The Future
My son sits on the leather sofa in the psychiatrist’s office; his long blond hair falls over his eyes. “The better not to see you, my dear.” After five years on medication for anxiety and depression, at the age of 11, Nicholas wants to go off the pills. I want it to be his decision. He feels he no longer needs the medicine. My reaction: I’m not so sure.
That was six months ago. Nicholas’ hair is even longer, but he does not hide behind it. Instead he brushes it from his eyes, tucking it behind his ears.
Without his medication, Nicholas functions better at some times than at others. During these past six months, I started to phone the psychiatrist to say “He needs the medication.” I know the doctor would have replied, “Let’s put him back on Lexapro. “ Or she might have suggested an office visit to include Nicholas in the decision.
But I never made that call. I never even asked him how he felt or whether he wanted to take the medication again. Was I afraid of the answer? Or, were there more positive days than negative ones.
While some days seemed dark, we did not experience another crisis. Yes, there were days when he did not want to go to school. Yes, there were days when he could barely function. Yet this time he did not stay in bed with the covers over his head, unable to communicate. This time he read or worked on an art project. Sometimes he would catch up on some school work. The quiet house seemed to comfort him. There was a promise of “tomorrow will be better.”
Truthfully I still question the wisdom of our decision to go off medication. Recent news makes me doubt myself even more. “New government figures show a surprising increase in youth suicides after a decade of decline, and some mental health experts think a drop in use of antidepressant drugs may be to blame” reported The New York Times.
New events in Nicholas’ life give me hope for his future. Last Saturday I took Nicholas to play with his friend Rich. Two other good buddies, Austin and Chris, were there too. The three boys met Nicolas at the road, long before I found the driveway. They were waiting, waiting enthusiastically for Nicholas to join them. He leapt from the car as soon as I slowed down. Together the four of them ran back to Rich’s house, my son’s long blond hair flapping behind him, his bright orange sweatshirt standing out in the winter gray. I’ve never seen him happier.
Encouraged by the sight of my cheerful boy, I thought of other ways Nicholas’ life had changed for the better. Some of the therapies that were disastrous in his early childhood now had a place on his list of “things I can do when I’m down.” Together with a friend we assembled a happy photo album that included pictures of Nicholas smiling as a baby in my arms, learning to ride his new bike, enjoying the London Eye with his Aunt Mary, laughing with his cousins. Gone were the photos that made him sad, photos of his dead grandparents that pained him because he no longer remembered them.
He now enjoys massage. No oil please. The deeper the massage the better and a half hour is plenty. Thank you very much.
He no longer goes to his therapist though he continues a positive relationship with him. Nicholas knows he can talk to him at any time. Talking is still not first on his list of ways to comfort myself. His articulate, though word-conservative, nature affords him the opportunity to be understood however. During the recent power outage, he clearly felt blue, always looking for ways to leave the dark house. When I asked him why the house bothered him during the day when it was fairly light, he simply replied, “The house is droopy.”
Though Nicholas would be the last to admit it, music is an important part of his life. He sits at the piano, playing with the keys, teaching himself a new song, practicing something old. Pachelbel Canon in D filled the house after his rat died. Lost in the sounds of the piano, Nicholas feels the music as he plays. The deeper the song, the stronger the notes, the more Nicholas responds.
He still misses more school days than I would like, but he’s able to complete the assignments on time. His relationships with his peers are strong, no longer impaired. His self-esteem is low, but now he realizes his accomplishments and often sees the connection between hard work and results. And he enjoys the pride that comes with a job well done.
I sense that sleep will always be an issue. Many mornings Nicholas rises without benefit of restful sleep. But the dramatic mood swings have lessened in intensity and frequency.
He no longer suffers severe separation anxiety when I leave the room, yet he asks me to read to him at bedtime. Part of me feels he’s too old for this but part of me knows that this will not last forever. The connection we feel during this time is strong and comforting to both of us.
I’ve changed too. I no longer pamper Nicholas. I used to do so much in an effort to diminish his upset and sad moods. Now he packs his own lunch (unless I have the time) and empties the dishwasher (unless he’s running late) and he’s capable of making his own breakfast (but I prefer to make it for him). Did I say I no longer pamper him?
No, really, I have changed. I used to worry about his future. I told everyone who would listen about his depression. I thought that if more people who cared about Nicholas knew that he struggled, we would collectively have a chance to spot any desperate or despondent behavior before a crisis, especially during adolescence.
I worried he would refuse to go to school – permanently. I feared that he would barricade himself in his room, that he would have no friends. I worried that he would become a hermit. Would my troubled adult son cut off communication with his family?
I knew that Nicholas was highly intelligent, and when he was younger I would say, “He’ll either be awarded the Nobel Prize for Physics or be incarcerated.” I no longer feel he will be incarcerated.
My hope for the future? I hope that Nicholas finds his passion. I hope he finds pure joy through that passion and a resiliency if the joy turns to frustration. I hope that he has dreams he attempts to fulfill. I hope that he finds someone to love him and all his quirkiness.
Years from now, I hope he remembers a mother who saw her child struggling and did everything in her power to help him. May he remember a mother whose sometime misguided attempts at helping him feel better came from love.
I doubt that his darkest moments are behind him. But I hope that Nicholas now sees life as one where dark holes are illuminated and people care about him. I hope he realizes that the people I brought into his life, Dr. Thurber, Ben Silverman, the naturopath, the massage therapist, the piano teacher, the soccer coach, the private school teachers, were there to provide a foundation for an optimistic future.
And finally, I hope that, should he find the need for medication later in his life, he realizes there is no shame attached to the decision and that there is only strength in asking for help.
Click here to read the entire Down & Out series.
