How NAMI Saved My Marriage

nami-logo-blue

I admit without shame that I manipulated Kody into coming with me to a twelve-week, two-and-a-half hour Wednesday night Family-to-Family NAMI class, an education program for family members of adults living with mental illness. After four years of dysfunctional family interactions and an escalation of discordance at home, I started attending a National Alliance on Mental Illness support group, where people strongly encouraged me to attend what they called a “life-changing” class.  In my area, the class is only offered twice a year, and I needed immediate change, so I called to reserve my spot, explaining, “I’m hoping to bring my husband, but I’m not sure he will commit to twelve weeks.”

On the other end of the line, Mary, replied somewhat-conspiratorially, “Just bring him to the first class. You will share materials, and hopefully, he will keep coming.”

After registering, I text-messaged Kody’s cousin Misti, who lives in the metroplex. Recently, she had come to a jewelry party at my house that I co-hosted with Kody’s younger sister Gianna, the accessory queen and party planner, visiting us from Oklahoma. Drew stayed in his room throughout the event, and once everyone else had gone home, Misti asked, “How’s Drew?”

“Well, he’s in his room. About four years ago, he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, so he avoids people. He doesn’t believe that he is sick, so he won’t take medicine, and we’re trying to figure out how to help him.”

“Really?” she said wide-eyed and shaking her head back and forth with an understood No. “I’ve never known anyone that’s happened to, but…” I censor this conversation because Kody’s cousin has an intimate relationship with someone hospitalized at that precise moment with a similar condition, and her story isn’t mine to tell. When I sent Misti information about the class, she texted back, “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll be there.”

I roped Kody into coming with me to the twelve-week NAMI Family-to Family class by saying, “Your cousin is coming. Just come to the first meeting, and if you decide not to come back after that, the registration lady told me it was okay.”  Meanwhile and in my defense, I forwarded Kody information via e-mail about the class, including location, times, and dates.  I guess he never read through that message because during the week-one class when he discovered the length of his captivity—from 6:30 until 9:00 that night, his blood seemed to boil beneath his skin. At any moment steam might’ve erupted from his ears and nostrils as Tom and Linda, our facilitators, began a hard-sell on the twelve-week commitment. By the way, Misti no-showed.

That first night included self-introductions, brief descriptions of our loved ones and identification of long-term goals. Tom created a T-chart on the dry erase board and said, “In the long term, is your goal for your loved one independence or functional dependence?”

When my turn came, I had two minutes to introduce myself and tell the story of Drew leaving for college on a full music scholarship and returning saying, “Something is wrong with my brain.” The story included a handful of hospitalizations and non-compliance with meds and not being able to keep a job and communication difficulties.  I concluded with, “I want Drew to be independent.”   Much of our recent household drama included heated words of Drew being twenty-four, needing to work, needing to contribute, needing to move out. Drew’s non-response was an issue. From the time my kids were young, I never considered any other option for them besides independence. I wanted nothing more than for Drew to have his own life and relationships and happiness beyond his bedroom walls, the walls that confined him most of the time.

Kody spoke next, exceeding his two minutes, explaining in more detail the difficulty and discomfort of living in his own home. His conclusion, however, shocked me: “Functional dependence.” During the previous year or so, Kody and I battled as foes concerning Drew and his illness and his capabilities. My Momma Bear instinct protected Drew and sided with him and made him sandwiches and did his laundry, to the detriment of my marriage. Together the three of us were the epitome of the dysfunctional family, and I had never considered the possibility of “functional dependence.” Already this class had changed my life.

The next week Kody met me once more at the church that held the class. An air of underlying hostility accompanied him. He skipped Week Three due to “work” but dragged himself back for the remainder of the twelve-week course. Together our perspectives shifted as we studied and discussed in a group setting the following topics:

Class 1: Emotional reactions to mental illness and goals

Class 2: Understanding schizophrenia and mood episodes, coping, and keeping files

Class 3: Types and sub-types of mood disorders

Class 4: About the brain

Class 5: Problem solving and setting limits

Class 6: Medication and treatment issues

Class 7: Understanding the patient

Class 8: Communication

Class 9: Self-Care

Class 10: Recovery

Class 11: Advocacy

Class 12: Certification Party

Before the NAMI class, I thought I knew practically everything I needed to know about mental illness. In four years, I had researched and read a handful of books and many-an-article. I watched Ted Talks and YouTube videos.  Not to mention, I lived with Drew.  However, the first six classes provided a plethora of new information, and the last six classes addressed the emotional side for patients and their families. In four years, I hadn’t considered how Drew might be feeling day in and day out, and this perspective changed my life.

Over the three-month period, I encountered complications as usual in speaking openly about Drew’s illness without my throat splotching red or my eyes swimming, Kody’s contributions became less angry, and together we learned more about Drew, biological brain disorders, and empathy. Each Wednesday night after class, we stopped for sushi and sake bombs and decompression, reflecting about the topics of the evening. Kody became my friend once more, and I cherish the memories of those Wednesday night dates.

