Oldest daughter, often put in charge of younger siblings from a young age, I have learned to value my independence. I rarely ask for help. If I can’t do something on my own, if I can’t figure out how to do something on my own, I move on to something else. I don’t need it anyway.

Even as an adult, I have continued this pattern. Into every relationship, I treasure my independence, my apart-ness rather than my a-part-of-ness. Maybe that was one of the obstacles to making any of the romantic relationships last. 

However, I have always felt this made me an excellent mom. For all the times I grew up needing someone to be there for me, I made sure my kids never even had to ask. When my kids were young, and I quickly realized I didn’t know how to be a parent, I went to college to study Psychology with an emphasis in Child and Adolescent Development. I applied everything I learned to parenting.

When my oldest was diagnosed with Autism, I didn’t worry. I had the skills. There were times when it was hard, but we managed. Now, he’s an adult embarking on his own goals.

Over the past couple of months, the universe sent me a message that it was time to learn how to ask for help. My youngest teen has been dealing with depression and anxiety for a couple of years. Some of the meltdowns my oldest had while growing up could be violent. He would have times where he would try to bang his head against the tile floor. We would have to restrain him so that he would not hurt himself. These episodes were scary for a much younger child. We would talk about it. We would bring in counselors occasionally. However, my youngest kept most of the feelings to himself, and therefore, I assumed it was all okay.

In December, my youngest son’s counselor brought me in after one of his sessions. They let me know that we were dealing with a mental health crisis. My beautiful, sweet, empathetic child could not stand to be in his own body. He was in so much pain that he did not want to live in a world that was so hard to live in.

The crisis protocol for our town was to take him to the ER for a voluntary hold. From there, they would assess and place him in a facility where they could help him and teach him the skills he needed to deal with intrusive thoughts. 

That first night, I was in shock. I sat with my son in that hospital room all night. The staff in charge of watching him 24/7 kept offering to bring me blankets, to bring me food, to bring me coffee. They assured me they were there if I needed to go take a break or a nap. I refused to leave his room. I refused to let myself close my eyes. I needed my son to know that I was there and that if he needed something, I would make sure he got it. He would not be invisible again.

He was eventually put in a great residential program. He responded well to treatment and progressed to the center’s Partial Hospitalized Program. He completed that and moved on to the Intensive Outpatient Program. While he still has a way to go, he seems to be getting the help he needs. 

Reaching out for help was not in my nature. Asking for assistance, not being able to do it all myself, these were serious issues I had to deal with. At the beginning, I felt like I had failed my child. However, over the course of his treatment, and with the help of the center’s parents’ support group, I have learned to rephrase “I’m not able to do it all myself” to “I don’t have to do it all myself.” 

My teen tested positive for influenza A last night. From last night through this morning, I have been in my element so to speak. I have made phone calls to change appointments. I have reached out to teachers to make sure they are aware of the issue. I have set my teen up with snacks, with electronics (the only time he’s allowed electronics in his room is when he’s sick), with homework to be done. 

My co-parenting partner asked this morning if there was anything I needed for him to do. At one point, I would have told him I had it all handled. This morning, I asked him to pick up some prescriptions at the pharmacy so that I could handle the appointments. Small progress is still progress, right?