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How Did We End Up Here? A Story About Growing Up With a Toxic Mother

by | Sep 17, 2018 | Adult Children of Mentally Ill Parents, Adult Children of Narcissistic Parents, Emotional Abuse, Family, Mental Health, Psychological Manipulation | 6 comments

My views regarding my mother have changed in recent years.

Presently, she is someone who exists as part of a story in my life, catalyzing a significant examination of myself and those who surround me. I often contemplate whether that was her purpose, but intertwined in those thoughts; there is guilt. Parents make sacrifices for their children, and perhaps hers was the loss of our relationship, forcing me to embark on a new path.

However, I don’t think she’ll ever be cognizant of that.

I have fond memories of her, times when she was a picturesque, doting mother, ferrying my friends and me to practice, taking us to the mall, and covering for me when I exceeded my curfew.

Those untainted recollections haunt me because I’ve realized that for every good deed there was a price tag. The cost was never evident, as though you had found a one of a kind item at the store. You stand alone in the aisle, puzzled while turning the object over and back again in an attempt to locate that small, sticky, square sliver of paper that gives something its value. You approach the register, convincing yourself it isn’t a lavish novelty—until the cashier regrettably informs you that the item exceeds your price range. After an internal battle, you purchase it anyway because you falsely believe that you need it. That’s how it was with her. She’d give, I’d take, and then I would later have buyer’s remorse. I felt liable during those exchanges on many occasions, but they’ve taught me that I shouldn’t give more than I’m willing to lose–whether that be time, money, or respect.

I did and said things throughout our strained relationship that weren’t fair, correct, or appropriate. There were times my behavior was unquestionably harsh. In other moments, I yelled too much, was self-absorbed, and at times wrongly manipulative.

Even as a child, I innately sensed that she was not capable of truly loving anyone. Her affections were an unmarked, dead-end road; I never knew where the pavement faded into the dirt until I found myself in the mud. She tirelessly helped people (and probably still does), but would then complain when her efforts didn’t garner adequate appreciation or her deeds weren’t reciprocated.

Through watching her perform this soliloquy of martyrdom and the innumerable encore performances, I uncovered another meaningful piece of knowledge: If you’re giving to fill a void within yourself, stop giving and fix yourself because no one else will. And to me, that is her downfall—she never fixed herself. Perhaps she didn’t know how—or was unable to recognize that she needed mending. It was always easier for her to blame her short-comings on others. Usually, it was my dad, the man who worked seven days every week to provide for his family and allow her to do as she pleased.

He was flawed, but not any more than the rest of us. My dad had a temper, was overly strict, and could be perceived as controlling at times, but he expressed an abundant amount of love and dedication to his family. Yet somehow, my mother always found a reason to make him not good enough for her, or for us. She would shout from the proverbial rooftops to whatever audience was present: family, church people, or her friends—it didn’t matter. If they had ears and minute of time, she would begin Act I of her tragic play. Her behavior reminded me of the game in elementary school, aptly named telephone.

The story at the end was never the story at the beginning, but no one was able to decipher what that ever was because true to her victim mentality, “She would never say that!” And so it went throughout my teenage years, her speaking half-truths, my dad getting mad, and her tear-soaked, half-hearted apologies.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I’ve surmised that’s where my lesson on people began—with those years of trusting, then not, and the gray area twisted between the confusion.

It’s strange to look back on it now, coldly removed from it, emotionless. Or perhaps it’s still anger; I’m not sure.

I vividly recall frequent conversations with my dad and his constant reminders to, “Not be like your mom.” At that specific point in time, I always thought he meant weak because that’s how I perceived her: sad, depressed, and angry. She attended a private masquerade, a façade tuned so finely that she is still unaware that she’s wandering through a false reality.

During those times, I didn’t know that life was preparing me for something I would never see approaching—the Trojan horse of life’s fuckery right in front of me. I was oblivious to the depth of her wounds and subsequent actions, until one day I could no longer deny the existence of her illness.

For many people, the term mother is synonymous with love, compassion, and devotion. An upstanding matriarch fiercely defends her children from harm and zealously supports their endeavors. I have spent countless nights awake thinking about the perfect incarnation of a mom, and I’ve concluded that my mother will never embody those characteristics.

