Dreadlocks Courtesy Of Your Local Wal-Mart

Summer has come, and summer has gone. For the most part anyway. At least as far as summer vacation for kids in here in Albuquerque goes. When the sun rises in the morning over will be the lazy mornings of sleeping in, summer camps, and trips to the community swimming pool. That will all be replaced with rushed mornings to get out the door with lunches packed and homework in hand. When the sun rises in the morning, Pickles will still be in residential treatment and I will still be waking up to a house that is far more quiet than it should be.

Things with Pickles are much as I wrote in my last post at the end of the school year. We exist day-to-day. I never know when the phone rings if it will be a call to let me know that there was another restraint today, or if it will be Pickles herself. Pickles giggling and asking if when she gets a pass away from the RTC, if she can play with Shad, our best friend’s dog. When that RTC phone number comes up on my cell phone, I never know.

Over the summer we’ve made a few med changes. We’ve dropped the Saphris and added Lithium and Thorazine. This puts us at over 60 some combinations of medications and medication doses since Pickles was around 2 1/2-3 years old when the soul freezing and childhood stealing hallucinations began. It also puts her on 5 medications, 4 regular on a daily basis; Thorazine, Lithium, Depakote and Clonidine, and one, Zyprexa as needed when Pickles dissociation and psychosis leads to her behaving in ways that are dangerous to herself or to those around her.

*Even if you don’t usually listen to, or play the videos I embed into these posts…take the time for this one. Even if this isn’t “your kind” of music. There is hardly another song that is Pickles more so than this one.” 

Dangerous to herself or to those around her. Wow. I just typed those words about my 8-year-old daughter. Dangerous to herself and to those around her. Excuse me while I step away from my computer to go throw up the late night snack I just finished.

Over this summer the Olympic Games in London took place, my beloved Red Sox have struggled with injuries and, in my opinion, questionable leadership in the dugout, and there were 3 blockbuster superhero movies released. The Avengers, Spider-Man, and…and Batman. Pickles loves super heroes. It’s one of the geeky, tomboy things my girlie-girl actually enjoys with along with me. We like super heroes, rock ‘n roll, and comic books. I can say with pride that I have the absolute coolest kid ever. We have family therapy every Thursday at 10 am and to each session I bring her a new comic book and we spend at least a quarter of the time reading through it. Last week it was the new Wonder Woman.

So yeah, a new Batman movie premiered.

The day of the midnight release Pickles had a pass. Her first since entering her newest Residential Treatment Center, and she wanted to go to our local Aquarium to see the eels and have lunch by the giant tank with the sharks and turtles. We went and she had a wonderful time as we explored the hallways and water tunnel passages. She was bouncy and somewhat jittery as we were seated in the restaurant, but she was happy. Then the waiter brought her chicken strips and french fries. Then the shouting at the wall, and the crying began. The french fries had been poisoned. And the eyes in the wall belonging to the hands that had been tormenting her in the shower were telling her so. Before I could get our lunch packed into to-go boxes and us out the door, the lady at the table next to us told me that I shouldn’t bring my weirdo kid out in public unless I wanted people to make fun of her. We left before Mommy ended up being hauled off to jail because she pummeled the ever-living crap out of the obnoxious adult at the table next to us. We left and spent the rest of the pass driving up to the University of New Mexico campus looking for the Astro-Zombies Comic Book Store before it was time to take Pickles back to the RTC. That night I contemplated going to the midnight premiere of Batman, but after the Aquarium incident I was, again, emotionally wiped out and just plain tired. So I crawled into bed with a book and my iPod and fell asleep. I woke up the next morning and as I logged into CNN.com, Facebook and Twitter I was bombarded with posts and stories about a young man who had, gone into a movie theatre at one of those midnight shows of the new movie and opened fire on the packed theatre. Was he a terrorist? Was he pissed off at someone in the theatre? Did he prefer Michael Keaton over Christian Bale as Batman? Or…or…was it “that” which ripped into me and made my stomach turn even more when the RTC phone number came up on my call screen for so, so many days afterwards.

That is all I will say about that. There’s enough out there about the Batman Shooting, as it’s sometimes now referred to in the media. If you want a side-show talk about that topic from the Summer of 2012 there’s enough out there already. And that is one monster I will not feed.

