Monthly Archives: December 2014

More of Christmas present…

I had the blessing of a week-day off today. I’m very grateful for the slow start to the morning. I watched a little TV, cruised FB and cuddled with Kitty, my 15 pound tabby Maine Coon. Love pet therapy, personally. 🙂 Today is a big day in our family. Both children have “Holiday” programs. I’ll be basking in the JOY of Christmas, myself, but I understand the public schools’ desire to be inclusive. Logan is adorable and said his three songs will likely last 10 minutes. Even still, his grandparents are coming to Central Oregon early to be able to meet me there. His dad will try to make it too. I have no idea if he had a holiday program last year. I simply don’t recall. However, any spare moment that I had last year, I was either on the road or seeing my therapist. It was a hard time, as previous posts have explained. While I am happy that Logan has a program to participate in, and I get to attend, my excitement is reserved for Preston’s choir concert this evening. That is the performance that the grandparents planned their trip around. For me, it’s a culmination of the hard work he has done to “come out of his shell.” Standing on that stage, sing a solo, even if for only 30 seconds, puts the trauma of last year, further behind him. I am so proud. He has an incredible voice and has learned so much since he started taking choir. I think the world of his choir director. In fact, last year in the spring, not long after Preston started in her class, I ran into her at the pizza place. I thanked her for letting him start part way through the year and for helping him find a safe place, at school, that he enjoyed. Yes, I hugged her and cried. She is an amazing woman and Preston is blessed to have made this connection with her. So, in order to truly show how special I think this evening is, I’m going to trade in my jeans for something a little nicer, I’ve painted my nails AND I’m going to wear makeup. Gasp! It’s gonna be great. Love and hugs, Rebecca

Living in the present with the ghost of Christmas past.


I am all over the place in my head with what I want to include in a blog post. While I’m trying to let my heart lead me, my brain has strong opinions about what I should share.

Since the second week of October, I have been experiencing flashbacks to last year at this time. My older son Preston was experiencing a severe depressive episode complicated with suicidal ideation and self harm. I struggle with knowing how much detail is too much and how much is needed to convey how amazing it is that we are where we are today. Even though this blog is my outlet, I want to offer hope to others that may be in a similar situation.

