The auditorium went silent, holding its breath.
I spoke, and at the mention of our (Cooper’s) experience with the mental health system, the room went silent. From my place in the audience, I answered the “what needs to change” question about the mental health system. I shared the short version of what happened in June and July of 2020—Cooper’s most severe psychotic break, our overnight in the local ER, the staff calling 31 behavioral facilities before finding one across the state that would accept him, the impossible hoops that kept him from continuing treatment upon release.
I didn’t share how Cooper’s story—his time on Earth—ended two months after his stay in the hospital; the other teachers and administrators already knew. If they didn’t, I imagine they do now. The presenter, there to educate us on trauma-informed response, didn’t know. Maybe someone told him later, maybe not. I can’t worry about what he knows.
That day was part two of his presentation on trauma-informed response; I skipped the first half a few months ago. That day, the day of speaking up, was my fourth try at getting through an entire session on trauma-informed anything. Although I don’t have a problem talking about Cooper’s experience, those sessions are just too close to home. I kept trying, though, and I finally made it through.
I gave myself a couple gold stars that day.
Why am I writing about this experience? Not for an “atta girl” or likes or comments. I’m writing this piece because for three years I’ve been writing and sharing my truth. Day 1227 was a milestone of sorts, and milestones still matter. In case you are wondering, I had to look up how many days between Cooper’s death and that institute day. I’m sharing my truth because the more experienced Moms (and Dads, but mainly Moms) Who Know helped me survive by sharing their own truth. In the past month alone, a friend who’s been living this life for over 30 years and another for over 10 years both talked candidly about a particularly hard time this winter. They still show up and do their best, but the darkness lurks. Their truth enables my truth.
A few long and lovely lunches ago, one of my dearest friends told me she can see me changing. Not getting back to my old self, as we’ve established—and she accepts—that’s impossible, but maybe getting . . . better. Better isn’t the best word, but I can’t find the perfect word. Different in a good way? Evolving? Growing? Turning from a caterpillar to a curmudgeonly butterfly? Clawing my way through darkness? You get the idea.
I wasn’t so sure about her assessment, because there are so many days I don’t feel I’ve made any progress. A particular string of words, a comment or chuckle or image, a favorite meal—so many ordinary things can draw bile up my throat and have me shaking my head, trying to clear my mind’s Etch-A-Sketch of bad memories. I can go from fine-ish and functional to searching for a calm and quiet and solitary place in a breath. Days like that—moments like that—make it hard to see progress. I frequently fall into the pit of grief. Surely if I were “better,” I’d stop falling, right?
Here’s the thing: As long as life continues to happen to me and through me, around me and inside me, I’m going to stumble into that pit. I can’t help it. None of us—Moms & Dads Who Know—can help it. If we could, we would. I’ve heard many suggestions for finding my way back to myself. Keep busy. Do something I love. Think about the good times. Take medicine. Yup. Tried it. Continue to try it. The pit still sucks me in. It’s a big damn pit.
The difference between the pit in the early months and the pit today is that I know I can climb out; I’m not in the pit forever. I’m in the pit over and over, but I can climb back out. Sometimes climbing out takes a distraction or enduring August and September, sometimes it takes getting to December 26 or surviving Mother’s Day, sometimes it takes days or weeks, but I do climb out.
My “progress” isn’t linear. My progress is more of a sad, parkour-obsessed cat navigating a furniture store. I’ve been open about this unpleasant (and apparently life-long) journey. I’ve never hidden how Cooper died or what led up to that awful day. I’ve never felt ashamed of him. I don’t back away from tough conversations with my students or with adults. Usually, I am fine talking about this life, but those trauma trainings were just too much.
And then they weren’t
In a room of strangers, co-workers, close friends, and two family members—and for whatever reason—I could finally handle it. My voice shook, but my words were true and my eyes were dry. And when I finished talking, the room exhaled. Maybe it was just my own exhalation, but it felt like the auditorium let loose its breath. There wasn’t much eye contact after that (elephant in the room and all), but I clearly lived to tell the tale. I couldn’t wait to get back to my classroom, look down into the pit, and give it the finger.
Progress.
Woods Writes 