It occurs to me that I am in a club that I didn’t sign up for. There are clubs for parents of multiples, there are clubs for parents of children with Downs Syndrom; there should be a club for parents of children with mental illnesses. It is reminiscent of the story Welcome to Holland; wherein the mother plans a trip to Italy, but wakes up to find herself in Holland — their new baby has a disability and the ‘planned’ itinerary to go to Italy has been altered significantly, she finds herself in Holland – living a different kind of life than she expected.
In my upper-middle-class community we have clear expectations for our young people as they launch into the world. High school with honors is to be followed by college with honors (or at least without dishonor); they are expected to successfully navigate through the complex social jungle that is high school (preferably enjoying every minute of these ‘salad days with a group of popular and attractive friends); followed by navigating the temptations and choices offered by a college setting; usually while living away from the watchful eye of their parents for the first time.
In truth, neither I or any of my kids followed this ‘golden’ path. With apologies to my children: they inherited a number of characteristics from my side of the family: This includes the shortness gene, a geek gene, and a varied dose of whatever gene contributes to depression.
Readers of this blog know that my youngest child, Guzzy, is in recovery from a serious eating disorder. The path behind her is rocky, and the path in front of her is hazy. Last night I spoke with a woman who lost a daughter to her eating disorder at an event they were sponsoring to raise funds in their daughter’s memory. As I hugged her tightly, I thanked her for doing this. Her repy was “what else can I do? crawl into a hole?.”
As a parent, we go on– while supporting our children (or honoring their memory) as best we can. Friends who have not gone down this path do not know what it is like, and do not understand–through no fault of their own: It’s akin to explaining what it’s like to be a parent to someone who has never spent time with a child.
Personally, I struggle with how to answer the question: “How is Guzzy”? I generally say “Fine, she’s doing Fine”. What else can I Say? Perhaps I could offer that she is swimming somewhere between Italy and Holland and I am yelling advice and support from the shore–advice that is most often blown away with the wind.