After that day at the Aquarium there weren’t any more passes. Pickles hasn’t been stable enough. Until today. The day before she starts 3rd grade. 3rd grade and yet another fight. Just like everything anymore is. A fight, a struggle. Always one, two or three more phone calls to one, two or three more people, at one, two or three more agencies or departments. Another fight for her to walk into a 3rd grade classroom as opposed to a 1st grade room which is where they were going to place her based on how she finished the last school year. It’s been a fight which for now, I can say I won. Pickles is too smart to go back to a 1st grade classroom. All she needs is someone to work with her one on one and help her manage all the noise in her head against what she needs to hear outside of it to learn.

So today she had a pass. It was only for 2 hours, not very long really. Just long enough to go to Wal-Mart to pick out a new outfit for school and the dry erase board Pickles has been asking for the last few weeks. Long enough to do that and then go get an ice cream before heading back. Two hours.

And it was a horrible two hours.

I heard about how the old “ghost friends” are gone, but how there are new ones. How as an old friend has left, a new one has shown up to take its place. A new one to hover above the people around her. A new one to stare at her from inside the walls, a new one here, and a new one there. Pickles told me about the Black-Eyed Ghost. A new friend who she somehow made a connection to based on an audiobook story she heard once, in the car, almost 3 plus years ago. I heard about how the new friends tell her how the other kids want to provoke her to get into fights, and how the Black-Eyed Ghost tells her how she needs to get them, ie her peers, before they get her.

I heard, as we were in the checkout line at Wal-Mart, that she was glad we were leaving because the crowd and the noise was starting to bounce around inside her head “like someone was screaming knives in her brain.” Pickles tells me this as I see her arms start to shake and her hands and fingers start to pull at one another. It was horrible to see and hear that as I watched other parents and kids checking off pencils, markers and yellow folders from their school supply lists.

And it was a wonderful two hours.

I listened as Pickles told me how the “cookers” at the RTC, otherwise known to you and I as the cafeteria staff, have helped her to feel comfortable enough to put her hands together in prayer to help quiet her fear when the noise from the cafeteria becomes overwhelming, or when her ghost friends are scaring her. I listened as she explained her new friends in a manner that was more cognizant of what they are, and how they are impacting her than she has ever been able to talk about them before.  And I watched as she read labels, signs and the covers of check out isle magazines with little to no hesitation or difficulty.

And it was absolutely wonderful.

I listened and talked back to Pickles as we argued over why she can’t dye her hair green, and why she can’t have dread locks at 8 years old. We argued, we discussed, we negotiated and we finally compromised. Just as other Moms were arguing with their daughters the day before school starts over skirts being too short, jeans to tight, and yes…even over hair style choices. Pickles wants dread locks because her favorite drummer, Berry Kerch of Shinedown has dread locks. Kind of like she wants large gage ear piercings because Chester Bennington of Linkin Park has those, and she wants tattoos because Lacy Sturm of Flyleaf and Mommy have them. She wants all of those things because she is Pickles and she isn’t, and never will be just like other kids. Sure she likes Monster High, and Mulan and Miley Cyrus. But under that typical 8-year-old stuff, is my artistic, and free-spirited elf child who rocks out in the car and thinks the coolest woman on the planet is Kat Von D.

My 8-year-old, my 3rd Grader, who wrapped up and intertwined around the typical and the not so typical has this part of her called Schizoaffective Disorder that tries its damndest to smother the little girl who loves Monster High and Silk Spectre comic books. My beautiful dark-haired and big hazel eyed child who survives with one of the most terrifying mental illnesses on this earth. A mental illness that also tries its best to smother the kid who would like nothing more than to rock out on a drum set like Berry with her dread locks flying around her head.

My Third Grader.

Posted in August 2012, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

It’s The End Of The Year As We Know It…

The last week or so my FB page has been filled with photos of friends children. Kids with smiling faces as they eagerly look toward days filled with swimming, playing, and then onto another school year and another grade. No longer will they say, “I’m a second grader”, but they will proudly tell people, “I’m in the third grade now!”

I see photos of older kids, decked out in graduation cap and gown, leaving the care free days of high school and by extension, childhood behind. Older kids with a summer ahead to prepare for college, trade school, military service or to enter the work force full time. My screen is full of so many rays of hope, so many dreams of the future held in the hearts of parents and children alike. I am happy for them all. I am…I am.

