Bridget Flaherty - Anger and Acceptance

 

It was a cold and snowy mid-January day in 2016 and I was driving home after spending eight weeks in a mental health facility in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Driving the six hours home to Dayton, Ohio, I was feeling a mix of excitement and uncertainty. I was excited to see my children because two months was the longest, I had ever been away from them. My daughter, who was 19, had been able to come and visit and exchange letters, but I had only been able to speak to my son once a week on Sundays for 10 minutes. And I missed him.

 

Ian was my little man. I was so excited when he came into the world that I put my IT career on hold for two years in order to stay home with him. However, lurking in the shadow was a deepening mental illness. Depression had been my constant companion since I was a teenager, and shortly after his birth, I was diagnosed with severe postpartum depression and put on medication. When he was 4, his father and I got divorced, and shortly after I got remarried. I wanted to make sure that Ian felt seen and special. So, every Saturday I would take him out to breakfast, just the two of us. He got my undivided attention for his bedtime routine and it created special moments for us, like going to see the Cincinnati Reds play and spending the entire day together.

 

After seven years on the antidepressants, my psychiatrist helped me to slowly wean off of the pills with significant and sometimes debilitating side effects. I thought that I was better and so did everyone in my life. But the truth was the underlying issues had not been addressed. So, when it became clear that my second marriage was coming to an end, the feelings of shame and utter failure were so thick that I could not imagine any way that I would survive. When I got to the point that I was cutting my skin in the bathroom on breaks between business meetings, I knew that I was not okay. I convinced myself that everyone, including my son, would be better off without me in this world.

 

One night I sat in my car with a loaded 9-millimeter handgun and I imagined that no one would find my body until the morning. That night I beat the demons in my mind and I went home and I played the part of a loving mother. I had gotten really good at masking my pain, but I fantasized about leaving life constantly. About two months later, I confided in my sister that today was the day. I told her about my plan to end my life while Ian was at his father's house and she begged me to get help. After hours on the phone with her, I agreed. In treatment, I learned about the depth of my core wounds and the extent of my trauma. I was told that I had complex PTSD and severe depressive disorder. I was treated with love and understanding by the staff. I was given tools and support, and now I was returning home with a plan for continued follow-up treatment. [sighs]

 

The day after I got back, I went to pick up Ian at his father's house after school. I was excited to see him, but I also felt unsure. Ian didn't bounce down the steps to greet me like he normally did. Instead, he walked towards me with a face that I couldn't read. He was silent as we got into the car. "Good to see you, bud." Got no response. After a pause that felt like forever, he asked, "Were you as bad as Robin Williams?" I wasn't prepared for that question. I wasn't sure what his father had told him, but I hadn't prepared myself to answer questions about my mental health right away.

 

And so, I said, "Well, bud, that's why I went to get help." "Did you even think about me? Did you even think about how I would feel?" His angry response hit me so hard that it took everything in me not to cry. "I'm sorry, bud." He crossed his arms and when we got home, he went into his room and he shut the door. I went outside and called a friend who had been in treatment with me, bawling. I told her what happened and asked for advice. She told me that I was doing great, but I didn't feel like I was doing great. I felt terrible. Ian's anger didn't subside. He was silent on the way to basketball practice that night. When I tried to ask about friends or about school, he said, "Well, you would know if you had been here."

 

Other than my daughter, who was an adult and better able to understand, there was no one else in my life that I really cared about reconnecting with. I had already quit my job. I was separated from my soon to be ex-husband. I really didn't have any friends. The only thing that I wanted other than my sanity was my little man back. So, when about two weeks later, he told me that he wanted to spend more time at his dad's house and less time with me, it stung. He said that his dad's house felt like home base. So, his father and I moved to a standard visitation model where I took Ian every other weekend and one night a week for dinner.

