Grown, But Not Flown

Image courtesy of imagerymajestic at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My Facebook feed is full of them – images of smiling young adults ready to begin their new adventures and dorm rooms decorated with more style than I’ve ever been capable of mustering, first day photos of fresh faces off to their first day of community college, declarations of pride from parents for all that their child has accomplished and has yet to accomplish ahead of them, and the teary-eyed laments of friends who are saying farewell (for a little while) to their progeny. There’s also the sharing of articles about navigating these new milestones in a family’s life, the most frequent of which I see coming from a website called Grown and Flown. Since it kept showing up in my feed, I perused said website and it is chock full of useful articles (e.g, dorm room shopping, college care package ideas, dealing with the empty nest, community college, helping special needs students adjust to college, etc.), but doing so left me feeling all the more alone.

What’s missing from all of these posts and article shares is the situation my husband and I are facing right now, the one where the young adult is not going to college/university, community college, taking a gap year to volunteer or study or travel, or obtaining/seeking employment. As I peruse my feed I wonder where the posts are that read,”I love Jake so much and he’s staying home in bed this year because he’s too depressed to get out! No job or classes for this young man. It’s gonna be a mental health year!” It could even have a photo of Jake asleep in his bed at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Where are the website articles entitled, “When Mental Illness Prevents Your College Age Child From Doing Anything That Resembles Productivity?” I may not have dug deep enough into the websites my friends are posting from, but I could not find articles there for parents living with young adults who might otherwise be launching into some new phase, but, instead, are struggling with debilitating mental illness.

Don’t get me wrong. I do not begrudge my friends their joy, or even their bittersweet reflections, as their children begin their new journeys. I feel for the many emotions they are experiencing. Two years ago, we took our oldest son across the country, moved him into a tiny two person room, and dealt with pangs of loneliness mixed with overflowing pride. At the same time, I feel deep sadness at our own situation with our youngest son, and I’m not really sure how to talk about it with others as I watch the images and articles of what might have been scroll by.

When Things Don’t Go According to Plan

I never imagined that I would have a child who would finish high school and not be ready to attend college or begin a job. I do not think parents imagine that their child will develop a severe mental illness and not be able to do what his or her peers are doing. My guess is that most have big hopes and plan in that direction – my husband and I certainly did. With one child, that’s the way it went. With our second, it has been different.

Our younger son, Blake, has had his share of struggles. He was diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) at age seven. He went through effective treatment, and has had periods where he has done very well. As a teenager, he had a relapse, and it was difficult to engage him in treatment, despite much begging and pleading on my husband’s and my part. When depression began to settle in on top of his OCD, his basic functioning suffered tremendously. He withdrew more and more from the world and lost joy for most activities. His sleep wake schedule became reversed, and the future felt dismal.

My husband and I propped Blake up. We supported him in school; we practically pushed him through his senior year. And we kept hoping for the best. It was exciting when Blake was accepted to the school of his choice, one that would lead him on a career path he had been talking about since he was seven. Yet, as senior year drew closer to the end, we had to face a painful truth. Blake was not getting better; he was getting worse. Sending him to another state to live in an apartment and enrolling him in a grueling program would spell disaster.

With guidance from our family therapist, we told Blake that we would not be sending him to school this academic year. We asked him to defer his enrollment for one year (something his school is very supportive of) so that he could focus on getting emotionally healthy. Blake was not a fan of our decision, to say the least, and, initially, he shut down even more. However, my husband and I feel secure that we made the decision that was best for our son and our family. Ultimately, our hope is that, with time and treatment, our son will be much better equipped to head out into the world.

It’s an awkward road, though. Frequently, people come up to us asking what Blake is up to this year. When I say that he is taking the year off, that answer is inevitably followed by the question, “Oh, so what is he doing with his time off?” Initially, I felt the need to fully explain the situation to people, but that was awkward for us both. Now I simply say that he is taking the year to fully prepare himself for what’s next. It works.

