12-30-2006, 08:21 AM
This is a biographical account of the the day that my son first became ill. I would appreciate any feedback good or bad as I am writing more and need to know how to improve it. It now appears he as ASD aswell but that's another story as they say....
A Day in the Life of Sean and Nora.
Over the Christmas holidays, Sean displayed just the right amount of good behaviour, cheek, plain naughtiness and boundary pushing for an eight year old to assure me that his childhood was progressing normally. Normal is a word I have now obliterated from my dictionary as it has become meaningless. The antithesis is abnormal and my experiences since then tell me that all children are normal but come in varying degrees of uniqueness. Perhaps unique isn't the right word either because children with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) are not alone, it just feels that way at the beginning.
My day will start on Friday evening as we arrived home from school. Parents of children with mental illnesses soon realise that a normal nine to five day is not one they often experience, so I feel justified in started my day, just there at 4 pm. Sean dropped his bags in the hallway and ran upstairs announcing he was going to play on his PS2. This was a relief, as for the journey home he kept saying he was sorry but couldn't explain why. I exhaled deeply at seeing this display of usual behaviour and started to chop onions, slice chicken and boil pasta. This time the "sorrys" had changed into a pitiful squeal, "Sorry, Sorry, Sorry" three times, then a brief rest, then "Sorry, Sorry, Sorry" again. Leaving the preparations for tea I ran to his room. "What's wrong baby, what are you sorry for?" His little face was so pale. "I'm bad Mum, God will punish me if I don't say sorry."
"You can't be bad, you're just a little boy, a beautiful good little..." but I didn't get to finish my sentence before the "sorrys" came back. I sat on the beanbag hugging him, stroking his hair and rocking him saying "ssshhh, shhhh" just as if he were a babe in arms again. After an hour or so of this I tried to return to preparing dinner so he could eat something. While opening a bottle of pasta sauce I heard a piercing scream. The extra stones I had been carrying around for the past few years disappeared as I flew up the stairs three at a time. My baby boy was lying on his bedroom floor, his legs flailing but his fists were aiming direct hard punches into head over and over. All I knew was that I had to restrain him from hurting himself and sat on the floor behind him. I managed to envelop his arms with mine to hold them down to his body while I wrapped my legs around his and for the second time that night, rocked him, kissed his head and told him everything would be all right as he fought against me.
At some point that night we both fell into an exhausted sleep praying that we would wake the next morning and in some Dallas like fashion, realise that day was just some vile nightmare. Throughout the night, I looked in on him sleeping not daring to touch him in case he awoke. I too needed the peace that his sleep brought to the home. He was a little calmer the next morning, as he tucked into breakfast but it was short lived. "Sorry Mum," he said. "What are you sorry for?" I asked. "I did the knob sign with my hands." This was news to me because at eight years old I didn't know he even knew what the knob sign was. He had sussed the "V" sign, although he had no idea what it actually meant, but the knob sign was a new one. Normally, this would have brought with it a grounding, time out or loss of something precious to him for a while but good old mother's instinct kicked in again. Something wasn't right. "Where did you learn that one Sean, show me how you do it?" His little hand flailed about, his fingers wiggled but no recognisable motion was made. "Sean you don't even know what it is, you can't have done it." He was equally insistent that he had. A while later he confessed again. "My hands swore Mum, I did the "V" sign. " This time I knew he hadn't done anything. His hands were perfectly relaxed but still the sorry kept coming for imagined hand swearing.
A pattern started to emerge of the need to say sorry to God, ask for forgiveness three times, to be answered three times and to finish the ritual in the prayer like finish of: "Thank you, Amen". Whatever relief this brought did not last for long, as it would come back within seconds. He couldn't watch television, read a book, or play games as he couldn't control his thoughts. Finally, by Saturday afternoon, he was again punching his own head, shouting at the voices to *** off and leave him alone. To say it was heartbreaking to watch helplessly is such a cliché, but it was. Restraining him was hard as he is strong and athletic from his love of football and golf so, as he tried to fight the voices physically, it was inevitable that I would get hurt.
Again my arm encircled his from behind preventing him from punching his head, as he so badly felt that he needed to do. He fought against the restraining and the top of his head made contact with my jaw forcing me to involuntarily bite into my tongue and the blood flowed. When he relaxed into an exhausted heap with the voices beaten for a brief time, he saw what he had done to me and cried that now he knew he was bad and this just confirmed his need to say sorry. No matter how many times I told him it was an accident, he was good, I loved him and that God didn't punish children; it didn't matter, he hated himself for hurting me.
Twenty four hours before I had a little boy with no cares or worries. Just one day later I had an angst ridden eight year old child, who needed physically restraining to protect him from himself; who had thoughts intruding inside his head telling him he was bad and he had to apologise. That was the first day of our journey into Obsessive Compulsive Disorder land, when the lowest ebb was when Sean then aged nine wanted to die as he couldn't face his teacher. From that single day we met a few of the most prejudiced and small minded people but most of all we also met the most kind and compassionate, people who supported, who understood, who cared and helped to make both of our lives worth living again.