The end of this school year has no meaning for Pickles. While 2 years ago she was reading, writing, and doing math well ahead of her grade level, she has now lost 2 full years of school being in and out of psychiatric units and residential treatment centers. Two full academic calendar years and many more years in her own inner ability to do more than the low end of 1st grade work. She can write her name still, all be it the readability depends on the day and the level of her psychos in that moment. The majority of her letters and her numbers are written backwards and anywhere and everywhere on the page. It all depends on where “they” think she should write.

Reading? No. Pickles can now barely read the simplest of words; and that’s on her best day when her “ghost friends” are hiding deep in the recesses of her mind. My daughter who should be looking ahead to the 3rd grade, spent 30 minutes in “time” (read: isolation) yesterday drawing about her behaviors that landed her there because she can’t write about them. Because she can’t but barely write the simplest of 2 or 3 letter words.

Pickles is so smart. Anyone who has met her and talked to her will tell you how she is bright and engaging. That’s what makes looking at all those young smiling faces rip my heart out and bring me to tears tonight. While Pickles talked about her first real off campus activity at her new residential treatment center, I choked on tears. While Pickles told me over and over again the same story about her day, all the while pausing as if to listen to something other than me on the other end of the phone, I held back tears. As she hesitated when I asked how she was feeling, happy, or tired or something else…when she hesitated as if to listen to someone other than me before quickly saying she didn’t want to talk about it, I held back the tears. I held back the tears when I said that it was ok if she didn’t want to tell me, and I held back tears when the reply to that was given in a hushed little voice:

“Mommy I can’t tell you, they’ll know I talked about them.”

When I asked her who she was talking about the reply given in an even quieter voice was:

“The moons!! They keep watching me all the time! And they don’t like it when I talk about how I feel because it makes them mad. They will make me die!”

As the gravity of those words sunk into my heart like hot, molten lead into a smithy’s cauldron, I choked on my tears so as not to let my little girl hear them in my voice.

While all the while, all I could think about were last days of school, summer swim parties, and family vacations under a warm sun. And the end of my world as I ever could have known it.

 

 

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The Light Of Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day. Breakfasts in bed, delivered on trays full of spilt juice, burnt toast and bowls of Cheerios overflowing.

Mother’s Day. Warm spring days spent at parks, still dressed in Sunday best, laughing and playing catch, pushing on swings and games of hide and seek.

Mother’s Day. Dinners prepared together, parent(s) and child(ren) snuggled on couches watching movies.

Mother’s Day. Bedtime stories of Princesses and Brave Heros on adventures to Neverland, goodnight prayers to bring nighttime serenity.

Mother’s Day. 2012
The second year in a row that Pickles is in a Residential Treatment Center. The only difference this year from last is the zip code and last year she was able to have a pass home. I can’t recall if it was for the day or the entire weekend, but it was a pass. This year I will hop in the car and drive a few minutes down the road, park the car and take a deep breath. After I compose myself I will walk to a door and push a buzzer. A garbled voice will say hello, and I will respond with, “I’m here to see my daughter”. The door will open.

I will walk in, sign a waiver, hand over my Driver’s License, slap on a sticker that says, “Visitor” and walk down a long institutional hallway. I will enter a small cafeteria where I will be brushed over by a wand to ensure I am not carrying any weapons, or other contraband. Then I will sit down and wait for my child’s voice to enter the room and carry over the sounds of the other parents, families and friends there to visit their children and teenagers.

If all goes well, I will sit and read to Pickles. Before she went back into the acute hospital this last time we had started to read “His Dark Materials” or as the movie titled called it, “The Golden Compass”, by Phillip Pullman. Pickles loves this movie and story because it was from this we chose the name of our beloved dog, who passed away this past December. So, if all goes well I will read to her and we will talk about her new friends. Who may or may not be either real, or her friends. We will talk about how she isn’t allowed to participate in more than the minimal of off unit activities since she has not been there long enough. We will talk about the movie she watched last night while the other kids were off site, and we will talk about other things.

