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How to even talk on the phone with my son....
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<blockquote data-quote="tishthedish" data-source="post: 656681" data-attributes="member: 17103"><p>Copa,</p><p>I am sometimes swallowed alive by that fear. For two years every night at 9:30 pm a commercial for Latuda for patients with bipolar would come on. I would cry and cry. I started going to Al-Anon. They have these wonderful books. A little reading each day. At the back they are indexed by the very words we use here...</p><p>FEAR...ANGER...WAITING...WORRY...SHAME...HUMILITY...</p><p>HOPE</p><p>This is just a wee taste. A lot of people asked me how I got to Al-Anon. It was this site that sent me. It felt a little strange at first because some of it didn't pertain to me. But if I inserted the word "illness" or "addiction" for alcohol it started to make sense. I know there isn't a one-size fits all solution for us but it doesn't hurt to try. I went once then didn't go back for 2 months and now go every week.</p><p></p><p>Here is one way I have dealt with the very concern you're talking about. I can have my brain in a death spiral of worry within seconds. I have a vivid imagination and I have a lot of history to call upon where time after time the worst case scenario came to pass. I start by asking myself," Is this happening right now? Have I heard from elder son today? Has anything changed since yesterday? For the next hour can I let the phone go to voice mail, or take it off the hook? Can I give myself an hour? Can I take a walk around the block? Can I park the car far away from the store so I can be outside?"</p><p></p><p>Please know none of this came naturally to me. Most days I was hunkered down under blankets afraid to move lest I set off some seismic life shift. (I did rouse myself for the Latuda commercials and nightly cry) At the grocery store I would see a brand of orange juice my son favored and would break out in a full on crying jag. At one of the meetings I attended one of the people said you can worry and be grateful at the same time, so I set out to prove her wrong on my next trip to the grocery store. I used my super memory skills to think of anything and everything to be grateful for, daring the Minute Maid to break me. I got through that trip with no crying. Little by little, moment by moment I started to recapture a portion of the day. And I kept adding on. And I kept going back to the meetings. And I take some part of the day and read my daily dose from those little books. I'll fold down a corner if I particularly like the reading. Almost all the corners in three books are folded down. </p><p></p><p>The message is I am entitled to my life. He is entitled to his. He won't let me run his, so I can't let my worry for him run mine. It all works out. We each get one life. And I think the thing that messes with us as parents is that for a time children cannot survive without our support and advice. But the time for support and editorializing is over. My sons know everything I think on every vice, virtue, season, song, dance, dish you name it. My son has to learn to be an advocate for himself. He has to learn the consequences of not taking his medications. He has to learn how little he has to live on if he doesn't supplement his income with work.</p><p></p><p>Looking back on my life I never find myself crowing about the time my parents gave me $50 per week for spending money, or about the time my mom took me to Kohl's and spent $300 on clothes and shoes for interviews and then I never sent my resume out or the time my dad gave me cash before my check came in and then forgot to ask to be paid back. No. I remember that I worked at Wendy's full time all holidays and summers to put myself through college. I remember when I allowed myself $15 per week (including gas) to live in order to afford repairs on a crappy car. I remember finally finding the right doctor after a long line of crummy ones who medicated me incorrectly. These aren't huge achievements but I think at this point I'm not looking for my sons to become neurosurgeons. (and no one calls me Dr. Tish either) They deserve the dignity to try and succeed or fail on their own. So they may one day have bragging rights to something that they worked for or belongs to them. They need to have a story to tell. I gave them beautiful legs when they were born. I have to allow them to see for themselves how strong they are otherwise they might never know. I so feel for you Copa. Hugs to you during this stormy and bewildering time.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="tishthedish, post: 656681, member: 17103"] Copa, I am sometimes swallowed alive by that fear. For two years every night at 9:30 pm a commercial for Latuda for patients with bipolar would come on. I would cry and cry. I started going to Al-Anon. They have these wonderful books. A little reading each day. At the back they are indexed by the very words we use here... FEAR...ANGER...WAITING...WORRY...SHAME...HUMILITY... HOPE This is just a wee taste. A lot of people asked me how I got to Al-Anon. It was this site that sent me. It felt a little strange at first because some of it didn't pertain to me. But if I inserted the word "illness" or "addiction" for alcohol it started to make sense. I know there isn't a one-size fits all solution for us but it doesn't hurt to try. I went once then didn't go back for 2 months and now go every week. Here is one way I have dealt with the very concern you're talking about. I can have my brain in a death spiral of worry within seconds. I have a vivid imagination and I have a lot of history to call upon where time after time the worst case scenario came to pass. I start by asking myself," Is this happening right now? Have I heard from elder son today? Has anything changed since yesterday? For the next hour can I let the phone go to voice mail, or take it off the hook? Can I give myself an hour? Can I take a walk around the block? Can I park the car far away from the store so I can be outside?" Please know none of this came naturally to me. Most days I was hunkered down under blankets afraid to move lest I set off some seismic life shift. (I did rouse myself for the Latuda commercials and nightly cry) At the grocery store I would see a brand of orange juice my son favored and would break out in a full on crying jag. At one of the meetings I attended one of the people said you can worry and be grateful at the same time, so I set out to prove her wrong on my next trip to the grocery store. I used my super memory skills to think of anything and everything to be grateful for, daring the Minute Maid to break me. I got through that trip with no crying. Little by little, moment by moment I started to recapture a portion of the day. And I kept adding on. And I kept going back to the meetings. And I take some part of the day and read my daily dose from those little books. I'll fold down a corner if I particularly like the reading. Almost all the corners in three books are folded down. The message is I am entitled to my life. He is entitled to his. He won't let me run his, so I can't let my worry for him run mine. It all works out. We each get one life. And I think the thing that messes with us as parents is that for a time children cannot survive without our support and advice. But the time for support and editorializing is over. My sons know everything I think on every vice, virtue, season, song, dance, dish you name it. My son has to learn to be an advocate for himself. He has to learn the consequences of not taking his medications. He has to learn how little he has to live on if he doesn't supplement his income with work. Looking back on my life I never find myself crowing about the time my parents gave me $50 per week for spending money, or about the time my mom took me to Kohl's and spent $300 on clothes and shoes for interviews and then I never sent my resume out or the time my dad gave me cash before my check came in and then forgot to ask to be paid back. No. I remember that I worked at Wendy's full time all holidays and summers to put myself through college. I remember when I allowed myself $15 per week (including gas) to live in order to afford repairs on a crappy car. I remember finally finding the right doctor after a long line of crummy ones who medicated me incorrectly. These aren't huge achievements but I think at this point I'm not looking for my sons to become neurosurgeons. (and no one calls me Dr. Tish either) They deserve the dignity to try and succeed or fail on their own. So they may one day have bragging rights to something that they worked for or belongs to them. They need to have a story to tell. I gave them beautiful legs when they were born. I have to allow them to see for themselves how strong they are otherwise they might never know. I so feel for you Copa. Hugs to you during this stormy and bewildering time. [/QUOTE]
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