less.  But my face was pretty line free.  I had some slight expression lines around my eyes, but I rather liked those because they reflect how much I smile.  But now I wake with this furrow between my eyebrows.  I can’t rub it away.  It’s because I find myself caring this concerned expression on my face all the time.  I find my forehead wrinkled and feel tense and I have to tell myself to relax it.  And as far as those fine lines around my eyes… I don’t smile as much.

I can’t believe how incredibly tired I feel, how much sleep I lost, how early I wake.  I wake at 4:30 or 5 and tell myself, what’s the point in going back to sleep.  Getting to bed is hard because that’s Vale’s most anxious time of the day.  To get him to deescalate takes time and if I don’t take the time then something is going to happen.  If we could start getting him to start with his deescalateion around 6-7 that would be awesome, but right now it’s not a reality.  The weight of the responsibility and vigilance is so heavy.  I can be worn down by 10:00 AM.

Please know that I express things things because I hope that one day other mothers will read my ramblings and find themselves in like company.  I don’t express them because I’m irritated with Vale or I resent the time or the lack of sleep or the aging process.  I am still very aware of what a privilege I have of caring for Vale and taking this journey with them.  But even if you’re a mom you’re still just a person.  You’re a person who wants to be able to go out for lunch and not worry about fallout from the absence.  You’re just a person who  wants to be able to go to bed early if necessary and not feeling like you’re leaving your children in a dangerous situation.  You’re just a person who wants to have date night with your husband, but know you can’t leave your fragile child in the care of others.  You want to take care of yourself but are so filled with worry and so tired that you can’t seem to do so.  You’re a person who wants to say, ‘hey!  what about me?’ and you feel so guilty for feeling this way.  This is your child, you pour your very self out for them and then willingly volunteer to do so over and again.  But it doesn’t negate the fact that you’re worn thin.  If you think about an airplane crashing, the first thing they tell you is to use the oxygen mask for yourself first before applying it to your child.  Because if you pass out you can’t take care of your little ones.  It’s impulse to care for the child first.  I guess, I’m waiting for my oxygen mask.

So much to type…

… and yet so little energy to do it with.  We had a lovely time with friends yesterday, a pretty positive day all around.  Until the evening that is.  One the way home from church, I explained to the children that I was exceedingly tired and I asked them to get their things together, get something to eat and go to bed peaceably so that I could go to bed at a decent hour.  Vale’s disposition was off all evening.  He was distant, limp and cold.  I knew something was up and asked him several times if something was wrong, if he needed to talk or if he had something he shouldn’t have.  He just looked at me blankly and murmured virtually nothing.  Bedtime had come.  As my husband and I were having our evening snack, Vale comes down with his bland face, eyes darting about, acting anxious.  He handed over a knife.  He picked it up at the church and smuggled it out.  When he showed me his arms.. oh my, what a disaster.  He started cutting on his stomach as well.  That was new.

His anxiety was elevated because we had the meeting at the CAC (please see a previous post) the next morning and he was horribly concerned about it.  What worried him most was that there would be a camera and microphone in the forensic interviewing room.  He hated the thought of the video camera.  Also he felt that the last time he was interviewed he got two details confused and he would ‘mess things up’ and no one would believe him.  No matter how much soothing, affection, tears etc I tried to showered on him would bring him back to me, he stayed in that distant vacant place he went.  

As dreadful as his arms looked, the vacancy was more intimidating, more heart wrenching.