It’s also an incredibly isolating experience. Back to the Facebook feed. While I am watching and celebrating other young adults I know headed on to something new, I feel alone in having a son struggling so greatly. Oh, there are parents who connect to each other. We do so at conferences, in online support groups (and some in person), and through specialized groups on social media. We see our lives mirrored in articles we find on mental health websites and blogs. Rarely do we see what we are going through running through our social media feeds, or in articles that are widely shared in the mainstream.  Sometimes I feel marginalized or irrelevant and wish that mental health issues, such as the ones we are facing, were just out there in full view and with widespread discussion.

What If Someone Wrote That Article?

If I were to write an article that were to reach out not just to parents of young adults struggling with mental illness, but to all parents of young adults, I would make it infinitely clear that there is no stigma in facing mental health challenges any more than there is in facing physical health challenges. I would note that, just as some young people become physically ill and must delay plans to take time to recover, so do some become mentally ill. I would point out that, by taking the time to get treatment now, a young person increases their likelihood of success in their chosen path. And I would be emphatic that we ought to celebrate the young adult who is working on their mental health, just as we celebrate the one who is moving into that dormitory this week.

Maybe, with that kind of widespread awareness, I would start to see something new in my social media feed. It might read something like this:

“It is with great pride and joy that I share that my young adult is taking this year to really take care of themself. It’s been a tough road, and the struggle has been real, but this is one brave kiddo who has the courage to get help and to heal. I love you, my child!”

Now, that’s one post I could definitely “Love.”

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It’s Always Darkest Before the Dawn

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Just before we leave our latest therapy session, our therapist informs Blake he’s going to use a cliche’. It’s been a difficult few weeks, helping our son tiptoe toward better functioning. First there was getting up each morning at the same time. Next, it was about getting in the shower and getting dressed. Then came the difficult job of convincing Blake to choose an activity for himself – something that would get him out of the house, instead of falling back to sleep for hours upon hours.

In this session, Blake tells the therapist that he plans to apply for a job. It was his task since our last session to decide whether he wishes to take a college class or get a job. Blake names a local store that piques his interest, and then he does an amazing thing – he looks our therapist in his eye and gives him his word. I gasp silently.

“This is a big deal,” I say aloud.

“I know it is,” says our therapist. “Blake doesn’t give his word easily. I know if he does, he will stand by it.”

I admire that the therapist has picked this up about Blake. It’s a subtle thing that the casual observer would miss, but this therapist, with his many years of treating OCD has picked up that Blake’s scrupulosity, his need to tell exact truths, prevents him from promising or giving his word on nearly anything. (If that seems strange to the reader, I’ll sum it up that Blake’s OCD says he must be a good person and always tell the truth. Because there may be an unforeseen circumstance that may prevent him from keeping a promise or his word, Blake’s ritual/habit/compulsion is to not make any promises).

And then, it is quiet.

Our therapist pauses, strokes his chin, and notes that he’s now in an interesting position.

“There are fifteen minutes until our time is up,” he says, glancing at the clock. “So, you could let me know if there’s something you’d like to bring up, Blake. The alternative, which I don’t know if you’d like, is that I could ask your parents if there’s something they’d like to bring up…”

“Nope. There’s nothing I want to talk about,” Blake says, and looks in my direction.

“Oh, I do have something I’d like to bring up,” I say, somewhat too excitedly.

“What?” Blake wonders.

“You know, you have been sitting up late at night talking to me about how much despair you are in, how life seems to hold nothing for you, how awful you feel.” I look to the therapist and continue. “There are frequent nights of sobbing his heart out. And, as mom, I’m trying to listen, but there’s a limit to what I think I can do.”

The therapist nods and what ensues is a dance around whether Blake will share what he’s been going through with the therapist, whether he might trust him with his sadness, and the time constraints. In the end, Blake agrees he will meet with the therapist alone during the next scheduled session and at least answer a few questions for the therapist. But Blake is doubtful that it will be helpful.