 

I was in intensive outpatient treatment, including 12-step meetings every day and one-on-one therapy three times a week. Healing my mental trauma had to be number one priority if I was going to survive. But, I also was determined to be there for Ian. I went to his basketball games and the screaming coaches triggered me. So, I brought crochet projects so that I could support him in spite of my fragile state. On weekends, I spent every minute with him. Sometimes things went smoothly and sometimes Ian's anger triggered me, and it took everything in me not to respond.

 

One day, shortly after selling my house and most of my belongings, I had an idea. School was almost out, so I asked Ian if he could go anywhere in the continental United States, where would he go? And without hesitation, he said, "The top of the Space Needle in Seattle." And with that, an epic journey was born. I packed the rest of my belongings into my Hyundai Elantra and the two of us took off for the road trip of a lifetime. From Ohio, we went to Atlanta to visit his sister. From Georgia, we headed towards the Gulf.

 

When I got to Mississippi, I got off the highway so that we could drive along the beach. As soon as we saw the Gulf of Mexico, I pulled over the car and both of us ran towards the waves. We were laughing and squealing and splashing. The sun was shining on us. The beach was empty. It was glorious and it was a start.

 

Ian and I hiked the Grand Canyon, body surfed in the Pacific Ocean and made a last-minute stop and Crater Lake, where Ian jumped off of a cliff into the nearly freezing water. I, however, was terrified. But he kept encouraging me, "You can do it, mom." So, eventually I jumped. By the time we reached the Space Needle in Seattle, Ian and I were really connecting again. Especially on those long drives where we had plenty of time to talk, it felt really good. We got back to Dayton shortly before school started and I dropped him off at his father's house. And shortly after, his anger returned.

 

I was now homeless, staying with friends and family. And when I told Ian that I had applied for assistance in order to buy us groceries, he told me that I was embarrassing. He demanded that I take him back to his father's house and he refused to eat the food that I had purchased. One day, his school sent home an email informing the parents that the following day there was going to be an assembly at school to teach the kids about the warning signs of suicide and their friends and family and how to help them. As soon as I read the email, I knew that Ian could not go to school without a conversation. So, that night I brought up the topic and the assembly and I asked Ian how he felt about it. He started to ask questions, the ones we hadn't talked about, like “Why did I go to treatment? What was the last straw? What would have happened if I hadn't gone? Why couldn't I go back to work? Was I better now?”

 

None of the questions surprised me, but his tone was different. Instead of angry, he was curious. But answering the questions was still hard. I wanted to be honest, but explaining suicide to a 12-year-old isn't easy. At one point, he asked if he could call his father and he went in the other room. He didn't normally call his father when he was with me, so I wasn't sure why he wanted to call him now. I nervously paced the kitchen until he came out and I saw that he was crying.

 

He came over and he gave me a big hug and he said, "Mom, I'm really glad you're here." I immediately started to cry too and I hugged him hard and I said, "Me too, bud." I wasn't expecting this, but even more, I wasn't expecting how I felt about it. For so long, I had wanted Ian's anger to subside. I wanted to connect with my son. But this moment didn't feel the way that I thought it would feel. Instead of relieved, I felt sad. What I realized was that Ian's anger was so much easier to handle than his understanding. You see, when he was angry with me, he could offload the reality by making his pain my pain. It was my fault. I had ruined his life. 

 

But when the truth of what might have been really sunk in, the truth now rested on his shoulders, he understood completely how close he came to losing his mother. And watching that truth sink in was hard to bear. There was no longer a shield to protect him from the truth. Ian didn't go to school the next day. Instead, we spent the day together. We went out for breakfast, just the two of us, and we tossed a football in the park. And with that day, our healing truly began.

 

Today, Ian is an 18-year-old young man. He's a college freshman who graduated high school with a 4.6 GPA and a college essay about that whirlwind trip we took across the country. [applause] And I almost missed it. All of it. Varsity sports, awards, vacations, laughter, first love, first heartbreak, broken bones, and birthdays. Seven years of a healing, healthy relationship that I am so incredibly grateful for. Thank you.