Toward the end of the twelve-week program, another mom in the class approached me during a break and said, “It’s been really great to watch your husband’s transformation.” She leaned in and continued, “I know you had to trick him into coming.”  Almost four years after Drew’s schizophrenia diagnosis, a miraculous and radical change had occurred in our ability to cope with the illness and communicate with our son, and we owe that to NAMI.

General Mental Health Facts

Mental Health Awareness

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Q is for Quirk and 5 is for…

I have this quirk. Okay, I’m sure I have more than one, but today I only admit to this—I count. Not as in I matter. Of course, I know I do. We all do. I’m talking numbers here. Sometimes in ascending order. Sometimes descending. Compulsively and obsessively. I find myself counting the number of essays I have left in my grading stack, even when eleven remain, I’ll grade the next, forget the number eleven, and re-count. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. I find myself counting the stairs to the third-floor room at the La Quinta. Almost daily. Two flights of sixteen equals thirty-two. I find myself counting the stairs to my second-floor room at school. Two flights of eleven equals twenty-two.  When I walk at a brisk pace, I find myself counting off my steps by eights. I attribute that to sixteen years of dance lessons with five life-shaping instructors: Charlene Blackmore, Gayla Smith, Billie Grabeal, Norma Ansley (God rest her beautiful soul), and Claudia Winters. If any of you are reading, when the music is good, I still dance. Anyway, speaking of five…

I passed the five-week mark of second semester and the five-month mark at my beloved La Quinta. I use beloved sincerely. These past five months I’ve learned minimalism and grown content here, where I sit on a king-sized bed, propped up on pillows, with my man and my dog in approximately 300 square feet. These past five months when I call Kody after work each day, I’ve learned to conjure Ricky Ricardo and say, “Hi Honey. I’m home.” Home. It’s where the heart is. And each day Rain, the sweetest eight-pound dog in the world, proves that maxim at the door with her big smile and waggedy tail. And each day, Kody and I try to prove it to each other with understanding of each other’s moods, a caress, and an unexpected kiss when life tries to stand in the way of our good time.

Dad and Rain
So much love in those eyes.

Daily I drive past the homeless stationed by the traffic light near the overpass, not far down the access road from our temporary home: the Hispanic man on crutches with an amputated leg and a smile, selling M and M’s, a tall, thin African-American man who washes windshields for spare cash, an aging white man with John Lennon glasses and a long, grizzly beard, holding his cardboard sign, “Disabled Vietnam Veteran. Anything helps. God Bless.” I give away my cash when I have it, and these people of the street without fail will look into my eyes and say, “God Bless You.” A few dollars for a blessing from God. I wish I could do more. Some will impart their wisdom, and I find the words of a man with a deeply tanned and weathered face echoing in my memory. With his pale blue eyes locked on mine, he said, “Happiness is a choice. You can wake up each day and choose to be happy.” Then he turned to Drew in the car with me on our way to see his doctor. “Stay in school, young man, so this doesn’t happen to you.” I think to myself, he saw right through me, and I ponder his attitude against all odds. I know he’s right. My dad always said the same thing. I think about the tent under the overpass near home and wonder how many of those familiar faces huddle there at night as temperatures drop. No doubt they would be grateful for five months with a roof over their heads, a dry room with a heater, a bed with pillows to spare, a hot shower with soap and shampoo, a complimentary breakfast with hot coffee. I feel fortunate—and grateful.

For anyone new to my blog, Welcome and let me fill you in! And to all of you reading, thank you for your interest in my excerpted life. I’m humbled by over 2300 views since September and readers who have stumbled upon my words from all over the world—Romania, the United Kingdom, Ireland, India, Indonesia, Russia, China, Malaysia, Australia, Japan, Ukraine, Cameroon, Moldova, Vietnam, Indonesia, Canada, and the good ol’ USA. I see you, like the homeless man saw me. And like him, I pass the torch of his message to you in hopes you keep the fire alive and pass it forward. I wish I knew his name. If I see him again, I’ll let him know he is making a difference from the streets of Houston. 

On August 27, we evacuated to the pet-friendly La Quinta when the flood waters of Hurricane Harvey invaded our Houston home, and well, rebuilding takes time. And—so does mold remediation. These past five months, after many-a-bleach treatment, four mold tests, removing all remaining items from the house, including all cabinets, the bathtub, and the shower, knocking out more walls and the ceiling in places, cleaning the air ducts, pouring a new concrete subfloor throughout the house, and painting all studs within the exposed walls with a mold barrierWE PASSED OUR MOLD INSPECTION!!!