We will talk about how the eyeballs were scary last night. The ones that are following Pickles wherever she goes. We will talk about the ghost puppies, who don’t like our new puppy at home. We will talk about why they want her to hurt the new puppy and if it would be safer for everyone if we find a new home for the puppy.  I will explain for the countless time why Mommies friend and her “Uncle” Trystan hasn’t called like he always has every 3 days for the last few years to sing to her and tell her of his adventures traveling and  stories about all the animals at his home in Glasgow, Scotland, and how as soon as she is feeling safe he will bring her and Mommy for a visit. We will talk about why sometimes things in life don’t go as we pray they might; but that when things go astray, it doesn’t mean that God doesn’t love us. We will talk about not sleeping. Pickles because she is in a manic/depressive cycling phase, and me because…just because.

Eventually Pickles will wander. Either her attention, or her patience, or all of her. A noise, another kid, or something inside her own mind will pull her away. From our visit, from me, from herself.  It may be that the 2 hour window for visits has ended, but more than likely it will be one of those other things. As it usually is.

I will then walk back down that long hallway, collect my I.D. and go back to my car where I will sit for a few minutes, possibly send off a text message to one or two of my best friends, then pause and catch myself before, yet again, I send a text message to “Uncle” Trystan. After all, they haven’t quite worked out how to get texts to heaven just yet. When I have it together again, as best I can anyway, I will start the car, back out of my parking space and turn up the stereo; in some vain attempt to block out the sound of Pickles saying “Bye Mommy” before she returned to her unit. Drown it out from ringing in my head. Pickles won’t have said “Happy Mother’s Day” since she has no concept of time or dates, in or out of the hospital.

I will pull out of the parking lot and drive away. I need to go pick up a few groceries and the the puppy needs to go for a walk.

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You Must Be This Tall To Ride

The reality is that no one’s life is a straight line. None of us has a life that could even be compared to those boats that go around in a circle in the Kiddie Land portion of the amusement park. … Continue reading

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Time To Let It Go

For the first time in a really long time I can say that I honestly believe Pickles will be coming back home soon. Sure…I’ve sorta felt like that a few times before during the past 9 months, but this time there is something just a bit different. This time her giggles are natural, not forced in a way to make everyone around her think she’s OK. They aren’t there in a way that I only want to believe in. Instead of a way I can.

I think…I know that all those times before when I would see her smile, when I would hear her laugh I wanted so desperately to believe it would all be over soon. Looking back though there was still an empty-ness in her eyes. That empty-ness has been replaced with light, with a little sparkle, and a whole lotta truth. Sure, until the day I go and she and I pack up all her stuffed animals, blankies, clothes, drawings and artwork I will continue to hold my breath. Maybe though, maybe this time I can let just the smallest wisps of breath, of hope, out here and there.

Pickles has come so, so…so far. I was watching a video I took about this time last year, when she was in one of the darkest places I’ve ever seen her in. She was raging, she was self-harming, she wanted to die because she could not only control her aggression towards her teachers, classmates, and toward me. Also when she did try to hold back her auditory command hallucinations they would threaten everyone around her. In her, at the time, 6-year-old mind, she reasoned that it would be better if she did the hurting. After all her “ghost friends” were bigger, badder, meaner. In a way filled with an odd assortment of love; her punches, slaps and kicks were in fact her way of trying to protect me and protect our dog.

A year later she is not only much more stable thanks to a fairly strong medication regime including: 750mg of Depakote, 10mg of Saphris, 3 plus mg of Clonidine depending on her day, and a standing PRN (emergency dose) of 1.5mg of Haldol if needed. That regime combined with her cognitive development has provided her with the ability to reason within herself as she has stabilized and therefore been able to, for the very first time actually use the coping skills her therapists and psychiatrist have taught her. Huge…all huge for a little girl whose mind is, and has been, filled with not much but terror since she was able to talk, and who knows how much fear even before then.

I don’t recall if in previous entries I’ve answered the question I get asked almost once a week. The question of do I hold any blame or ill will toward her birth parents. For bringing her into the world knowing they were ill, or for them exposing an unborn child to serious drug use and drug environments. I wish I could say I never do. I wish I could say that over these last months, these last far too many months, that there hasn’t been many a night when I’ve climbed into bed with the house much too quiet and her Princess Bed empty, that for a moment or two I haven’t thought ill of them. Her birth mom especially. But…it passes. It has too.