When Preston was found to be in crisis, the only experience I had to draw from was my own as a teenager. I was unwilling to take any medication for my own dysregulation and refused to participate in counseling so my first major depressive episode became a horrible way of life. Not only for myself, but for those who loved and lived with me. I spent many years on an emotional roller-coaster that caused hell and havoc for myself and my entire family. I am not exaggerating to say I suffered. At one of the worst points, my parents arranged for me to have an inpatient psychiatric stay for a short period of time. I did myself no favors by lying my way through that brief treatment period. I wasn’t truly invested in my own future and wouldn’t let anyone in to help me. I still have trouble with being vulnerable to anyone. I spent much of my teenage years unhappy. To this day, it hurts me to remember what I did to myself and those around me. The past is past and I’ve learned to live life differently. I know that this counts and my parents forgive me for being crazy. I mention all this about me to help you understand the decisions I made to help Preston “get well”. While Preston was in the emergency room being evaluated by the ER physician and social worker I was overwhelmed and in shock. I dug down deeper that I ever have before and made myself stay calm and keep the tears and terror in. I’m not exaggerating, I was terrified. My beautiful boy’s life was in danger from his own self. Despite a dramatic episode in a tree, he did not make a true suicide attempt so we were not trying to treat his physical well-being, but to address his mental health. I’m sure if I sat here long enough I could tell you every single detail but I don’t want to. I’ve spent the last year encouraging those memories to fade into the recesses somewhere, so I am not plagued by them or nightmares. What I do recall easily is having no hesitation at having him admitted on a one-do-one psych hold as an inpatient on the pediatric floor. I very clearly remember what it felt like to realize, and quickly admit, that I could not, nor would try, to keep him safe at home. I quickly moved from what I didn’t know to what I did know. I knew that this was our chance to blitz this horrible disease, depression, and throw everything at it. Intense inpatient treatment, medication, psychotherapy and so on. In the matter of a few hours I went from having a “normal” day at work to my entire world spinning on its’ axis and changing all of our lives forever. I can say now that it is for the better but then, in those moments, I felt like I was out of control, questioning everything I thought I knew. Paranoia about keeping everyone safe gripped me and didn’t let go for months and months. Not long after the discussion about Preston not being safe at home, it was suggested that he go to Portland (200 miles away) for inpatient, adolescent psychiatric treatment for an undetermined period of time. I said yes. Ironically, one of the triggers for Preston’s turmoil, his dad suing me for full-custody of him and losing, meant that I could make all of the treatment decisions for Preston on my own. I included his dad and kept him in the loop but it was up to me. I was so grateful for this. My own experience with depression and having worked in medicine for 13.5 years at that time, meant I had better knowledge and tools than his construction working dad did about medications and treatment modalities. We quickly decided on which medications to try and why. Let me say that I have always been anti-medication for many reasons. While it was a quick decision, it was not an easy one and went against my personal preference. However, when someone is drowning, do you thrown them the life preserver and stand by or do you throw the preserver, call the Coast Guard and pull your boat along side to scoop them up in a net? You do it all. You try every reasonable thing that you have at your disposal to save their life. Believe me when I say that we were fighting to do exactly that. Yes, we weren’t fighting cancer or Ebola, but we were fighting a potentially life-ending disease. To see your child with the light gone from their eyes is not something that I would wish on anyone. Ever. It burns a scar into your soul that will never be gone. Healed? Possibly. Gone? I don’t think so. While we waited for an inpatient bed for Preston, we passed the days in his hospital room playing card or board games, watching TV and he ordered cookies and milk shakes from the hospital “room service.” As I type this, the hollow pain in my chest that comes from these memories, takes my breath away. I have to stop and remind myself we aren’t living this now. That was then and it is over and we survived. The recollection of how uncertain I was, is so easy to bring back. As I quietly observed Preston in that room, I was able to see how thin he had gotten, how lost in himself and dark he was. It breaks my heart to admit it but I hadn’t seen it. I didn’t see the crisis coming and narrowly avoided having him remove himself from our lives, permanently.

Yikes. I had to take a break for several hours in the middle of this blog post. I’ve lot some momentum and I’m not sure if I should pick up where I left off…

After days of waiting, a bed became available in Oregon City and Preston had to travel there via secure transport. I am very particular about who drives my children around. Watching him be escorted via security guard to the waiting van and get with strangers, I feel like I was suffocating. (Really, I was having a panic attack that I couldn’t show to anyone.) I drove the 200 miles to Oregon City, behind the van. I could see Preston, but I felt so far away and out of control. I may write another blog post about the admissions process and what it was like for him to be there but not today. I was very fortunate to have a place to stay and was able to be with my parents at their house in Beaverton. I’d left everything behind suddenly, my job, my husband and my vulnerable, younger son. Those around me picked up all of my slack so that I could be all about Preston. While as a person, I’m not replaceable, others could do tasks that normally fell to me. I made a special trip to Central Oregon to be able to go to the pumpkin patch with Logan and try to do “normal” things with him. It was impossible to keep his routine while I was out of town but his grandparents and dad did the best they could. Preston seemed to use his time well during his inpatient stay.

Toward the end, we frantically tried to pull together outpatient mental health services for him in Central Oregon. Let me say this, the mental health services in rural Central Oregon are severely lacking. I struggled with the office staff at his psychiatrist’s office to get him a visit for when he was discharged. He didn’t already have a therapist so I needed to find one of those too. Again, limited options were available. If I had it to do all over again, I would have been more assertive, even aggressive, to get him appointments sooner and more of them. I’d never been responsible for anything so important before and hadn’t found enough valuable literature to direct me. Basically, we didn’t have a good enough outpatient plan for Preston and by the weekend of Thanksgiving, he was at a crisis point again.

