Learning to Comfort

Encouragement

Nov 4

As a mother of two children who struggle with mental illness, I have yet to learn the balancing act of teetering on the line between comfort and correction. There is a constant opposing pull on two sides of my heart—one that wants to be a place of loving comfort and the other that wants to be the fixer.

For two decades, my community has been the homeschool world. Have you ever met a homeschool mom? They are amazingly competent go-getters. These ladies manage their homes, conduct academics for multiple grade levels, contribute to the homeschool co-op, care for their younger children, help their husbands, volunteer at church, serve their friends in need, and plan 18 weeks of nutritionally balanced organic meals. With quinoa! Those ladies can run a science fair like no one’s business! They are the fixers. The problem solvers. I stood in awe of them for many years as I tried to keep up. And I of course did my best to become a fixer.

When we see our children spiral into their mental illness, don’t we often go into “fix it mode”? I did. I still do.

It starts with Google. Research. How can I help? Should we get on a gut calming diet regimen? I read that great article about ashwagandha and Sam-E to support brain function. Oh, we should rebalance those circadian rhythms and cut blue light to promote better sleep. Maybe it’s red dye #98748957? Fish oil! More exercise? More B and D vitamins! That will help! That will fix it!

And then, I had to come to accept that I couldn’t “fix” my children’s mental illness any more than I could build a rocket ship or eliminate world hunger. It was beyond the scope of my capabilities.

Sure, I could adjust our lifestyle to maximize the outcomes. I could try my best to control some of those factors to give my children a healthy bedrock to anchor to. But I couldn’t fix it.

One of my children was recently hospitalized for two weeks for suicidal ideation. She is diagnosed with major depressive disorder and severe anxiety disorder. And hard circumstances of life got a grip on her.

In the aftermath of her hospitalization, as we struggled together to make life “normal” again, I found myself walking that stressful tightrope thinking I could mitigate outcomes, fix the problems, and make it better.

One evening in this time, after a family dinner, my husband was giving a devotion. My daughter sought me out for comfort and crawled up into my lap. I cradled her like a baby and stroked her hair.

“Can I have Benadryl?” she asked.

“No, of course not,” I replied, almost incredulously.

“But they gave me Benadryl in the hospital.” Nightly, hospital staff gave the patients Benadryl to induce sleep.

“But you are not in the hospital anymore.” And, believing I needed to correct her thinking, to fix her “problem” in recovering from the trauma of the hospital experience, I added, “And maybe it’s time to schlep off that whole hospital identity thing. You keep walking around in your blanket like you did in the hospital. Wear a robe instead. Put the hospital behind you.” And in my attempt to “fix” what I saw as a problem, I crushed her spirit.

The next week we practiced assertive communication and active listening. She worked up the courage to tell me that in that moment, what she needed from me was not fixing. Not correcting her thinking. She wasn’t even asking me for Benadryl. She was really asking me to comfort her as she processed through the trauma of a two-week hospitalization. And I missed the mark.

Friends, we will miss the mark sometimes. That’s OK. Let’s learn from each other and continue to grow in how we can best love, support, and serve our families and these dear children of ours who struggle in a way that is beyond our understanding. Let’s find that path to deep compassion and the ability to offer comfort. Let’s make it normal to sit in that pit of discomfort with our kids as they seek to process with us. I know it’s hard. It’s hard for me.

But I’ll walk the path with you as we learn.