Because for any effect anything about them, or their life choices had on her, without them I wouldn’t have my little girl. Ups, downs, good times and not so good times. And as I have said before, regardless of what our last 7 plus years have been like, whether this time it is for real, or whatever the future holds, she is just as much a part of me as she would’ve been under any other circumstances. For whatever reason God gave her to me to care for, to love unconditionally and to…fingers crossed…bring back home sooner than later.

It’s time to let all the fear, the sadness, the failed attempts to transition back home that have come before, it’s time to let all that go. It’s my hope that we have turned a corner, at least for now. So..tonight I’m attaching this video from “our” favorite band and one of Pickles favorite songs…

“Iridescent” by Linkin Park.

Pickles…can’t wait to have you back home.

Posted in December 2011, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

My Daughter’s Immortal Soul

Things have improved for Pickles. Sort of.

Which is my excuse for the time between posts again. I didn’t want to jinx it. Turns out I didn’t have to worry about that, things jinxed themselves. Pickles isn’t in as much of a scary place as she was a few months, or even a few weeks ago. At a meeting with her Staff this past week it was nothing but all positive. My beautiful daughter is re-gaining acadamic skills she had lost over the last year or so as her Schizoaffective worsened. Cognitively, same story. Pickles is skipping and her fine motor skills, something she has always struggled with, has improved! Staff comfirmed what I have known for 7 years, she is artistic and creative, and while her artwork over the last year has either been really abstract, down right detailed like you wouldn’t believe, or rather creepy; It’s now more definitive and doesn’t so much look like something created by someone on too much LSD.

Until…that horrible word…until. A word every parent with a child with any kind of illness or disability hates more than people in Wal Mart in thongs and tank tops.

Pickles was supposed to have a pass home for the weekend starting tonight. It was canceled and I will hope for more luck tomorrow morning. Being Mommy I have ideas, theories on why. Pickles always has metabolized her meds fairly quickly, so maybe the Saphris has stoppped doing it’s job, or maybe the Christmas Season has brought on too much enviornmental stimulation. Maybe…maybe..maybe. This time things do look different…shorter but more intense dissassociative episodes mainly. Today after numerous lengthy discussions her Staff, Treatment Team and I decided to add a prn dose (prn=used in emergancy situations) of Haldol. If you aren’t familiar with that go ahead and Google it. It’s not something just given out like like candy, to child or adult. Even with the much publized talk about how we overmedicate our children. This is a first line anti-psychotic, one of the big guns you might say.

I tried so hard avoid this place. I know there are those out there who simply think, or who have even said, “You know this was a possibility for her, so why are you sad about it? You knew it was coming.”

Bite me, and then here let me bend over. Then I’m going to kick you really, really hard and sick my dog on you.

Whether I knew it was a possibility or not, this is my child, and no parent wants to see their child travel this road or any like it. Go on…I double-triple dare someone else to say it to me. I understand there may be a time when this Residential Treatment Center placement is either long-term, or permanent just to keep Pickles safe. I am sure I have said this before, but damn-it she is my baby girl who when she is scared, when she is sad, when she is “there” she still crawls on my lap and just wants to be held and told it’s OK and is safe. After all I’m it…I’m all she has in the parent department. Yes, the majority, majority…of our extended family is beyond loving, understanding and there for us. But bottom line, I take this single parent thing to the highest level.

A week or so ago I was confident she would be home for good before Christmas. She’s 7, and Christmas is a big deal. By extension it makes it a big deal for Mommy. My hope now tonight is that this new medicine will make that still possible.

Since my last post other things have happened which impact all “this”, in a round about way at least. I finally after several years completed my Ph.D. What makes it somewhat relevant is it’s a Docorate in Philosophy with a research concetration in Neurophilosopy. (Yes I am that much of a nerd.) I didn’t intend to learn so much about the chemical, electrical and enviornmental factors related to how we think and function, but I did. Which means I learned all about how those things combined with Pickles Birth Parents genetics may be impacting the horrors my beautiful child deals with. Knowledge tonight I wish I didn’t know. Yippee.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been asked several times if I am going to use “Dr.”, or Ph.D., and I haven’t, and still don’t, really know. Not because how much it might cost for one to be printed on a business card over the other, but because it’s not what I think of as my main title, my primary and most important job, ever. It’s what I am most proud of in my life’s path. That would be my job, my title as Pickles Mommy. And to be that Mommy isn’t a part-time, or a side hobby. Next weekend my family is putting on a graduation of party for me. I am hoping Pickles can be there, because it’s not just to blow a horn for me, but it will be…has to be…a celebration for both of us.

