Medicated Kids - My Story

Source: www.maafirm.com

It's been two months or so since I blogged. My apologies for that. Life went nuts, as life will do. But I promised you my personal story of childhood meds, didn't I? Maybe that's why I've been avoiding blogging. Because it's a big huge thing for me to discuss. Well, that, and the busted internet connection followed by busted computer, lather, rinse, repeat. Technology and I? We're not the best of friends most days.

So, I guess I will start in the early 1980's. I was in kindergarten or first grade when I was diagnosed with ADHD and put on Ritalin. My parents did everything right. They really did. There was not as much "generally accepted" information then as there is today. Today, it seems that most parents (at least in my circles, but then, I guess I tend to travel in a lot of "crunchy, hippie mom" circles! That's just odd!!) are skeptical of the "standard" medical approach of giving kids ritalin, adderal, strattera, vyvanse, and MAYBE some talk-therapy down the road. Most of the moms I know THESE DAYS try everything else first. We're the GAPS loons, the Feingolders, the crazy, homeopathic quack-factories our grandparents warned us about. And we're proud of it, because it's working. But that just wasn't what you DID back then - anymore than most moms were rushing out to join a La Leche League or an organic CSA. Lack of awareness? I don't know. But regardless, in the mid-1980's, the answer to ADHD was ALWAYS Ritalin. My folks went way above and beyond though, and also enlisted the help of a series of fantastic child psychologists, play groups, etc to help us learn coping skills and ways to manage the disorder rather than just treat the symptoms.

While I don't remember it, my mom recalls this period of my life as very tumultuous. She really describes my time off of Ritalin (so, what? EVERY afternoon?) as pretty bad - tantrums, crying fits, screaming, self-harming behavior. Sadly, the last part I DO remember. I remember feeling totally out of control and hating myself for feeling that way. I felt like if I could adequately punish myself for being such a failure, for feeling out of control, for needing meds, for being unable to complete simple tasks, and for just being ME, that maybe it would go away. I won't go into the details. But it lasted into my twenties, and I have scars. I think, from a young age, I really, genuinely hated myself. I wasn't angry at the people around me. I was angry at ME. And I took it out on me pretty violently.

Over the years, I went off of the ADHD meds. I don't honestly remember how THAT went either. Frankly, a lot of my formative years are pretty hazy to me. But let's just move on forward to the mid-1990's, where things get really dark, and I admit, in public, things I have never told most people. A few know. I've discussed it with my priest. But this is my raw, real, honest moment, and it's UGLY.

In 1995, I finished middle school. I  had my first real date. I had my first kiss. My best, and for years my ONLY friend died. I aged out of the youth choir that had basically been my entire life since fourth grade. I had major surgery to correct an eye muscle problem. I had to have my dog (who  had been in the family longer than I had!) put to sleep. I started high school. And I was a nerd. A chubby, frizzy-haired, four-eyed, friendless nerd. In a huge new school. When someone at my LAST school had told me that they wished I had died when my friend did. I didn't really fit in anywhere. Not at church. Not at school. Not in extracurricular activities. I just felt lost. And alone. And depressed. I reached out to a few people, but you know how kids are. So, the bullying got worse. The ADHD got worse. The depressed feelings (though I don't want to say "depression" because I believe now that it was situational more than chemical) got worse. It just escalated.

I finally began to see a psychologist. Then a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist put me on zoloft, which was awful. It's been black boxed now, and has been deemed UNSAFE for adolescents because it can cause psychoses, suicidal actions, and a host of other lovelies. And it did. I went from "troubled" to "psychotic" with seriously full-on "hearing voices" and night terrors. I went into these states where........ It's hard to explain. But it was like I was trying to crawl into myself and just hide. But I couldn't. And I was freaked out. So I couldn't move. I couldn't function. I couldn't really speak or interact with people. But I could - and did - chew holes in my hands that were terrible and messy. I still have scars. And that? It made the bullying WORSE. And it made me feel MORE isolated and alone and now CRAZY on top of it. So they put me on antipsychotics. But those made my insomnia MUCH worse. So they put me on sleeping pills. And those gave me horrific recurring nightmares.