A Day in the Life of Sean and Nora.
Over the Christmas holidays, Sean displayed just the right amount of good behaviour, cheek, plain naughtiness and boundary pushing for an eight year old to assure me that his childhood was progressing normally. Normal is a word I have now obliterated from my dictionary as it has become meaningless. The antithesis is abnormal and my experiences since then tell me that all children are normal but come in varying degrees of uniqueness. Perhaps unique isn't the right word either because children with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) are not alone, it just feels that way at the beginning.
My day will start on Friday evening as we arrived home from school. Parents of children with mental illnesses soon realise that a normal nine to five day is not one they often experience, so I feel justified in started my day, just there at 4 pm. Sean dropped his bags in the hallway and ran upstairs announcing he was going to play on his PS2. This was a relief, as for the journey home he kept saying he was sorry but couldn't explain why. I exhaled deeply at seeing this display of usual behaviour and started to chop onions, slice chicken and boil pasta. This time the "sorrys" had changed into a pitiful squeal, "Sorry, Sorry, Sorry" three times, then a brief rest, then "Sorry, Sorry, Sorry" again. Leaving the preparations for tea I ran to his room. "What's wrong baby, what are you sorry for?" His little face was so pale. "I'm bad Mum, God will punish me if I don't say sorry."
"You can't be bad, you're just a little boy, a beautiful good little..." but I didn't get to finish my sentence before the "sorrys" came back. I sat on the beanbag hugging him, stroking his hair and rocking him saying "ssshhh, shhhh" just as if he were a babe in arms again. After an hour or so of this I tried to return to preparing dinner so he could eat something. While opening a bottle of pasta sauce I heard a piercing scream. The extra stones I had been carrying around for the past few years disappeared as I flew up the stairs three at a time. My baby boy was lying on his bedroom floor, his legs flailing but his fists were aiming direct hard punches into head over and over. All I knew was that I had to restrain him from hurting himself and sat on the floor behind him. I managed to envelop his arms with mine to hold them down to his body while I wrapped my legs around his and for the second time that night, rocked him, kissed his head and told him everything would be all right as he fought against me.
At some point that night we both fell into an exhausted sleep praying that we would wake the next morning and in some Dallas like fashion, realise that day was just some vile nightmare. Throughout the night, I looked in on him sleeping not daring to touch him in case he awoke. I too needed the peace that his sleep brought to the home. He was a little calmer the next morning, as he tucked into breakfast but it was short lived. "Sorry Mum," he said. "What are you sorry for?" I asked. "I did the knob sign with my hands." This was news to me because at eight years old I didn't know he even knew what the knob sign was. He had sussed the "V" sign, although he had no idea what it actually meant, but the knob sign was a new one. Normally, this would have brought with it a grounding, time out or loss of something precious to him for a while but good old mother's instinct kicked in again. Something wasn't right. "Where did you learn that one Sean, show me how you do it?" His little hand flailed about, his fingers wiggled but no recognisable motion was made. "Sean you don't even know what it is, you can't have done it." He was equally insistent that he had. A while later he confessed again. "My hands swore Mum, I did the "V" sign. " This time I knew he hadn't done anything. His hands were perfectly relaxed but still the sorry kept coming for imagined hand swearing.
A pattern started to emerge of the need to say sorry to God, ask for forgiveness three times, to be answered three times and to finish the ritual in the prayer like finish of: "Thank you, Amen". Whatever relief this brought did not last for long, as it would come back within seconds. He couldn't watch television, read a book, or play games as he couldn't control his thoughts. Finally, by Saturday afternoon, he was again punching his own head, shouting at the voices to *** off and leave him alone. To say it was heartbreaking to watch helplessly is such a cliché, but it was. Restraining him was hard as he is strong and athletic from his love of football and golf so, as he tried to fight the voices physically, it was inevitable that I would get hurt.
Again my arm encircled his from behind preventing him from punching his head, as he so badly felt that he needed to do. He fought against the restraining and the top of his head made contact with my jaw forcing me to involuntarily bite into my tongue and the blood flowed. When he relaxed into an exhausted heap with the voices beaten for a brief time, he saw what he had done to me and cried that now he knew he was bad and this just confirmed his need to say sorry. No matter how many times I told him it was an accident, he was good, I loved him and that God didn't punish children; it didn't matter, he hated himself for hurting me.
Twenty four hours before I had a little boy with no cares or worries. Just one day later I had an angst ridden eight year old child, who needed physically restraining to protect him from himself; who had thoughts intruding inside his head telling him he was bad and he had to apologise. That was the first day of our journey into Obsessive Compulsive Disorder land, when the lowest ebb was when Sean then aged nine wanted to die as he couldn't face his teacher. From that single day we met a few of the most prejudiced and small minded people but most of all we also met the most kind and compassionate, people who supported, who understood, who cared and helped to make both of our lives worth living again.