The other me is an optimist,
Always up for something new.
The other me has a list of dreams that, somehow,
She’ll make come true.
The other me writes silly stories
For someone, or no one, to read.
The other me loves being creative,
Always a project up her sleeve.
The other me sees into hearts
And knows just how they feel.
The other me has the gift of saying
Calming words that heal.
The other me, in adversity,
Is as strong as a mother bear.
The other me is hopeful
And still believes in prayer.
She looks just like me, she's just my age
And her hair is just as gray.
But her eyes, they sparkle, and she’s quick to smile.
Wish I could be that way.
The me, that I am, finds it difficult
To concentrate on much.
The me, that I am, no longer has a
Passion for crafts and such.
The me, that I am, has worries
No mother should ever own.
The me, that I am, often feels
Hopeless and alone.
The me, that I am, can't always find
The soothing words that she would.
The me, that I am, often doesn’t have
The patience that I should.
The me, that I am, is heartbroken
That it all seems so unfair.
The me, that I am, is angry
And incapable of prayer.
Sometimes I catch a glimpse of her
Out of the corner of my eye.
She beckons me to join her,
If only for a while.
And, if I can pull myself together
For a brief repose,
We might do some gardening, take a walk
Or catch a movie, I suppose.
We like to share a rocking chair
And a book out in the sun,
And she’s nice to have around to
Share in a bit of fun.
From time to time she whispers
Encouragement in my ear.
And, if I can’t, she’ll be the one
Who says a little prayer.
She doesn’t stick around long,
She comes and goes…and then...
Sometimes I start to worry
That I won’t see her again.
I hope she doesn't forget me.
I know I’ll never forget her.
My son is 37-years old. Even as a child, he was a worrier and anxious, but had a lot of friends and easily got good grades. He was the kid who didn't drink and who would drive the other kids home. He went away to college in 2001 and, in 2004, had a breakdown, dropped out, and came home. He was diagnosed with Bipolar 2, anxiety, and severe depression. He’d started self-medicating with beer and pot and cigarettes, which he used to hate. Luckily, no hard drugs had been involved.
To make a really long story a bit shorter, over the years his SMI has progressed. He’s been in the ER (51/50's) numerous times (which he often talks his way out of), and has been hospitalized three times. He’s taken a variety of medications — none of which seemed to work that well, especially, when he was drinking, smoking, and not compliant taking them. He said, “I don’t want to kill myself. I just want to be dead.”
Over a year ago, after an extremely bad episode when he was hospitalized, we made the hard decision to not allow our son to come home. Since then, he’s been in five different places — always a "great" opportunity until he gets tired of the venue or gets kicked out. Although he’d been sober for quite a while and was going to AA, he went off his meds last summer and got worse than ever. He was rail thin, let his hair grow really long, and didn’t shave or bathe. His eyes looked wild and his behavior was scary. Every time we talked to him, he ranted and screamed and blamed us and, in the same breath, would cry for us to let him come home. He said, “I’ll show you how much I’ve changed since I’ve been sober.”
My son is back on meds, but is still extremely depressed and lonely and wants to come home. We know it won't work and that we're doing the right thing, but it doesn't feel very good. He’s in "the system," and getting SS disability, but not going to therapy consistently. We’ve been to NAMI meetings and classes.
Mental illness changes the whole family. We’re both 64 and tired, emotionally and physically. Even though our son isn’t with us 24/7 anymore, his illness consumes us. I used to have hobbies and other interests that I would still like to do, but rarely have the energy.
In the 16 years since he was diagnosed, my son’s had a blood clot in his lung (he also has a clotting disorder). I’ve been through breast cancer (chemo and radiation), and had a tumor on my spinal cord removed followed by a lot of physical therapy. My 90 year-old mother-in-law moved in with us for six months before she passed, and I had to liquidate her estate. I worried about another son with the clotting disorder, my husband lost his younger brother, and, now, I'm helping take care of my 90-year-old parents. We're wondering when the golden years kick in.
I wrote this poem a couple of years ago. Thanks for reading it.