“It’s difficult to imagine that there is any hope,” the therapist notes to Blake, and then, as we walk out the door, offers him what he promises will be a cliche’. “It’s always darkest before the dawn,” says our therapist.

Blake nods.

“See you at dawn,” says the therapist.

Don’t Say It’s Not About OCD

Blake sits in his chair looking intently at the therapist. He’s just begun coming with us to sessions and he’s questioning the therapist’s approach (because, well, Blake knows better than the therapist – or mom and dad).

“I don’t understand why my parents are rubbing a tissue on the dogs and putting it on my bedroom floor if I don’t show up for dinner,” he says. “If they wanted me to come to dinner, they just could have told me.”

Well, actually, we did tell him we wanted him to come to dinner. He just wasn’t making it on time most nights.

“But why the tissue?” he wonders.

“Well…” the therapist starts. “Your parents have noticed that there are some behaviors you have that are related to OCD. And they are concerned about them.”

“What?!” His head swivels in our direction. “You’re concerned about them?! Why didn’t you ever just tell me?! Why did you ever let me leave treatment, then?! Frankly, I see nothing wrong with what I do. Dogs are not cleanly and it’s disgusting to have anything from them in my room!”

Well, actually, we did tell him we were concerned about his behaviors and that we encouraged him to be in treatment, but he refused.

As the conversation heightens, the hubby starts to get antsy. He steps into the process.

“Look, I don’t think the primary issue is your OCD right now, Blake. I think your sleep is a huge issue, and your functioning on a day-to-day basis.”

At one point Blake leaves the room in frustration and our therapist looks at the hubby and I.

“Please don’t say it’s not about OCD,” he asks us, “because I’m not so sure it’s not. Blake has a lot of OCD behaviors that he thinks are normal. I don’t want to normalize those and have him think they aren’t a problem.”

When we leave the room, I begin wondering about what our therapist said. Other professionals have pointed to Blake’s depression in recent years, not so much to the OCD. What is he seeing? So, I observe, and I begin to notice what I’ve stopped seeing in the past four years:

  • Walk into bathroom, wash. Walk out. Walk back in. Wash again.
  • Open car back door. Seat is too dirty. Sit up front.
  • “Mom? What is that on the floor?”
  • “Mom? What is that in the box?”
  • “Mom? Is that color normal?”
  • Open car back door. Seat still too dirty. Sit up front.
  • Say prayer. Pace. Say prayer again.
  • Carry squirming cat downstairs, while holding said squirming cat as far as arms will extend away from you.
  • Open car back door. Seat still too dirty. Get a towel and clean seat before sitting.

Blake’s OCD is still very much there. It’s just been quieter. And he’s accepted it as normal (at least he seems to have). How is it connected to his deep, deep depression? That will be an answer we will have to watch unfold.

 

The First Step

Recently, after more than three years of Blake refusing treatment for his OCD, and for the depression that ensued later, the hubby and I made the decision to return to treatment. We didn’t give Blake a choice; we just told him we had an appointment with a specialist who might help us all find a way to do things in a better way. He entered the room on his own, but left in a rage after the therapist called us in to plan together (actually, he left when the hubby and I agreed to a plan the therapist had suggested). When Blake refused to return, the hubby and I became the patients, with the therapist directing us on how to shape our son’s behavior.

The first step was for the hubby and I to make a list of what Blake was not doing – where he was falling down in functioning (like sleeping all day and being up all night). We were also to list the things he was doing (for example, serving as a moderator for a special interest website) and, interestingly, what OCD behaviors we saw that he still had. That last part was odd to us. We hadn’t come to therapy to address OCD. We were more concerned that Blake was depressed and was barely carrying out the basic tasks of living. The therapist wasn’t as sure as we were that OCD wasn’t important.

When we showed up with our lists, he took time to review them.

