She is Not a Duck, part 3

A Mother’s Journey into the world of Mental Health and Spectrum Disorder Challenges

She walks like a duck, talks like a duck, but she is not a duck.

Chapter Two: Welcome to ADHD and More

In the mental health world, 1 + 1 = B, or 17, or an apple.

I am most comfortable when 1 + 1 = 2.

Some people, like me, are problem solvers by nature. I will read, dissect, analyze and overturn every nugget of information I can get my hands on. Application of that new information can easily be thrown out the window when it comes to mental health.

Spoiler alert: There are no 100% perfect, textbook answers.

Each case, much to my dismay, is completely individualized. This is difficult for someone like me who likes to tackle an issue, button it up, and finalize the deal. Putting to bed any challenge and moving on was my style.

In the mental health arena, it takes a lot of time to untangle competing behaviors.

We sat there with her pediatrician, both emotionally spent and still teary. After some questionnaire-type testing, it was determined that Sarah was clearly exhibiting signs of ADHD. I was initially relieved. Lack of focus, interrupting, emotional turmoil, avoidance of tasks, and impatience were all glaringly obvious.

“Let’s do this!” I thought to myself. Finally, there was something definitive we could treat, but, I was a tad self-righteous and thought too many kids were needlessly on medicines. I didn’t want to just throw pills at her.

The doctor calmly explained, looking over Sarah’s head, who was completely tuned out, that there may be more concerns. She was young, however, and additional determinations could not be made, as of yet.

Foreboding. More red flags. Bigger ones that were waving and flapping wildly.

At 9 years old, her personality was still developing and signals could be confusing for an accurate diagnosis.

The medicines were explained as well as treatment choices. We (I?) opted for family counseling.

Silly me.

Stupid, ignorant, naïve me. Let’s waste 10 months or so screwing around with my brilliant idea to delay the inevitable.

Many wonderful things were discussed — we enjoyed the counseling time and grew a little more familiar with each other’s innermost thoughts and desires. All of us participated, except for Sarah.

She was a tall nine-year-old and physically strong. It was bizarre to watch her bounce around, fidget, and generally ignore all of us while enjoying her fantasy world. She would sit in the doorway, with her back to us, and play with books or even crayons. She would twirl her hair and defiantly refuse eye contact or responses.

The psychologist broke up with us, per se. He severed our relationship.

He was private pay and felt bad taking our money for little to no ability to help our daughter. They couldn’t even build a relationship so he sent us packing. He handled it with compassion, but, this was still a breakup. Our first of many to come.

I was devastated to be sent back to the drawing board.

Into the pediatrician’s office, we went. She was prescribed medicine. It was considered, back then, to be the premiere version of Ritalin, named Metadate.

She seemed so much better at first. The first welcomed calm lasted roughly 72 hours.

While there was a noticeable positive change in her focus, other behavioral areas were intensifying in a really negative way. There was a wave of increased anger and usually about nothing important.

Showering was a nightmare.

We would start requesting, immediately after dinner, that she washed up. Extra time was always necessary when it was bathing time. After an easy hour of screaming, crying, throwing herself on the floor, and actually moaning, she would get in the shower.

Then, she wouldn’t get out.

She would sing and stay in there forever. Apparently, her personal concert performances came with encores, many, many encores.

And, after an hour of yelling to make her get in the shower, and another half hour to make her get out, she would emerge. Bounding down the steps she would gleefully ask if she could have ice cream or another treat. “What?” she sometimes randomly and calmly asked. She seemingly possessed no awareness of her previous display.

Meanwhile, we were still grinding and hadn’t had our closure. Jaws clenched, we were confused. She had forgotten all about the drama she caused and had moved on. This was nearly a nightly occurrence and quite draining.

We tried it all — firm and standing our ground. Yelling, screaming, insisting that she comply, yielded minimal success. With our other two kids, just a look, a slightly raised voice, and off they scurried to either clean up their mess and apologize for their actions.

Why did our parenting techniques work for only 2 of the 3 kids?

Is this normal for ADHD? My brain was on fire.

Creativity was a must for survival. Regaining order in our house was a tightrope walk. She could throw everything, and everyone, into a tailspin with her anger and defiance. I started giving her a big lead time and lots of explanations of any daily plans. But, she would have a different idea in her head, never tell me, and then throw a fit when she was disappointed.

We’re all relatively smart people but it took us a while to see that pattern emerging.

Preparing, communicating, and repeating became my life. It helped sometimes but it was not a home run every time. I limited my yelling; it certainly didn’t work and I was tired of the headaches. My throat would get sore. The chest pains felt like mini heart attacks.

I did want to escape the atmosphere, but not die from combustion while looking for solutions.

It was so hard, pre-thinking every spoken word; her misinterpretations were constant. If I said she needed new pants because she was getting tall, she would cry out that I called her fat.

I couldn’t win and had to watch and weigh every statement. I thought this was all part of ADHD simply because I didn’t know.

I didn’t know.

The doctor saw us frequently and began an alarming trend of solving the escalating problems by increasing her dosage. Apparently, she ‘outgrew’ her dosage which seemed like a reasonable explanation to me.

I count on doctors, respect their experience and knowledge. Of course, the answer was to up the meds; I should’ve thought of that. Her physical and behavioral responses to the medicine were pretty quick in the scheme of things and we bought some normalcy each time.

This trend continued. Increases in the dosage and her erratic behavior went hand in hand. I grew weary of the routine and thought there has to be more. There has to be an answer better than this roller coaster. I was tired of never knowing what the day would bring and wondering why my life was supposed to be of such hell.

I was tired of overanalyzing what I had done in a past life if there was one, that was so horrible to deserve this fate.

In my research, I would stumble upon medical sites that delved into personality disorders. While reading one particular report about Borderline Personality Disorder, I sank in the chair. My heart grew heavy and my mind was spinning.

Please, let us have an answer to work with, and please, don’t let this be it.

Did the author live in our house? The document clearly pinpointed the very behaviors we were witnessing.

It was time to bring in the big guns.

I made an appointment, in Philadelphia, for a specialist in child psychiatry. We had a phone interview and an initial consultation. Sarah was dark and she had taken to letting her hair fall in her face with just one eye available to see out.

She met the psychiatrist and growled.

I was torn and once again embarrassed. Torn apart, really, because I knew she was sick but how did I let her get this far? My guilt was tremendous and heavy.

The dark Sarah would reject hugging or comfort of any kind. What did the doctor think of the situation and what did she think of me? Do I even deserve to be a mother at all?

I seemed to be the only one, in the entire universe, that couldn’t get anything right. My skin felt sunburned. Every nerve ending of rawness was sitting right on the surface.

As we checked out with the next two appointments lined up, I was handed a folded piece of paper. She almost palmed it to me, in the hallway, as to be secretive. I dutifully waited to open it, in the car.

This was on a Friday. The offices would be closed over the weekend. The doctor could see what was around the corner that I couldn’t.

I slowly opened the crumbled and sweaty piece of paper that had been cupped in my hand.

Scrawled on it was “Mental Health Crisis Hotline” with the phone number.

The doctor knew. She knew.

And, so came the crash into the weekend of darkness.

Darkness will be followed by light; it too will come.

• Thank you for joining the third installment in my series. We will travel through the hallways of the psychiatric world, the school system, and our family dynamics. I look forward to sharing more and hope you will see that none of us are alone.