Losing Control

Many incidents in the last two weeks have me thinking about loss of control, the most obvious being the car accident Anna & I were in last week. Driving in the rain, lots of wet leaves on the road - cell phone tucked away in my purse, both hands on the wheel, and in no hurry. I was doing pretty much exactly what I was supposed to be doing. Nevertheless, lost control around a curve and hit an oncoming car - both vehicles totalled. No injuries beyond scrapes & bruises, thankfully - but a terrifying experience.

Earlier this week I spoke with a friend who struggles with depression and was spiraling. I imagine her thinking to herself 'pull up! pull up!' like I do in those times - thinking it but being helpless to make it happen.

My husband and I recently separated, and split custody means I go an entire week without having my kids under my roof. During those weeks I have no say in matters of diet, discipline, hygiene, what have you. Its not that I think he'll do a bad job - I know he won't - its the loss of control that's hard to swallow.

And today my Sam had 'an episode' - which are occurring with increased frequency and passion these days. Reading over this now...it sounds like I'm about to lament the fact that I can't control these episodes - I am not. I lament the fact that he can't control them.

This evening it was about football jerseys. His (Eagles, of course) has seen alot of action on game day and at recess the following Mondays - the Eagle head and letters are wearing a bit here and there. A bit. If you look at them under the microscope, you can see it. But his friend at school has an Eagles jersey which is in mint condition apparently (or "fancy" in Sam-speak). Just like Sam's - mind you this is the NFL sanctioned, official, $60 for a yard of mesh jersey, not some Walmart knockoff - except that none of the letters or numbers are cracking. Sam is dismayed. He must get a fancy jersey in order to save face at school (he's a 7 year old boy, btw, not a 14 year old girl). All evening this was bubbling up and his father and I were tap dancing, hoping to keep it from reaching the surface. We tried the "your birthday is less than a month away" angle - no luck. I explained to Sam that its much cooler to have a worn jersey cause it shows you've been a fan a long time (a la my circa 1993 DMB concert tee) to no avail. We even played the Santa card. Sam was struggling to hold back tears the entire evening.

Luckily, or so I thought, we had a belt test at karate to keep his mind engaged. While we're at it, I decided - let's walk there! Who cares if its dark - its only 4 blocks away and relatively warm outside. So I grab the stroller, Anna & Sam and head off to Tae Kwon Do (pretty sure I've misspelled that). Belt test is stellar. Sam does all the moves, the hits, the kicks, even breaks a thick wooden board with his fist. He's beaming. I couldn't be prouder. He runs over and hugs me like he just took the gold at Sydney. AMAZING 3 seconds. Walking home, we must pass 'Instant Replay' - sports apparel. He pleads. Can we just look - for his birthday maybe? He worked so hard. I relent - a huge mistake. There's a jersey, its $60, he must have it. Now, I'm thinking too much, which I often do as a parent, and in this case I'm thinking there's a larger lesson here. His jersey is fine - its a want, not a need. Perhaps he could earn it by doing some chores around the house or displaying exemplary behavior for a set period of time? Um, no. Meltdown ensues.

But 'meltdown' means many different things to many different Moms. (Disclaimer: yes, there are times when my son throws fits in order to manipulate me and get what he wants. I know the difference. This is not one of those times.) Tonight, it looks something like this: Sam is crying. Real tears, not fake ones. He is fixated on this jersey. He is sobbing almost violently and is in very real danger of hyperventilating. I hug. I cajole. I promise everything will be okay. In his mind, this is the end of the world. He keeps saying "I'll never get a new jersey and I'll have to live with the beat-up one i have until I'm 100 years old and i hate it and its not fair. and its because I'm a bad boy, if i were a good boy you would get it for me. I'm a bad boy and i hate that I'm a bad boy and i hate myself." At this point I have to physically restrain Sam, on the street mind you, because he is punching & scratching himself. (See it: I'm on North Franklin, with the brakes on the umbrella stroller and Anna saying 'look at the moon mommy!' as people on their porch accross the street wonder if there's "something" wrong with my kid, whose hands i have pinned to his side to keep him from doing any real damange to himself.) The anger turns on me: "I hate you. I wish you weren't my Mama. I wish someone would tie you up and leave you in the road and a car would run over you with a bomb and blow you up and i would get a new mama." This, surprisingly, is easier to take. I would so much rather this horrendous rage be directed at me than himself. Then the regret: "Mama I'm so sorry and i love you and I'm just a bad bad boy and i hate myself for it." This I can't take. This is the part where I turn and hide my face because it will only make things worse for Sam to see me crying.

The four seconds between realizing I was out of control of the car and the impact felt like an hour. I recall hearing my father's voice say "turn into the skid!" But nothing I did with the steering wheel or brakes had any effect on the vehicle's trajectory. I recall thinking "land in the cornfield to the right!" But no amount of wishing made it so. I remember chastising myself for the fact that Anna's car seat was expired (yes, car seats expire) but there was nothing I could do about it now. And I could paint you a picture of my face the moment I realized "I'm going to hit that car." All that in four seconds.

I don't remember the impact. I went straight from "I'm going to hit that car" to "The air bags worked. Anna is crying. Is that other girl okay?" But it doesn't matter. Nothing is scarier - not the cop, not the fact that I just totalled a company car, not the spike my insurance is going to take, not even the fact that I now have a 30-day supply of muscle relaxers at hand ;) - nothing is scarier than that loss of control. Than knowing that there is absolutely nothing you can do to affect the outcome of a situation.

Depression, of course, is the same. You can read the car's instruction manual cover to cover (insert self-help guru of your choice here). You can purchase additional insurance coverage (read: meds). You can take pre-emptive measures like avoiding your cell phone and keeping both hands on the wheel (exercise, meditation, blog - what have you.) At the end of the day when you're spiraling - there's simply nothing you can do to affect the trajectory. Even knowing what to do is miles away from bringing yourself to do it.

Talking to Sam at home this evening, after he finally calmed down...i tried to explain, in 7 year old terms, about thinking something in your head before you say it out loud. when you have the impulse to hit someone, for instance, if you stop yourself and think first "is it a good idea or a bad idea to hit this person? will it get me what i want? will it get me in trouble?" That space, that thinking ahead leads to making better choices. And then we don't have to feel so bad about our choices later. (not bad about ourselves, bad about our choices - which i fool myself into believing makes a difference for him)

And it occurs to me - what utter bullshit. Its like someone saying to me "why didn't you turn the wheel? why didn't you pump the brakes instead of slamming them? If it happens again, turn into the skid..." Its completely fucking irrelevant. I watched my son this evening - his eyes, his physicality, his jaw, the tension...he was terrified. he is as terrified by his inability to control his reactions to his emotions (because no one can control the actual emotions themselves) as I was by my inability to control my car. We are, all of us, spinning out of control and terrified by our inability to impact our trajectories.