“Let’s start with something Blake can be very successful at, like getting to the dinner table on time,” he suggested. “Now to chose what happens if he doesn’t make it on time. Hmmm… How bothered is he by the dogs?”

“Just a little,” we noted. “He always washes after he touches them, but it’s not like he runs to do it.”

“Okay, how about this? If he is late to the dinner table, you are going to rub a tissue on the dogs. Then you will break it into several pieces and place them on his bedroom floor.”

“What? How is this related to not getting out of bed?” the hubby wanted to know. “Why are we focusing on the dinner table and his dog contamination stuff when we want him to get out of bed?  And how does rubbing a tissue on the dog even relate logically to getting to the table on time?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why are we doing it? Shouldn’t the consequence be logically tied to the behavior?”

“Natural and logical consequences haven’t worked with Blake,” he reminded us. “We can’t try the same old thing.”

The hubby wasn’t convinced, but he was willing to give it a try. I was intrigued and kind of confused, but I understood that Blake had been unmoved by the natural consequences that had been coming to him, or any consequences that the hubby and I had employed that were logically connected to his behavior. The therapist wrote the plan down. All that was left was to inform Blake of the plan.

Blake Explodes

Blake was infuriated by this new plan. He didn’t even make it to dinner that night. He went upstairs to his room. He slammed his door and his shutters, and he threw things everywhere. Then he came back downstairs like nothing had happened.

The hubby and I carried out the consequence as directed. We didn’t make a big deal out of it to Blake. We simply quietly wiped a tissue on both our dogs’ fur, then cut it apart into several pieces. Then I went upstairs and placed those pieces on his floor. Blake responded by pouring Nature’s Miracle all over his carpet.

The next night, he showed up to dinner on time. And the next. And the next. And our dinners were actually pleasant. The hubby was still confused about the plan and wrote to our therapist.

Why again are we using Blake’s OCD as part of getting him to come to dinner? It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

Remember, Blake hasn’t been functioning and he hasn’t responded to regular consequences. We are trying to prevent you from having a 35-year-old who hasn’t launched.”

The rest of the week continued without incident. We felt just the littlest bit hopeful. It was a baby step. It wasn’t the big goal we wanted. We could only hope Blake would respond well to what came next.

The Fog

I’ve experienced four major depressive episodes in my life (if you don’t count the postpartum depression after I had each boy). One was when I was a teenager – maybe 15 or 16 years old. The second was when I was 30 and my aunt (a close confidante) and uncle were killed in a freak accident. The third was when I was 38 and struggling through some major life issues. The fourth is happening now.

Mental health issues are abundant in my family. My siblings and parents struggle with various forms of anxiety and depression. One of my aunts died by suicide – one of many cries for help that had a permanent outcome. Another aunt in my grandparents’ generation was hospitalized multiple times for her depression and went through several rounds of electroconvulsive therapy. I remember stories of my grandfather locking himself in his room for days. I could go on. Suffice it to say, it’s no surprise that the hubby and I have passed on anxiety, OCD, and depression to our own offspring.

My last major depressive experience was before Blake was diagnosed with OCD. I almost forgot what it feels like…but I recognized it as soon as it started settling in. There’s the thick, thick fog in my head that makes me want to lie down with its weight, and the lack of enjoyment in just about everything I do. I feel myself going through the motions, but I’m distant, falling deeper into an abyss as I see this shell of myself move through the days. And then there’s the vacillating from just not giving a crap to being seized by moments of rage – to hearing myself pop off at those I love the most.

I Know What Prompted This

I can pinpoint the catalyst for each major depression I’ve experienced, and I know what it is for this one. Yes, there’s the fact that I just lost a friend to cancer. I promised I’d go see her – and then I didn’t follow up to that last text message that she didn’t answer…and she died. And there’s Michael. Sweet, competent Michael, who is on the other side of this country so stressed out by what he’s taken on that he can barely see straight. But I can handle either of these – alone or together. I can be the rock. There’s this one thing I can’t be the rock for anymore.

