Among Lions: Fighting for Faith and Finding your Rest while Parenting a Child with Mental Illness

By Kirsten Panachyda and Dena Yohe

Parents need protection.

The ambush of shock, the infection of resentment, the crocodile roll of defeat...Among Lions explores 10 "beasts" that can attack parents when a child has mental illness.

Each chapter includes:

• Defense strategies

• Illustrations from the author's experience

• Perspectives fro

• Language: English
• Publisher: Among Lions Books
• Release date: Jun 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737017929

Book preview

1

Surviving the Ambush of Shock

At first there is normal. We think: This is our family. This is our life. These are the things we do, and this is how we do them. It seems strong and impervious. Even with children growing, or jobs shifting, or homes moving, normal seems immutable. But it is a shell.

Inside is something unthinkable—pain we never saw coming. A hurt growing, seething, stretching, thinning the shell to translucency. We begin to see the silhouette inside, but still hope the fragile membrane of normal will hold.

Pain breaks through.

Sometimes it oozes through a small crack. A day the kid dresses all in black. Monosyllabic answers. Evenings spent in a bedroom.

Sometimes it bursts forth with a shattering. An out-of-control rage. A sleeve with blood seeping through. A confession assaulting unprepared ears.

Each breaking follows its own pattern. The shapes of the broken pieces of normal reflect the souls of those standing in the wreckage. Eventually, though, we are all standing there among the unique shapes, feeling the same thing.

Pain.

The pain of mental illness.

When a child suffers, the parents become vulnerable too. Beasts encircle us. Drawn by our vulnerability, these enemies gather, ready to prey on our souls. Creatures we may have only glimpsed before become all too real and terrifying. There is no means of escape. We may have some defenses, but not weapons that will destroy them utterly. We cannot make the beasts go away.

We must live there, among them. If we are parenting a child with mental illness, we are there for the long haul. Throwing ourselves against the walls of our circumstances will only leave us exhausted, bruised, and hopeless. For our faith to survive, we must learn to fight the beasts in an arena we did not choose. Our souls, precious in the sight of God, deserve guarding. If we are to find rest, then it needs to be right there in the middle of the beasts.

* * *

Pain broke open. Out spilled dark-crusted scabs on pale arms, hard plastic waiting room chairs, hateful words carved onto a teenage chest, locked cabinets, clenched teeth holding back a wail, bruises around a neck, a mother’s heart shattered on dirty linoleum. The beasts drew near to the scent.

* * *

It started on a February evening. My husband Dan picked up Nicholas’s algebra notebook. High-school homeschooling takes a lot of grading. He flipped it open. Did Nicholas do his work on different paper this week?

I looked up from reading an essay by our older son, Alex. No, I don’t think so. Why?

There’s no new work in here.

He told me he did it. Here we go, back on the fourteen-year-old-boy rollercoaster. I got up and sighed. It took Alex three months. Maybe Nicholas will get off the ride quicker. At least he hasn’t been mouthing off like Alex did. I went to the stairs Nicholas! Come down; we need to talk to you.

Dan waved the book in the air when Nicholas entered the room. Where are the last four lessons I assigned?

Oh. I didn’t really get to them—

You told your mom you did. Why would you say that?

It’s bad enough you didn’t do the work, but why lie about it? I asked. It’s just wrong. Besides, you must have known we’d find out.

Nicholas shifted from foot to foot, head down. He put a hand in his pocket, then took it back out.

Your mom and I spend a lot of time and effort on your education. Dan scowled. You have to do your part.

Nicholas stood still, not looking at us, body half-turned toward the stairs.

Dan, wait. I looked at my boy, his slumped shoulders, the long beautiful lashes that hid his eyes. Come here, Bee. The old nickname for my busy toddler slipped out. Come on. Let’s sit down and talk about this. It’s okay.

Without looking up, Nicholas dropped onto the sofa. I squeezed in next to him, pushing aside some books and an empty tea mug on the coffee table to put up my feet. Dan sat kitty-corner in his comfortable chair and swiveled it to face Nicholas, their knees almost touching.

Is there something else? I searched his face for answers. Something going on that you need to tell us?

Yes, he whispered, then cleared his throat and repeated, Yes.

Honey, please tell us. You can tell us anything. Please.

Nicholas sat silent while I rubbed my hand over his back, feeling the sharp shoulder blades beneath his T-shirt. This isn’t about you being in trouble. Please just talk.

He took a deep, shaky breath, then another. He opened his mouth and got as far as the glottal stop of I. But it was like something had him by the throat. He closed his mouth and shook his head.

Again and again, we pleaded with him.

He tried several times, but words wouldn’t come.