And on, and on, it cycled and cycled.

Until just before my sixteenth birthday, when I took all my pills.

I don't think I really wanted to die. I just wanted the hurt to stop. I wanted it to be over. I couldn't do it anymore, and I was desperate.

Thank God I realized what I had done, and I told my mother who was able to get me to the hospital in time.

If not wanting to die isn't enough of a deterrent, I promise you, having your stomach pumped and then pumped full of activated charcoal is enough. I never want to go through anything like that again. Ever. And not just because I am so thankful to be alive.

But it didn't get better. I still had to go to school and face people. Until my parents agreed to keep me home and let me go on a "hospital/home bound" program for the rest of the year. Still isolated. Still miserable. Still on meds, this time Paxil, which has ALSO since been black boxed.

I spent the next year in a private school, which was just as terrible. I took myself off of drugs the next summer. I won't get into the story there. It wasn't good, and I ran away from home during that time. But when I was home, and off the drugs, I started to recover somewhat. I finished high school. I worked. I had a somewhat normal life. I still have issues. Some people think it's the ADHD and/or depression (folks, I do not believe that I have depression. I believe that I have a heck of a lot of stress, and get depressed SITUATIONALLY. Depression is a very real, clinical, chemical illness, and it's not something that I believe that I have.). I have also had doctors suggest that some of my "issues" may be related to the string of black-boxed drugs I spent my formative years taking. I can't change things, so I won't dwell on it too much. I do my best. I pray a LOT. I try to overcome, and I choose not to take those types of medications as an adult. I've had doctors offer to give me prescriptions for medications that may help. They help with fibromyalgia symptoms or anxiety, I am told. But I know my personal history, and it's not a risk I am willing to take.

I think my history is also the biggest reason that I am willing to try everything else under the son before I will ever consent to medicate my child for a psychological or emotional disorder. I am just not willing to risk the reactions that I know I had, and that other children have had.

Please be gentle with me, friends. This post was very hard to write. I cried a lot writing this, and I am about a hair's breadth away from an anxiety attack from putting these words in print at all, much less in a very public way.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

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The Disturbing Truth (and a plan)

Did you ever REALLY want to get on a crazy health kick but not know where to start?

Get on Netflix. Watch some documentaries. Scare yourself. Give yourself  some hope.  It works.
Actually, I was sold before I got on Netflix and started watching Food Matters; Hungry for Change; Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead; and Genetic Roulette (okay, that one was on Amazon Prime). I was sold before. I watched the documentaries to stay in the zone. I am going to try to watch one every day for a month or two. They help keep me in the right frame of mind. They remind me that this is not (entirely) about my weight. This is a health thing. This is necessary.

This? Oh, yeah. Did I mention that I am transitioning us onto the GAPS diet with an extra focus on whole food, specifically veggies? Yeah. I am.

Let me give you an overview of where we are right now, and understand that I am going public right now, being more honest about this stuff than I really like to be. So be gentle with me.

Right now, this moment, I weigh 261 pounds.
I am 5'3" and some change. That's not going to change.
I am 32 years old.
I have been diagnosed with the following:
Chronic Migraines (basilar, common/classic, acelphagic (silent), hemiplegic, static, and transformed types)
Osteoarthritis (and possible rheumatoid arthritis, but we haven't completed the testing yet)
Fibromyalgia
SLE (Lupus)
Eczema
Psoriasis
Chronic Urticaria
Kidney Dysfunction
Hypokalemia (low potassium, which is wasted by my kidneys)
Hypomagnesemia (low magnesium)
Anemia (iron deficiency and B12 deficiency)
Occasional Hypertension (usually related to potassium levels)
Hashimoto's Thyroiditis
Adenomyosis
Endometriosis
ADHD
OCD
Chronic Fungal Infections
Allergies (seasonal, cats, dermal - and excitingly, I am VERY allergic to antihistamines. Yeah. BENADRYL COULD KILL ME. How awesome is that??)
Chronic Insomnia


But hey, I have good hair, right? RIGHT?!

And my son has some serious behavioral/emotional challenges.