In five months’ time, I’ve watched my androgynously short hair grow less androgynous and my over-sized ass shrink in size in the mirror before my eyes. Growing and shrinking takes time, and you know what else takes time? Settling with our insurance company. Soon after the flood, our insurance adjuster had flown in from the east coast to assist with the influx of claims in Houston. He inspected our home when it still had floors and cabinets and bathroom fixtures, all of which ended up curbside in a moldy mass after his visit. Early on our insurance company shot us a ridiculously low-ball number to settle, and we hired Kelly, an experienced public adjuster to help us battle Lloyd’s of London, who holds our flood insurance policy. We compiled a massive itemized list of our losses and tracked down proof of purchases where we could. Lloyd’s countered again with a number twice as high as the first number, but still less than the cost to cover our damages, so we requested to have another adjuster come out to the house. A little over a week ago, that meeting happened with Kody, Kelly, and the new Lloyd’s guy. Kody told me later, “I just kept my mouth shut and let Kelly take care of it, but it went really well. This guy was local, so he knows what people have been through and sees it all the time. He feels it. Our first adjuster mis-diagrammed the house, and this guy found other mistakes and agreed with a lot of what Kelly said. He said they would let us know something as soon as possible.”

Paint Colors
What do you think of St. Bart’s for the front door?.

Meanwhile, we wait and hope and proceed the best we can. Kody and I received an advance from our to-be-determined insurance settlement, and we have taken out an SBA loan for work to progress at home. New electrical—check. New plumbing—check. Insulation and drywall in progress. We selected Sherwin Williams colors and painted the outside of the house: the bricks Neutral Ground, the siding and garage door Dorian Gray, the trim Urbane Bronze, front door to be determined. From the street our home shouts, “Look! My people gave me a makeover, but I’m still mid-mod at heart.”  We plan for new outdoor lighting and landscaping once construction is complete. Photos to come, but don’t hold your breath. Rebuilding takes time. Yet I see the light at the end of the tunnel and much excitement ahead. As I count down the days to our sixth month at the La Quinta and check off the days of the upcoming sixth week of the second semester, I look forward—to cooking in my own kitchen, to sleeping in my brand-new bed, to showering in my brand-new shower, to relaxing in an actual living room, oh, and to Spring Break. 

This kid spoke to me on Facebook. Listen to him for two minutes. From the mouth of a child, “I propose you practice joy.” From the mouth of my dad, “Crystal, you can choose your attitude.” From the mouth of a homeless man who reminded me again on a dark day, “Happiness is a choice. You can wake up each day and choose to be happy.”

And about that 5? It represents what I would like to call my past tendency to obsess over the things I cannot control and my new intention to stay focused on the following five: Faith, Gratitude, Peace, Hope, and Joy. I choose all five, and I will continue to practice.

“What do you practice?”

How to Deal with a Purse Snatcher

I’m not saying this would work every time, and I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have dealt with a mall parking lot robbery in this way, but apparently my daughter Lauren has a gift for dealing with purse snatchers.

On December 24th, Kody, Drew, and I packed our bags, loaded my Mazda, and dashed up I-45 from Houston to Dallas. We swung by Lauren’s house to pick her up, looking all adorable in a little black dress with wedged ankle boots to match, and we were almost on time for the 3:30 Christmas Eve candlelight service at my home church, Chase Oaks. Merry Christmas to me! One of our traditions, our family together for carols and a Word in the presence of God. (The sixteen-minute sermon is linked, just click on Chase Oaks).

Afterwards, Kody and I would run to the grocery store, so we dropped Lauren at her home and car so that she could make one more run to the mall. Little did she know that she would need her tennis shoes. Lauren found what she needed as the mall closed, and back at her car, a girl approached her and asked, “Do you have a dollar?”

Lauren said, “No, I’m sorry. I don’t have any money, just my debit card.” And with that the girl snatched my daughter’s purse, her Louis Vuitton with her new iPhone inside, and ran. I suppose Lauren looked like an easy target in her cute dress and heels, but a competitive soccer player in her day, her instinct kicked in and said, “Oh, no, you didn’t.” Lauren chased the thief through the parking lot in front of oncoming traffic, and talk about a foot race—in her wedges—she ran as fast as she could. The other girl was bigger, and Lauren knew she would outlast and catch her in a matter of time. Lauren also knew she couldn’t fight her.

When the crook could run no more, Lauren said, “What is wrong? Why are you doing this?”

The other girl said, “I’m just going through a really hard time.”

Lauren said, “We all go through hard times, and I’m crazy, too, but I would never snatch anyone’s purse. How can I help you? Do you need a ride? Do you need a hug?”

forgiveness

And that’s how Lauren retrieved her purse from a thief. On Christmas Eve, Lauren showed this girl forgiveness and kindness, and she got her purse back.

And yes, Lauren did hug the girl and give her a ride, which wouldn’t have been my instinct, but maybe I will rethink future interactions gone wrong. This purse snatching worked out, and I couldn’t be any prouder of my little girl or any more thankful for the angels watching over her.   

LB (2)