I took his hand. Can you nod for yes or shake for no while I guess?

He nodded and gripped my hand with his larger one. I looked down at his knuckles entwined with mine and briefly remembered his tiny fingers curled around my pinkie, holding on tight while he nursed.

Are you using drugs?

Head shake.

Do you hate homeschooling and you're afraid to tell me?

Slight smile, but another head shake.

Do you think you might be gay?

Quizzical look, head shake.

On and on. After exhausting all the obvious questions, I ventured into the irrational. I landed on, Are you cutting?

He didn’t move for a few moments, and then he nodded almost imperceptibly. Tears rolled down his face.

That would be the last time I saw him cry for the next several years.

Why did I ask him that? I knew next to nothing about self-injury. I didn't even know enough to know there were signs to look for. Didn’t people cut because they’d been abused? Wasn’t that a female response to trauma? Or something done by people who had unsettled family lives as children? Where had he gotten the idea? What had happened to him?

Breaking open day, pain spilling out.

* * *

Parent Perspectives: How It Can Break Open

Sometimes a child is away from home when a parent first begins to sense something is wrong. Perhaps they are at camp, college, or a first apartment. Distance can bring an extra measure of helplessness.

Here is how it broke open for mom Cecilia:

My daughter came home to visit and slept for hours and hours at a time. We falsely assumed this was just recovery from a tough week at work. Within weeks of her return to her own apartment, a concerned friend phoned and said she was missing work and not showering or changing her clothes. She seemed to be losing weight rapidly.

We knew these changes were classic warning signs of a problem. We immediately called her and helped her set up an appointment with a counselor.

Panic and confusion became our new companions. She was hours away and wouldn’t talk to us about her feelings. Was she suicidal? Was she abusing alcohol or drugs? Should we go to her? There were no good answers. Worse, since she was eighteen, professionals couldn’t give us any information. It felt like a nightmare. She was far away, wouldn’t promise us that she was safe, and we were excluded from gaining insight.

When I wasn’t on the phone with her, I was on my knees crying out to God to help her. She finally agreed to drive home so we could visit her doctor.

For some parents, the shell starts cracking early, and what inside slowly becomes visible. This was how it was for Joanie:

He was a very colicky baby and didn’t sleep through the night until he was a year and a half old. By two, he was demonstrating huge sensory issues, and his terrible-two temper tantrums seemed over the top. Instead of crying himself to sleep, he’d bang his ear or forehead so hard on his crib he’d be black and blue. His pediatrician thought we were just nervous first-time parents. However, we knew there was more going on, so we pursued further. We tried craniosacral therapy and worked with an occupational therapist to address the sensory concerns. At age two, we first took him to a psychiatrist. From ages four to twenty-one, he regularly saw that same psychiatrist. Our son’s first hospitalization took place at age six. He spent thirty days living four hours away.

Defense Strategy against Shock:

Acknowledge the Shock.

I walked down the beach, past the pier, past the condos, until I couldn’t see another person. I sat down by the surf, letting the waves roll over my legs. Then I lay down. My hands moved in the wet sand, scraping the grit between my fingers as my fists opened and closed. The water brought rhythmic washes of salt and sand, scouring my body, filling my hair. If only I could scrub away the bewilderment with salt and sun and breath. I couldn’t do this. God, help. Heal him. Do it for me. You know I can’t handle this. Hands opening and closing. You said with You all things are possible. That I can do all things through Him that strengthens me. Surf advancing and retreating. You said You love. That You deliver. I’m going to trust You. Stick with me. I stayed on the sand until the tide went out and I was no longer bathed by waves.

We began the search for treatment for Nicholas, praying for wisdom and guidance. When I followed up on a recommendation from a friend, God led us to Susan. She had an office right in our hometown and was not only a qualified and experienced therapist, but also a follower of Jesus. Maybe she is the answer to our prayers; maybe she will fix everything.

Three days after our second meeting with Susan, we knew for certain that life had changed, the turn had come, and the new road wound through unfamiliar terrors. Nicholas told me he was suicidal and ought to go to the hospital. How can he be so calm? How did this escalate so quickly? What do I do? What do I do?

I couldn’t get hold of Dan. I asked Nicholas if we could make it through the afternoon until his dad could be with us. He said he could. I carried on with the afternoon plans. Nothing penetrated the cloud of my fear. When Dan got home, we sat down with Nicholas to discuss.

I have to go, Nicholas said, staring straight across the room. I’m not safe.

There’s no going back if we do this. Are we ready for the dominoes to start falling? I stared at his blank expression, looking for insight that wasn’t there. Nicholas, honey, are you sure?