Listen, if you're reading this, and you have faith in God, whether or not you are Orthodox, I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop right now and pray for me.

It is a miracle that I don't have diabetes. It is a wonder that my blood pressure is not ALWAYS high. I can't even tell you.

But if I keep going like this, honestly, very, painfully, brutally honestly, it will be a miracle if I live to see my granchildren born.

And yet, the pressing issue to me RIGHT NOW, is that I am constantly in pain, uncomfortable, and demoralized. It's a challenge to bend over and pick up the keys that I dropped on the floor. It's painful to get out of bed. It's difficult to get up out of a chair. Walking to the store? Up the road? Less than a mile away? It's taxing. I cannot live like this anymore.

And I know that my Wild Child is not happy being unable to control his hyperactive anger (to quote his pediatrician, "anyone who doesn't believe he has ADHD has not spent more than ten minutes with him.") He is CERTAINLY not happy when his outbursts follow their natural consequences. I've been injured in the middle of them before. It's not a good thing.

I think I mentioned before that I have been seriously researching the GAPS diet, and I want to transition us both onto it. That's happening. We need it.

But I think I am going further for myself.

Right now, since Sunday, I have been eating only raw fruits and vegetables, healthy oils, and flax seeds in salads and smoothies. On Monday, I started a big pot of perpetual bone broth with the giant soup bones my butcher cut for me ($12 for ten pounds of marrow bone? From grass-fed local cows? YES PLEASE!). Yesterday, I got my juicer (thanks to a dear friend, a gift certificate, and free two-day shipping from Amazon Prime), and I've been drinking juice. I'm still drinking coffee, but I am limiting it to two cups a day and sweetening it with local, raw honey (which helps the allergies!).

I am planning on keeping this up. On fasting days, I am planning to just drink raw juice.

I need prayer! I don't know how this is going to work when my son gets home from his trip. I know the first step for him is getting rid of the junk foods and gluten. I will see how that goes and work with our doctor to figure out the next step from there.

I just wanted to get this out there, because I want to be public about this. It keeps me accountable. It lets me see my progress. It lets YOU see my progress. It gives you the opportunity to pray for me, talk to me, or even join me in this journey. I am scared and excited at the same time. I am praying that this will really help us. I want to be around for my grandchildren. I want to be able to keep up with my son. Heck, I want to be able to get off the couch every day!

Again, please pray for me. Or wish me luck. Or both!

Thanks for reading.

......................................................................

Linking up with:

Thank Your Body
Jill's Home Remedies
Hearts for Home

Biography - written July 2010

On April 20, 2006, a young woman goes into the doctor’s office for a post-operative check-up. She needs one more test to make sure that a life-changing reconstruction of her dysfunctional uterus was successful. The doctor assures her that she is healing well, and sets up a sonohysterogram at the hospital a couple of blocks away. Before they can sedate her and start the invasive test, she must first wait for the results of some preliminary blood work. The lab tells her that, among other things, they are testing for infection and pregnancy. Without much thought about that, she waits impatiently for the results so she can undergo the procedure and move on. Then the lab technician finally comes into the waiting room, calls the woman back into the lab, and gives her the news: “Congratulations, Ms. Stephens. You are pregnant.”

That was the moment that changed my life completely. On April 19th I was a twenty-five year old girl still recovering from Hurricane Katrina, major uterine surgery, and a very damaging and emotionally-abusive relationship. On April 20th, I became Mom. I didn’t know where to turn or what to do. There was, at the time no one for me to talk to. I was, I realized, utterly alone, terrified, overwhelmed, and completely lost.

That evening, I went to work where I was alone in my office overnight. I typically spent most of my time on the computer, chatting and emailing with friends to get through a mind-numbing night shift. That night, I did not feel up to chatting. I just felt numb. It happened, however, that I checked my email at the most opportune moment. A very dear Russian friend had sent me an email. I will never forget the text of that email. “My beloved Katya,” it read, “I feel compelled to write to you today, though I am not sure why. I just feel that you need some sort of reassurance, and I thought this icon of the Mother of God could help you.” She had attached an image of what I later found out is the Wonder-Working Icon of the Mother of God of the Sign, commonly known as the Kursk Root Icon. An overwhelming feeling came over me in that moment. It is, to this day, a feeling I cannot find words to express. What I did know, and I knew it with an overpowering clarity, is that I needed to be in the church whence this icon came.

