I can’t help but think it must be my fault.
When my kiddo asked to go to psych hospital today because he felt like hurting himself, I kept thinking things like, “If he goes, there might not be a bed for a kid who really needs to be there.” I thought, “If I just figure out the key, I can make him happy enough to not need psychiatric help.”
When Greg drove him to the hospital today (he drives him there because I hate, hate, hate that place), I felt the soggy blanket of depression begin to descend. It wasn’t all because I was thinking, “Poor kiddo,” though. I was thinking, “I have screwed up. I should have figured this stuff out by now. I should be doing something differently. What did I do wrong?”
This sort of thinking is totally foreign to my husband, who is the pragmatic type. He sees this whole thing as a brain glitch that we simply must deal with as effectively as possible.
Not only do I feel as though it’s my fault when he goes to the hospital, but I tend to think it’s my fault that he got it in the first place.
Yesterday, when my teacher’s aide was describing her pregnancy difficulties due to Rh incompatibility, I remembered that I have Rh negative blood. Before we had even finished talking, I had typed “Rh incompatibility schizophrenia” into Google and discovered that yes, this is a risk factor for schizophrenia.
So is everything else it seems. Low vitamin D levels, stress during pregnancy (I keep thinking about a particularly emotional fight I had with kiddo’s biological father), life stressors like school, gluten sensitivity, etc. etc. etc.
I just got off the phone with him. Walking into the hospital, he saw the mother of one of his friends. Turns out the friend is in there for the same reason he is — namely, psychiatric symptoms triggered by stress. He said, “Mom, school is hard for weird kids like us.” Wish I could start an academy for eccentrics…
And yes, intellectually, I realize that it is what it is, that I shouldn’t try to blame myself, blah blah. Still.
The photo of Greg is apropos of nothing. I just like it, dirty rocking chair and all.