Dan and I kept probing, although we had not yet learned the right questions. Are you telling me that if you do not go to the emergency room, I said, choosing my words carefully, I will wake up tomorrow in a world without you in it?

Yes.

No more discussion. Dan and I looked at each other; I gulped down my tears. We packed a few things, gave Alex a brief explanation where we were going and why, and took a screen-shot of the map and directions to the psychiatric emergency department. It stayed on the camera roll of my iPad for the next three years.

* * *

Professional Point of View: Talking about Suicide

Tina Yeager, LMHC, advises:

Whenever you have a suspicion that something is going on with your child—there are behavior changes, mood changes, they’re not themselves—you might want to talk to the child first. If you’re still not getting answers, and you still have a suspicion that something’s wrong, look at an entry level person, like a counselor. The counselor can help you determine if this child needs to go to the hospital. But if you're having a crisis in which the child is completely withdrawn or making threats of possibly harming themselves or talking about death, that’s more alarming.

You should not be afraid to ask if they've thought about suicide. That’s first of all. Most people are afraid to use the word. They think they'll give the child a suggestion and the child will think, Oh, I never thought about that, but now I'm suicidal. They're not going to do that. If they're not suicidal to begin with, mentioning it is not going to make them suicidal. So don't worry about that.

But do ask, Have you thought about death? Sometimes that opens the door for them to talk to you. The best thing a parent can do is have the kind of relationship with the child where no subject is taboo. So if your child feels you're open to hearing that and not afraid you will freak out—as much as you might want to—they will feel comfortable talking.

The best thing to do is calmly and empathetically listen. Say, You know, a lot of people have those thoughts from time to time. Tell me about yours. Allow them to open up and not feel weird talking about it. And then they might open up about how deep those thoughts are. You then ask, So, have you thought about a plan to go through with that, or is it just a thought that pops into your head from time to time? If your child has a plan or they've started to think about how they would commit suicide, that’s dangerous. They need to get to a crisis center as soon as possible.

* * *

We never really wanted to know the world of the psychiatric emergency department, but there we were. We found the door at the side of the building and entered the first little waiting room. We needed to empty pockets and go through a metal detector. A guard inspected our bags. When a staffer ushered us to an exam room, an orderly replaced Nicholas’s shoes with hospital socks, removing the laces from his possession

A nurse gave Nicholas a brief physical exam, then we answered questions about why we had come. Once this initial assessment ended, we were taken to the youth and adolescent unit and dropped off with no further instructions.

We shifted in hard chairs, trying to find a comfortable position as the night wore on. Kids wandered in and out of the small bedrooms opening off the main space. Nickelodeon blared on the TV with inane scripts and jarring laugh tracks. A person acted as monitor in the room, I presumed to step in in case of violence—but there were obviously no rules against foul language or unkind remarks. Nicholas wasn’t a target of the other patients, nor did he engage in any conversation.

We sat, doing nothing at all. Hours passed. At last, we met with a psychiatrist.

The doctor interviewed Nicholas alone, and then Dan and I re-entered the consultation room.

The doctor's first words were an apology. When I first saw your family, I thought I had you pegged. He explained that we had looked to him like typical, overly-worried suburban parents—which we were, except for the overly part. He thought he’d be reassuring us and maybe giving us a prescription for an anti-depressant and a recommendation for some counseling.

Instead, he had us sit down and peered at us over his black-framed glasses. Nicholas needs an inpatient hospital stay. His risk for suicide is high. He shuffled some papers on his desk. Do you want to start the process of transferring him?

The four of us—Doctor, Parents, and Son, who had become Patient—discussed options. We decided we’d rather pursue a private placement. We elicited a promise from Nicholas to stay safe and made a supervision plan. We would take him home the next day, keep an eagle eye on him, meet with Sandra and our family doctor, Dr. Lake, as soon as possible, and then proceed with a hospital stay.

We went back to the patient lounge, and a nurse told us there was a bed for Nicholas in one of the adjoining spartan rooms.

Go ahead and sleep, Nicholas. We’ll be right out here. I put my arm around him.

Mom, no. No. Go home. Don’t sit in that stupid chair all night. I’m really tired, and I’m just going to sleep. Please go home and go to bed. He headed toward the little room, then came back to hug Dan and me. Please go sleep.

The unit door shut behind me before I started to cry. I made it to the parking lot before I had to double over and wail. I couldn't believe we were driving away and leaving our boy, our precious boy, there in that cold, uncaring, terrifying place by himself. My husband broke out in sobs. Our world had shattered.

Defense Strategy against Shock:

Realize you can’t prepare for how bad this feels.

We had sent Alex, our sixteen-year-old older son