My name is caregiver

My name is Caregiver.

Not the name I was born with but the name I chose when our son could no longer hide the new friends he was answering to – depression and anxiety.  Those two sneaky bastards lie, cheat, manipulate, steal, and demand that it be kept a secret.  They whisper poison, isolation, self loathing.  They demand that when asked if you’re OK the answer is always the same,  “I’m fine.”  They make you smile and tell jokes when you’re broken inside, when it’s so dark no light can get in.  Fake it to make it, right?  Caregiver is learning.

Depression and anxiety had been trying to take over my son’s life for a long time, who knew? Grades 3-5, my son would walk to school with his head down, “Mom I have no friends, no one likes me.”  Kids would be calling his name, but he couldn’t hear.  “Honey, lift your head,” it wasn’t possible.

End of grade 8, he asked if he could go for a bike ride.  “Of course, take my phone and be home by 7 for dinner.”  10:00 p.m. that night I called the police and sent my daughter off to family.

“Is he alive?”

Yes was the answer.

Our home was surrounded with cop cars, flashing lights, undercover detectives, searching our home, our neighbours’ homes, dragging the pool for his dead body.  My husband found the suicide note in Cole’s room.  Quietly calling me up to his room to show me privately, it was then I realized that I was being “tailed.”   I didn’t kill my kid, please find him, I’ll do anything, please.  Being questioned was so hard, I couldn’t think, my brain scrambled, so scared, crying so hard.  Still just a Mom with no understanding what was happening.

The call came in, they found him. “Is he alive?” yes was the answer. Sitting on a bench, his head in hands crying, but he wasn’t alone, depression and anxiety were there. Tackled from behind, thrown to the ground and handcuffed, he pissed his pants.  Before we left for the hospital I packed a few things for him. My husband asked how I would know to do that. My new name is Caregiver.

Formed, transferred to a Paediatric psychiatric hospital in the back of a cruiser, released under the 72 hour hold.  “Don’t worry, he’s a great kid.”  I wonder how many high fives depression and anxiety gave each other that day when we were told no further treatment was necessary.

As the song says, If I knew then, what I know now …….

That same gentle, quiet loving young man, accepted into a University program that thousands apply and only 50 get in, moved to campus with his best friends from High School.  Depression and anxiety were becoming so strong while demanding his silence and we began to see things that weren’t quite right.   Skyping, I realized what was happening.  Are you suicidal?, “NO” was the answer but we knew better.

Rushing to the University, unable to get a response from his room, he was immediately formed and admitted.  We weren’t included in his health discussions.  If he was suffering a “physical” illness, would the medical people speak to us?

The 72 hours stay began Friday evening, we spent 9 hours a day with him. Released without a plan, without professional care, we brought him home.

When the full suicide attempt happened, Caregiver knew where to find him that day he went missing. This time my husband asked the question, “is he alive?”  The officers that answered his cell phone told us where he had been taken.

The physical injuries from his suicide attempt required massive reconstructive surgery with no promise he would ever walk properly again.  While in the Emergency Department, my son said, “Now they have to listen to me Mom, right, now I will finally get care, right Mom, right?”

I’ll never tell anyone the things I did to keep my son alive.

The Form was lifted in under 48 hours. I was in Cole’s room when the Psychiatrist discharging him came in.  “Fix your physical injuries, we’ll fix your head later.”  I didn’t realize that the programs that had been arranged by the Social Worker were cancelled.  “You don’t want to attend that, its full of middle aged women with problems, its no place for you.”

I’ll never tell anyone the things I did to keep my son alive, never, not even his father. Caregiver has learned.

Mental Health closes the door to us, the caregivers, but never forget how much we love you.

Talk to us when it’s dark, talk to us when you can’t get out of bed, talk to us when you’re scared and mostly talk to us if you’re feeling suicidal. We don’t care what time of day or night it is, talk to us, call us in to help with those lying bastards depression and anxiety.  We’re the truth, not them, not them EVER.

 My name is Caregiver.

Parents, spouses, siblings, extended family, friends, we are all supporters of our sick not weak people, we love you.  We, together with you, must stand together, hold hands, learn, be strong, educate, be educated.  You would be surprised to see how many of us would do anything to help without judgment but gratitude, love, so grateful you reached.

With love there is hope, with hope there is love. We got your six.

My name is Caregiver.