Basically, I’m watching my almost-adult son fall apart – at least in my eyes. This bright, funny, sensitive young man who the hubby and I have invested so much love, time, and attention in cannot seem to manage the basic skills of living day to day. Blake’s sleep/wake cycle, which we have worked so hard with him to regulate, is more messed up than ever. He sleeps until six in the evening and is up all night. When he does wake up, he is down on himself and upset. Then, of course, the schoolwork doesn’t get done. Two months shy of graduation and I’m not sure if he will finish his coursework.

Just this past week, we were supposed to take a trip to the school that is his first choice for next year – and where he was accepted. The place where he will train in the skills that are supposed to launch into the career he’s imagined most of his life. We told him this trip was a “must” in the final decision-making process. The hubby and I woke for our plane flight. Blake had already woken, turned off his alarm and gone back to sleep. The hubby went in to wake him again and let him know he had to be downstairs by the appointed time – a time that came and went and ended in the hubby cancelling our flight, our hotel, and our rental car. Moreover, it made us recognize that our son is not ready for this next step in life. I think I’m okay with that, and yet, I still grieve.

Time to Step Back

I look back over the years and I wonder how we got here. Perhaps I’ve propped Blake up too many times. One of the things that happens when you have a child who struggles with OCD is that you become fiercely protective. You make sure that people around him understand what is going on. You make sure that accommodations are in place where necessary. You push him forward when he cannot find the strength to do it himself. But the most painful realization of late is that, perhaps, I’ve done more of the pushing than Blake has. I may have prevented him from developing the skills he needed to be ready for this next step in life. I haven’t allowed him to fail and pick himself up.

You see, while Blake has been struggling with his sleep this past year, it’s really been me who has done all the work. I’m the one who has set up all the protocols. I’ve been the cheerleader. I’ve been the one who has emphasized how important it is to learn this skill. I’ve been the one who has gotten him out of bed and prevented him from missing the really important things. And I can see the future if we keep propping him up and then send him off to college next year – in an apartment out of state, no less.

It is all but destroying me watching him go through this. It’s like watching some suspenseful series, constantly rooting for the hero, seeing him fail over and over, and not knowing where this story is going to end up. Even as I pull away, I sink more into my own depression. To make matters more stressful, Blake is watching my every move, as he always has. He is sensitive to my mood, wanting to know what is wrong. His OCD tells him he must take extra care of me. If I scream out the things I really think and feel, I will only set him off and send him spiraling.

I’m Getting Help

I tell him that I am struggling with a big episode of depression, as he’s heard me talk about having experienced in the past. I tell him that it is not anybody’s fault; it’s how my body works. I tell him I am getting help. I have an appointment with a therapist next week. I hope that I am being a role model by getting help when I am struggling. What’s more, I really need the help right now. I need a place to put all that I’m feeling somewhere besides on my hubby’s shoulders. I need a neutral party to look at this situation and guide me. And I need someone to hold me back before I say something stupid or jump in and try to “save” my boy yet again.

Forty Percent

img_4892It’s a Sunday afternoon and Blake is taking a computer scored test for his precalculus class. He’s never liked math, yet he has continued to push himself forward because he knows at least this much math is required for him to pursue his career goal of video game developer. The tension is palpable in the family room air. Twenty problems. Three points each. The anxiety mounted when he looked at the first problem.

“I can’t do this! I don’t understand it!”

“Blake. Yes you can, and yes you do. Slow down.”

Is That Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder?

The hubby and I keep repeating this mantra, but Blake is not hearing it. He’s far too anxious. Yes, Blake has OCD and while you may be wondering how this is an OCD moment, suffice it to say that OCD often does not occur in a vacuum. OCD sufferers can have many other things going on besides OCD (just as we all can have multiple things going on in our lives). One very common occurrence is to have anxiety (possibly even an anxiety disorder) pop up in areas besides those affected by the OCD.

