Evan has all but been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. In the last post, they were suspicious. Now they are saying that the anidepressant they started him on did indeed send him into a mania, and now we have to somehw straighten him out while still ensuring that all are okay. We met with his therapist, and instead of her talking to us for a few seconds and then talking to Evan, she talked to me for the whole session and I told her the uncensored version of all that is going on. The end result is that Evan is on the waiting list for admission into the partial hospitalization program. Currently, there are 3 children ahead of him on that list, and once 3 kids are discharged, it will be Evan’s turn. He will be in the program as long as is necessary to ensure he is stable. He will be there from 8AM to 4PM, not 5. There is a school teacher that comes there, so it will be my new job to pick up Evan;s daily work from school and return completed work every couple of days or so in order for the teacher there to keep him up to speed on it. My next task was to speak to his teacher and principal at his school so they will be updated and know what to expect.
It is supposed to go quickly. As in, we’ll get a phone call and be expected to have him there the next morning. And that will be that.
I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful that they will be able to give him meds there, under close observation, that will help him and not make him even sicker. I’m hopeful because, unlike seeing a psychiatric nurse practitioner, he will see an award-winning psychiatrist who will care for him while he is there and we will automatically jump to the top of the waiting list when he is discharged. Maybe this is what we need.
But then there’s the other part to this.
How? Do you know? I have no idea.
I have no fucking idea how I am supposed to take my brown-eyed miracle and drop him off at a psych unit. How I am supposed to leave him there, not linger and walk away. How the hell I am supposed to hear the doors shut behind me and know that they are locking me out and Evan in. And that will be it. The point of no return. And with that, Evan’s record will permanently state that he has been treated in a psychiatric facility, that this counts as a hospitalization. I am trying to remind myself that he will get to come home and eat dinner with us nightly, sleep in his own bed. Somehow, though this makes it a little more tolerable, it does not relieve this deep emotional panic I am experiencing. It’s still a psych unit, regardless of whether he gets a nightly pass to come home with us.
I honestly feel like my soul is crushed. I just want to take Evan away to some deserted island. Just us. And spend my days and nights telling him how special he is. How, even though I love his little brother fiercely, he was first. He is still my little baby, too. I’d recount for him all of the funny stories from the days before his memory took over, and bask in the brightness from his smile. He wouldn’t cringe when I kiss his cheek and he wouldn’t shy away from my hugs. He’s be my Evan, free from whatever ails him and turns him into to someone other than my AngelPie.
I cannot handle this. I can’t. I can–and have–taken a lot of shit in my life. I have come back from most of it, even if some of it left permanent scars. But I cannot do this. I can’t. I’m not strong enough.