April 23, 2006 was my first Paschal service at Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church in Biloxi, MS. In fact, it was the first time I had been into ANY Orthodox church anywhere. I had been considering Orthodoxy off and on for seven or eight years, but I had never worked up the nerve to actually go to church. Yet here I was, pregnant, alone, and terrified, walking into Holy Trinity at 11:30 PM on Holy Saturday. I was overcome by the feeling of holiness in that place. I was awed by the icons, the candles, the chants, and the Paschal homily of St. John Chrysostom: Let all receive the riches of goodness. Let no one lament their poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one mourn their transgressions, for pardon has dawned from the grave. Perhaps most important on that night, I was amazed by how warm and welcoming the parishioners were. I felt that night like I believed I should feel walking into my own home. It was that, I believe, which drew me back the next day.

I was there on Sunday afternoon for the vesper service and the picnic after. Not only was I there, I was asked to read the Gospel in French. I still joke with the man who asked me that this had to be some sort of hazing ritual for new people. “Hello. Welcome to Holy Trinity. Christ is Risen! (Truly, He is Risen!) Would you be willing to read the Gospel in a language you haven’t spoken in ten years?” I did it happily, albeit with atrocious pronunciation, because I knew in the deepest parts of my soul that I had found the home I would never leave.

That afternoon, I met the man who I decided would be the first person I would tell about the pregnancy. His name was Father Jim, and he was the parish priest. Father Jim congratulated me, and when I told him that I was unmarried and that I knew the father would prefer that I have an abortion, he gave me a big bear hug and congratulated me again. He assured me that I had already chosen life for my child and that this fact, together with the miracle occurring inside me, was to be congratulated.

That day, Pascha 2006, was the day that I knew I would never be the same. In my terror, I opened my heart, and I was shown love and compassion where I knew that others would pass judgment. It was that day when I realized the things about my life which have shaped every decision, every emotion, and every action of my life even to this day: I was a mother. I was worthy of love and compassion. I was home, and soon I would be Orthodox. In the coming months, this church would become a home to me, and its parishioners would become my family and my closest friends. I have never felt the need or desire to look back on that day with anything but joy, and I will never be the same. My terror was replaced with hope, my pain with great joy, and my loneliness with love.

It was in the arms of my newfound family and friends that I made it through the next months. This small parish became, in a very profound way, my life support. My thirst for the Orthodox Church became only stronger, and I found that I spent my weeks longing for Sunday Liturgy and the weekly catechetical classes. The women at this church became like sisters and mothers to me, supporting me fully through some of the most agonizing experiences of my life. With their support and Father Jim’s, I managed to start building a life for my son and myself, and it was always with a sense of wonder I still feel today: Why would God bless me so much, when I have done nothing in my life to deserve it? The Lord used every obstacle in my life to show me great and tender mercy.

I became both disabled and unemployed at the end of my first trimester of pregnancy. I lost my car when its engine seized. Our weekly catechetical classes were all but impossible to schedule because of work schedules, my lack of transportation, and pressing parish needs that strained our chronically ill priest. Yet, all of these obstacles became unimaginable blessings for me. I was offered the job of personal assistant to Father Jim. With the help of some parishioners, I was able to find a vehicle that was better suited both to my mobility problems and to the gear I needed for an infant. Even the pain of my shattered pelvis seemed manageable. With my new job as parish secretary, I discovered with great joy that the once-weekly catechetical classes to which I so looked forward became daily discussions and “hands-on” experience. Our “catechetical talks,” as Father Jim refers to them now, took place at the church, in my home, at local restaurants, and even in the hospital when my son was born. Father Jim gave me free reign of his personal library, and I read as many books as I could over the next two years. Four years later, I look back on this time as the most enjoyable time of my life.