When a person has OCD, they struggle to deal with the uncertainty, discomfort, and anxiety brought on by intrusive thoughts, urges, or images. It is the discomfort that is created that OCD sufferers must learn to deal with. So, it’s not surprising that other things that make an OCD sufferer anxious can also be a challenge. In Blake’s case, math provokes anxiety. I don’t know if it’s a full blown phobia, but math anxiety is a regular occurrence in his life.

How’d You Get on Number 16?

I walk over to Blake and glance over his shoulder. He’s on number 12 out of 20.

“I’m not going to pass,” he says with panic in his voice. “It’s hopeless.”

“Hey, you can do this. This is your anxiety talking.”

“No! No! I just don’t understand it!”

I glance at the computer. He’s on number 16. This doesn’t make sense. We’ve been talking. He hasn’t even more than glanced at the computer screen. He couldn’t have completed four precalculus problems.

“Blake, how’d you get on number 16? You were just on number 12.”

“I can’t do it,” he just keeps saying.

“Blake, did you enter nonsense answers?”

“I’m not going to pass! It doesn’t matter what I enter!”

The hubby manages to intervene and to convince Blake to take his hands off the keyboard. We talk for a few moments and Blake settles down. He refocuses on the task at hand and answers numbers 16-20 correctly. He earns a forty percent. When he’s finished, I take a look at the analysis that shows what he scored correctly on and what he missed. He got three answers correct in the first five questions and then nothing correct until number 16. He’d gotten anxious because he’d gotten a few wrong. Anxiety took over, he panicked, and there went the test.

What Have You Learned From This Experience?

Blake had to contact his teacher about his score because a minimum sixty percent is required for him to continue on in the course. The hubby and I write a note to the teacher and advise her of what happened. We let her know that we hope Blake learns a lesson from this experience and that he will not do this in the future.

“What have you learned from this experience?” I ask Blake later.

“I learned to slow down and take a break if I need to. I also learned that Mom and Dad are usually right.”

As a mom I smile at that last comment – not that he’ll recall it when we have advice to give.

Blake’s teacher writes me back the next day. She asks for Blake to come in and work with her. She wants to see what he needs help with, and then to reset the test – something we hadn’t asked for nor expected.  After she works with him, she asks me to come by.

“He understands all of this. He did remarkably well. Let’s see how he does on the re-take.”

Blake takes the test again and scores an eighty-five percent.

“I have pretty amazing teachers,” Blake tells me.

“Yes, you do,” I reply. “Mrs. C didn’t need to reset that test. She understands anxiety. I wouldn’t expect her to do that again.”

Blake understands that responding to his anxiety by completely throwing off his test was not the best choice. He does seem to have learned something from it, but, honestly, only time will tell. Will he step back and recognize what anxiety is doing to him the next time it surfaces? I hope so. Or it may be a lesson he will have to learn repeatedly before he gets it down. I am confident that he will get it some day.

The Great Ice Cream Adventure

It’s 9:30 pm on Sunday evening. Blake, the hubby, and I giddily walk into our local drug store. It’s eerily quiet. The shelving units are on casters, the walls are bare, and the clerk looks at us like there’s something wrong that we are there. I glance in the direction of the ice cream counter. I can see that it’s still there.

“We’d like to get some ice cream,” I say.

The clerk looks back at me like I’m from another world.

“It’s closed until we finish the remodel.”

I’m disappointed. I mean, really disappointed. The three of us walking into a store to buy ice cream together – well, this hasn’t happened in years. Blake agreed earlier to go get ice cream together tonight and I was delighted. I’m not about to give up now. I think for a second.

“You have another store nearby,” I say, noting which one I’m talking about. “How late are they open? Is their ice cream counter open?”

“Yes, their ice cream counter is open. They’re finished with their remodel. They’re open until 10, if you can make it on time…”

Of course I can make it on time. I rush out the door with Blake and the hubby following close behind.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Blake says. “We don’t need to rush over. I’ll be okay without ice cream.”