For as much as I have worked for this, so as Pickles. While I stayed up all night working, she pulled out her hair thinking she should be dead. While I went cross-eyed reading and taking research notes, Pickles cried in corners terrified of giant cats and oogly-eyed monters. While my fingers went numb writing a dissertation, she fell asleep in school because of the sedating effect of her medications. And while I argued and had to come to terms with needing to keep a distance from some family and friends because of their negativity and cruel judgements on my commitment to the baby I held almost 8 years ago, Pickles crawled on my lap and cried and screamed in the night for me to cram into her Princess Castle Bed with her to keep “6″ from killing her in her sleep. So I guess I don’t know what I will use. Maybe I’ll just use nothing, ignore the “title”. Does it really matter more than being Pickles Mommy?

In this moment, I don’t think so. No amount of letters can hug me the way my Pickles can. There are those times when she is disaccostiaed and has no clue of anything going on around her, during those times she is gone, not with me. What is here is the disease which is part of her, but not all of my Pickles. Since she was born almost 8 years ago there have been those who have come and gone from our lives…from hers, from mine. Some by their choice, others thru my just not wanting that meaness around. Those that have hung in there, new and old faces both, are amazing souls and we love them.

Yet…

The constant…the one soul who has been the most important person, and will always be for many years to come, is the person and the presence who is here, all the time, 24/7, whether she is asleep in her Princess Bed, or asleep at the Residential Treatment Ceter, she is here. When it’s her disease that is present, I know that in there somewhere, hiding away from the terror, is an adoring, kind, loving, smart, and creative person.

Who I still hope, regardless of what the future holds, who I still hope will be able to grow up and use those talents, that brillance, that unconditional love to make the world a better, happier place.

As usual I’m including a video. This time I’m also including the lyrics because when I hear it parts bring to me the disease who pushes Pickles into that corner of her mind and her enviornment to hide away, while others bring me to the true person who is my daughter.

The song is “My Immortal” performed by the band Evanescence. For those who either know my Pickles, or just through her pictures, you will see why I see my kiddo in the vocalist, Amy Lee. And the scenes in the video, of her walking around the fountain alone while all the kids play around her, those who know her struggles will understand the symbolism.

I’m so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave
Your presence still lingers here
And it won’t leave me alone

This disease, Schizoaffective Disorder, brings out all
of the nightmares in both of us. And while Pickles isn’t at home
right now, the ripple effect of her symptoms are around me
every day, every night. 

These wounds won’t seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There’s just too much that time cannot erase
There is no way to tell what the future will be like for Pickles.
No matter though, it’s shadow will hover. 

When you cried I’d wipe away all of your tears
When you’d scream I’d fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me
The chorus is just for my Pickles. 

 You used to captivate me
By your resonating light
Now I’m bound by the life you left behind
Your face it haunts
My once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away
All the sanity in me
It’s about Pickles and what this has taken from both of us. 

These wounds won’t seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There’s just too much that time cannot erase

I’ve tried so hard to tell myself that you’re gone
But though you’re still with me
I’ve been alone all along
My forever, continuing and always hope that somehow,
be it via her growing up and learning how to
live with this, the medications, the therapies and
a combination thereof;
My hopes that it will just go away.
And that it can someday be she and I day to day,
hour to hour. Schizoaffective Disorder has left me alone,
and in so many ways without the child I brought home
from the hospital.

When you cried I’d wipe away all of your tears
When you’d scream I’d fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me
No matter what, no matter the pain, no matter the sadness,
no matter the fear, no matter….You will always…always…
without judgement, without the intolerance you might face from
this world…I’m always going to be here.
Pickles you will always have all of me,
all of Mommy’s heart. I’ll be here to wipe those tears,
to fight those fears,
and to hold your hand.


Posted in December 2011 | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Mental Health Stats

Mental Illness Awareness Week 2011 Infographic
Brought to you by MSW@USC Masters in Social Work

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