On the Monday following Thanksgiving, we were in Preston’s psychiatrists office trying to problem-solve and figure out what to do next. Once again, he wasn’t safe at our house and once again, I knew that I couldn’t keep him there if that was true. Preston was very honest about his feelings and how overwhelmed he was. He told his psychiatrist that he knew that he needed inpatient psychiatric care. He also told him that he didn’t think a week or two at an inpatient psych unit was going to be enough to help him. Preston asked to go to residential treatment. I’m proud to say that I didn’t come unglued and freak out. Regardless of my mother’s desire to keep him close to me, my instincts told me to follow his. His psychiatrist told us about the residential treatment facilities in Oregon and their locations. Before we left his office to go to the ER, we already had an idea of where we wanted him to go. This conversation was pivotal in jump-starting getting him to residential treatment. Our local hospital doesn’t let his psychiatrist directly admit to pediatrics so we went back to the ER. They were great about making sure I could connect with the social worker early on. She had already received Preston’s info from the psych office which outlines the plan to go to residential treatment so she was able to put together a packet to send the referral to the Trillium Farm Home in Albany. When I called the following morning to check on the referral, they were already able to tell me that they had a spot for him. This time, instead of waiting many days to get to the next hospital, Emmanuel Adolescent Psych until had a spot the following day. I drove on ahead because he wasn’t leaving until after 10pm. Over the next several days I spoke with the intake coordinator at the Farm Home and went for a tour and filled out paperwork and provided necessary documentation. I also went back to Central Oregon this time. Unlike the previous visit, I didn’t stay the entire length of his stay. At home, I was able to be with Logan and AJ and go back to work. Now, I didn’t do any of those things very well. At all. I poured over the list of personal items that Preston was able to have, packed his things and met him at the Farm Home.

Very early on in his residential treatment stay, we would told that he’d be there from a month to three months, but that insurance doesn’t usually agree to pay for that long. Since he got there around the 13th of December, we soon realized that he would be missing the holiday season at home. To this day, we haven’t discussed this together. Already heartbroken, I was devastated that he would be away from our home during this favorite time of year. I was torn between wanting life to be as it should for Logan. I struggled to find an ounce of joy in anything. I battled my own anxiety and depression and overwhelming disappointment. I was on the road twice per week to Albany. I participated in family therapy and then had a visit on the weekend. No one but myself or his dad was allowed to visit. My choice. When he was well-enough emotionally to be away from the farm home, we would start to reintroduce family members. It was easier to control what was said and what wasn’t, if his communications were limited to those closest to him that were completely apprised of his situation. I don’t regret shielding him from anyone. I would do it again. The Farm Home had a Christmas tree in their common room. Our house felt lonely without Preston home. I know that we decorated here but I don’t remember how or when. I don’t recall making any baked treats that I am known to make year after year. I think we listened to a few Christmas carols but I don’t remember singing along like I usually do. My work decorations were fewer than prior years. We went through the motions, we bought gifts for both boys, (Preston’s had to be approved for safety reasons) and had a visit here from Santa. I drove to the Farm Home on Christmas Day to make a meal for Preston. However, he was noticeably missing in every holiday activity that we typically participate in.

This year, as Thanksgiving approached, the feelings from last year were closer to the surface. I could tell I was optimistic but emotionally holding my breath. Having learned the Heart Math tools, I was able to process and handle the negative emotions and remain positive and look forward to enjoying the season surrounding Jesus’ birth. I cannot go back and make up for what was lost, but I can appreciate this all the more because I know what it’s like to not have it. We have baked cookies, sung Carols together, attended a holiday concert and loved and laughed and have loved some more. We are living in Christmas present. Honoring the past but not letting the demons and darkness, disrupt our lives now. It is with full hearts that we go through life and share the Christmas spirit. The Holy Spirit.

(Preston spent 4 weeks at the Farm Home and his outpatient, discharge plan has gone well. He is happy and healthy with “normal” teenage ups and downs.)

Life is not without conflict or challenges. However, my life has perspective. I am so grateful that as a family, we have all worked hard to come together to face, and embrace, the challenges we’ve been given.

Thanks for making it all the way through this long blog post. I recognize that it was scattered at times. As I get ready to close the laptop lid, and head back to the kitchen to dip spritz cookies in peppermint flavored candy coating, I am looking forward to the freedom that comes with sharing these memories.

Love and hugs, Rebecca

I’ve discovered valuable wisdom, mine.