“Honey, it’s just over the hill here. It’ll take five minutes to get there.”

It’s Not Just About Ice Cream

I’m a woman on a mission. I want to make it to the drug store before they close up for img_4881the night. We must have ice cream. This is about so much more than ice cream. It’s about being able to do something as a family that we haven’t been able to do in so long. It’s about how anxiety and OCD have stopped us from being able to do this simple activity together – and how tonight there is a little window to change that. I want to seize on this opportunity.

To be perfectly fair to Blake, it’s not all about OCD or anxiety. He does have some real dietary restrictions. However, quite some time ago we learned what he can and cannot eat, and how to check that all is okay when he’s out in the world. It’s just that, until tonight, he’s felt far too uncomfortable to do it. Avoiding has been his compulsion. Better safe than risk breaking a rule.

I pull into the parking lot and we go quickly inside. Yup, this store has finished its remodel. Still eerily quiet inside. There’s one lone clerk to be seen. When he glances in my direction, I have a feeling he’s going to tell us that they are closed. Then the hubby asks him if we can get some ice cream and he seems to lighten up as he moves to the ice cream counter.

I Don’t Need Any Ice Cream

The hubby orders first – a big double scoop. Blake pulls me aside. He looks nervous.

“I changed my mind. I don’t feel comfortable with this. I don’t need any ice cream.”

I feel a little switch flip inside of me. Wait? Hadn’t we already talked this out? I’ve taken us to two different stores just to reach this moment?

“Blake. Come on. You can do this. Did we really come out for you to change your mind?”

The hubby sees what is happening and gives me a look.

“Hey, it’s Blake’s decision. Let him do what he chooses.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m going to go order.”

And I order my single scoop of chocolate malted crunch, not sure I’m going to enjoy it quite so much. My sugar cone breaks when the clerk goes to put the ice cream in it and he has to start over.

“They’re making the cones thinner now,” he tells me. “I use twice as many because they keep breaking.”

He hands me my cone and I take a lick. It does taste really good. I just wish Blake could enjoy it, too.

I Want to Try

I turn around, ready to pay for our cones, and see Blake right there.

“I changed my mind, Mom. I want to try. What is it I have to check for? How do I do it?”

I explain to Blake that he just has to ask the clerk to show him the containers that the ice cream and cones are stored in. There, he can check the ingredients appropriately. He’s nervous, in part because he’s learning a new skill, but to a larger degree because his OCD is telling him this is bad, he’s breaking the rules, something bad could happen.

Blake asks the clerk to show him each. It all checks out. He orders a double scoop of chocolate. He eats every last bit, his anxiety melting away with each lick.

A Double Scoop; A Double Triumph

That night the ice cream tasted better than I remembered. Probably enhanced by the sweetness of what occurred. Blake stood up to his OCD for the evening, and he triumphed. He took a new step toward a little more freedom.

I also took a step. You see, I’m part of the problem. When I see Blake giving in to his OCD, like he almost did when he said he wasn’t going to get any ice cream, I get emotional. I actually start to get angry. I want him to stand up to the OCD…but my anger and frustration don’t help. They make things worse. If I would’ve not taken the hubby’s cue and continued to push, it wouldn’t have gone well. Blake would have remained steadfast in not getting his ice cream because my emotions would have only created more anxiety for him. When I stepped back, Blake gained space to do what he needed to do. He was able to find his bravery and do what felt uncomfortable.

Bravery is what defeating OCD is all about – doing different than what your brain is telling you to do. My boy was brave that night. I like to think I was brave, too. Or strong. It’s difficult to step back…at least it is for me. I hate when OCD steps in and takes things from my son and from our family experience. Helping Blake means I have to respond differently that how I might automatically want to. So I guess we both grew just a little from that experience. I think we need some more ice cream…