Sudden Changes In Pressure

put your oxygen mask on first

It looks so comfy up in the clouds, but how do I get there?

When Molly was first admitted to a residential treatment program for her mental illness (this was in November of 2019, and things were already pretty intense at our house), I was a ball of nerves. She’d been so emotionally dysregulated, unable to get out of bed or go to school, crying loudly and screaming at us, for weeks. There would be breaks, but a lot of our time was spent wondering what version of Molly would show up when she entered a room. Having her admitted was difficult and I wondered if it was the right thing to do. Shouldn’t I be able to help her at home? Shouldn’t I be able to manage being under constant alert, when I knew she didn’t mean the things she said? Would she be ok on her own for a month or more? But when she was gone, it was a lightening. I was not sure what to think about that either.

By a couple of years later, there had been so many trips through the ER/inpatient/residential/home cycle that it was almost routine. Not normal, not enjoyable, but we knew how it worked. We’d be managing as best we could, and then there would be a crisis, and she needed more help than we could give. So we’d get her that help.

In the early days, I’d feel lighter once I knew she was away for a few days or weeks. And then I would immediately lecture myself. Shouldn’t I feel terrible? Shouldn’t I miss my child when she was miles away in a hospital unit? I’d push down the relief, tell myself I’d spend the next week getting work done, cleaning up her room (and finding any alcohol or weed she’d left behind), catching up on housework. But instead I would lie down on the sofa and sleep for 24 hours: the deepest most restful sleep I’d had in weeks or months.

As time went on, I accepted that the relief was real and justified. It wasn’t that I wanted her to be “locked up” as she put it. But being able to breathe is important. Being able to sleep through the night is important. Knowing Molly was safe and cared for was important. And I deserve to think of my own needs, plus the needs of everyone else in the house. Plus, I could feel the pressure building when she was home, and I started wanting to run away. I knew that I was getting dysregulated myself, and then I couldn’t engage with Molly the way I needed to: calmly, using all my DBT skills, validating without agreeing, listening for the emotion behind her words.

She moved out of our house (into an apartment that we paid for) when she turned eighteen. A year later, she moved to a different state with a boyfriend, and of course it was not a smooth relationship. So every once in a while, even though we know we can’t have her living here with us, she would come back for a day or two and then fly off again. Since that relationship ended, she’s been bouncing around from place to place, but always landing at our house (often at 3 in the morning, unannounced, but that’s a different story) while she figures out what’s next.

At the beginning of one of these visits, things can be good for a day or so. We cook together, get our nails done, plan walks and projects. Things seem so “normal,” and I find myself wishing things would work for her to just live with us and get better. But then we start with the mess, the missing socks and clothing and chargers, the tension between Molly and my son, between Molly and my husband, between my husband and me, between Molly and me when I start to ask questions about her plans. By the second day, she starts leaving the house at 2 in the morning and staggering home at 5. Drinking and smoking in the house. Yelling and crying on the phone. Yelling and crying to us. The hypervigilance is back. I hear her footsteps on the stairs and stiffen up, not knowing what will happen next. All of us are on edge waiting for something to blow, because it always does. The pressure ramps up immediately as if it had never been gone.

We started telling her earlier this year that she could stay only as long as she did not break the rules, which we put into a “contract” and all agreed to. Inevitably she’d break them within days, and we’d tell her she needed to get out. She would go, and not tell us where, but she’d be back in a couple of weeks. Finally in August we told her she was no longer welcome to stay at the house. This is what my therapist calls keeping my boundaries. This road will be hard but I’m told it’s what has to be done. Right now Molly is across the country again after a rough visit home where we did not let her spend the night. That’s a whole new kind of pressure. As a parent it’s very hard to push my child away like this. But my life is important too, and I can’t manage both hers and mine. As she tells me, she’s an adult and needs to figure things out on her own.