Over the past weeks, I’ve put the past behind me for the first time in my entire life. From the time I was small, I dwelled on my somewhat tragic beginning of being separated at birth from my first mom by adoption. I felt like a constant identity crisis until I was almost 20 years old. I had failed romantic relationships and my first baby at 20. Many other things happened along the way and I got really good at being a victim, blaming my past for my present and other whiny and worrying behaviors. I was really, really good at reminiscing and ruminating. Those ugly things I held on to, made me miserable and ugly. Now that I’ve learned the Heart Math tools, I’ve finally unwound for the first time in my life. I am positive and I am gratitude.

Until I stopped doing it, I never realized that I compared my present to the benchmark of the past. The current was either better or worse depending on which year or event I was comparing it to. This realization really smacked me in the face as I embraced this holiday season and began to make it what I wanted it to be. Joy, joy, joy! Initially after Thanksgiving, I was appreciating this year because our family was healthy and whole, compared to last year. By comparing, however, I had to bring up the memories, hurtful ones, of where we were last year at this time. Slowly, I realized that I could enjoy this year, simply for what it is, for what I was making it to be. It is FABULOUS that we can be together, sing songs, bake, enjoy a Christmas concert and be silly with the Elf on the Shelf, because it is. I am truly living to be in this moment, regardless of where or what it is, without wanting it to be something else. I haven’t banished the past and we can talk about things we’ve done before but the new focus is on NOW. Now is the greatest life has ever been. I am so excited to be modeling this behavior for my children. It’s awesome that they will learn valuable lessons at a much younger age than I did.

I feel free in a way I can’t quite describe. The past has packed up and is safely away somewhere, not ruling the present with it’s toxic waste. The lessons I have learned will move forward and I will make every effort not to repeat those mistakes. I encourage you spend your life in the moments you have now and the ones that are ahead of you. The past has nothing new to say and you don’t owe it anything at all.

Love and hugs, Rebecca

Body image issues.


Today’s post is the opposite of my blogger’s block that I had a while back. I couldn’t get out of the shower fast enough. In fact, I’m sitting on the step in my bathroom, wrapped in a towel, in front of the space heater, frantically typing so I’m not to late to work on this icy morning.

Body image issues, I have them. When I look at other people, I don’t see their size, I see them. I struggle to do that for myself, though. As far back as a remember it was a theme in my house growing up. (The person who spent time discussing shape, size and pounds has apologized for any part they played in my learned behaviors, I do not hold any grudges or resentment towards them. Please be respectful in any comments you make at the end of this post because I adore them and any negative is FAR outweighed by the positive. ) It’s always been there. There are various times in my life when my obsession with my own size and shape has been more harmful than others. Lately, instead of restricting my intake as is my worst habit, I’ve been overindulging. I make excuses for my poor quality food choices of crap (candy, sweets, chips, pizza & other fast food). I’ve gone so far to as to say “Better to be fat and happy than skinny and miserable.” I was skinny and miserable at this time last year due to a family member being in poor health. However, I LOVED feeling skinny. Not thin, skinny. I had very little muscle left and weighed 118 pounds. My hip and collar bones were protruding and I looked gaunt. My belly pooch was MUCH smaller than what it looks like at 136 pounds today. When I dream at night, I am that size and shape and it is wonderful. It is easy to forget that my muscles wasted and I had to take the elevator instead of the stairs. My clothes were too big and never too tight. For those people who remember what I looked like at 188 pounds, I got a lot of comments about how great I looked so much lighter. For someone who has spent their entire life wanting approval from other people, just wanting to be good enough, it is a little thrill every time there is that external approval about my appearance. I have worked in medicine for 14.5 years. I am fully aware of just how dangerous binging, fasting, and diet supplements can be. And yet…

Last night, in trying to share with my husband how I feel about my ever increasing size, he told me that he doesn’t understand. That he didn’t grow up with an example of someone who was concerned with their size. It’s a hard thing to understand.

In my quest to be healthy, which is NOT skinny or 118 pounds, I am focusing on making maintainable changes. Yesterday, I didn’t eat a bit of candy and focused on protein, lots of water and no binging. I had a salad even thought the pizza that my husband baked, and the cheese bread, smelled wonderful. Small habit changes make all the difference. My next big step is returning to exercise. The endorphins from that are AWESOME and my body needs them. One day, maybe I will love the skin I am in…

Hugs, Rebecca