Such a joyous time was this for me, that I was caught almost off-guard when Father Jim began discussing the schedule of Holy Week and included my chrismation in the schedule. Had it been that long? Had I learned what I was supposed to learn? Was this real? This was what I had longed for since I first attended liturgy a year prior. Now, here I was, my beloved son in my arms, a home of my own, a job that I truly loved, with friends and family by my side and tears in my eyes: Orthodox. Maria. My amazing godmother had named me for the Mother of God, telling me that I was tasked with raising a great man who would follow in the footsteps of Christ. A month later, with even more tears of even greater joy, my son was baptized.

It is now three years later, and our lives have changed once again. In the last three years, my son and I have experienced great pain and great healing. In 2008, I left the security of Holy Trinity to move to Mobile, AL where a new job as an apartment community manager was waiting for me, and where my fiancé was currently living and working. During the move, my son was sent for a two-week visit with his father. At the end of those two weeks, I drove to Atlanta to pick him up from his father’s house and found to my absolute horror that the house was empty, listed for sale, and that his father and grandparents were nowhere to be found. It took an act of God, and I mean that literally, for the local sheriff’s department to even file a report, and it took, I know, more strength than I possess myself to get through the coming months.

While I was in Atlanta trying to find my two-year-old son, I lost my job and the apartment that went with it. My then-fiancé abandoned me in favor of “hanging out with the guys.” My attorney was unable to obtain an emergency hearing so that my son could come home with me. My parents were so “overspent” emotionally and financially that they would not even allow me to bring up the subject, much less discuss my fragile and broken emotional state. I felt I had lost everything, and I now know that it was only by the grace of God that I even managed to get out of bed. Even in retrospect, it is still unimaginable to me that I was able to file the court paperwork, find a new job, move into a new house, purchase furniture, decorate my son’s new bedroom, and continue moving forward having no idea when I might see or even speak to my son again. In my desperation and isolation, it was in the Church I found counsel and in Christ I found hope. When my son finally came home with me, four months later, he came home to great celebration from the parish at Holy Trinity and the priests at Holy Trinity in Biloxi, MS; Holy Transfiguration in Marietta, GA; and Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church in Mobile, AL – all of whom had cried with me, prayed for me, and helped me rebuild my life and my home.

Over the course of the next several months Father Jim retired, I left the fiancé who abandoned me so utterly in my need, and my son and I relocated to Atlanta to be closer both to my parents and his father. I struggled for months with depression, illness, poverty, and “functional homelessness,” moving from one friend’s couch to the next until I finally found an apartment that I could afford. It has proven to be worth it though, as I have now started, again with the help of my local parish, to forge ahead and make a life for my little family. My son is happily attending preschool, taught by my mother, and we spend our days playing, learning, and praying together as mother and child. We even have a dog – a black lab in “foster” care in our home.

Recently, I have started attending St. John the Wonderworker (OCA) in Grant Park, Atlanta, GA. Here I have experienced the same openness and love that I experienced at Holy Trinity among the small group of women within the parish. Their loving outreach to my son and myself has shown me again something which I started from the day of that first Agape Vespers four years ago: The love of Christ, the message of the Gospel, is universal. It becomes fairly apparent to me that the compassion of the faithful is, when exercised as I have seen in the Orthodox Church, close to universal as well. It should be, in any event, a love shown to all people, no matter the scenario.

It is this love and compassion which has helped to carry me through life, showing me that, even as a single mother with few resources, I can always know the mercy of God and the love of His people. To some people, I know it seems hard to relate to me. I am, however, merely human. Perhaps I am more in touch with my very real mortality and my very great and grievous errors than other women my age. I know my lawlessness, and my sin is always before me (Psalm 50:5, SAAS). I have told many people that we all have our baggage; mine just chases me around and calls me Mommy. My son is also my greatest blessing, and a profound miracle in my life. His mere existence brought me to the Church, and our lives will continue to be shaped by our faith forever. I am still physically disabled from the pregnancy, and I likely always will be. Yet God has used these constant reminders of my sin and my mortality to show me again and again his endless and unfathomable mercy – mercy which I know I did nothing to earn.