The greatest, albeit most difficult thing about life, is that it imparts everything you need to know if you pause momentarily, pay attention, and don’t allow your ego to get the best of you. If you’re repeatedly finding yourself in the same situation, it’s because you haven’t mastered the lesson those particular circumstances are supposed to teach you, or maybe you have, and you’re too stubborn or stupid to recognize them.

I fell into the latter category because that’s just who I was then, optimistic and dumb enough to believe I could right any wrong.

Writing that now is ridiculous, but that’s how it started—the relationship with a price tag so high, it almost destroyed my credit, and me. He was charismatic. Funny. Handsome. He said all of the right things at exactly the right time. Looking back, I guess he had to, or someone would peel back the thin layers that encased his dysfunction and see a hollow vessel, devoid of empathy or compassion unless it was for selfish gain.

My mother, however, adored him. She thought he was fantastic. The words of praise for him gushed from her mouth like a broken faucet. She insisted he was perfect for me. I initially agreed until I saw through the shroud to what was underneath.

It was like my internal GPS had lost signal on life’s journey and now it was too late to turn back. The scenery was beautiful at times. There were days filled with sunshine, laughter, and hope. Those times were my favorite because most days were dark and tumultuous. It seemed as though I was trying to outrun the rain, but I never knew when lightning would strike. The storm always seemed to clear at the exact moment that I was ready to relocate to a better climate.

And of course, there was my mother, clearing wreckage, and negotiating an insurance policy—or so I thought. What I failed to realize is that insurance agents love disasters. Disasters wreak havoc and chaos while convincing policyholders that they require more insurance so that they are better prepared for the next catastrophe. I purchased an abundance of insurance from my mother. I talked and confided in her, while she manipulated the weather to her liking. In return, the weather repaid the debt by providing her with a temperate climate.

From my mother’s perspective, it was a fair exchange. She was never one to forgo a “diamond of a deal.” She received the attention and adoration she was so desperately seeking, and he received another layer of protection.

Together, they were a perfect storm and were moving toward the coast at an alarming rate.

He and I found ourselves at the beach on that road trip from hell.

By that point, I was preparing to change routes and terminate my insurance because I could no longer afford the premium; however, the best-laid plans always go awry when the atmosphere becomes unstable. That day began calmly and seemingly beautiful, but the bright sunlight obscured the horizon as it beamed through the car windows that morning. We were exploring on that trip. Laughter and conversation filled the air like particles of pollen—invisible and damaging. I thought that maybe, just maybe, the sky was going to remain clear.

If I only I hoped enough, had enough insurance, I falsely believed everything would be okay.

I was absolutely wrong. He—the weather, became erratic and violent; I was stranded in the current, drowning while trapped in a car until I suddenly saw the eye of the hurricane approaching. Those few moments of relief granted me the clarity to see daylight. I suddenly became aware that I couldn’t regulate the weather, but I could control my reaction to it. There was an open road, but it had been hidden by the debris from the frequent storms. That day I began driving. I drove away from the downpours, evaded the lightning strikes, and put miles between the constant uncertainty of whether I had purchased enough insurance.

When I called my mother, the insurance agent, to discontinue my policy, she didn’t answer.

She wasn’t available that night or the next day.

She was too busy attempting to manage the self-made disaster that she didn’t care about me—her daughter. S

he turned away the child she had known for 32 years. She abandoned me, the daughter that she was supposed to unfailingly love and support.

I don’t know what he promised her exactly, but whatever it was, it was enough for them both to attempt to pursue me down that new, secret road I had discovered.

They attempted to detour my journey through phone calls, texts, and at times, unnerving threats and yet, I kept driving farther and farther away.

She revived the soliloquy that had served her well and performed it for a multitude of audiences. The new version had added a few additional scenes, and they served to convey how terrible I was. She was heartbroken that her child could just walk away from her.

It was then, that my dad’s words from over a decade ago reverberated in my mind, “Don’t be like your mom.”

The statement had been a clear warning that I was unable to comprehend at the time because I didn’t understand that she was mentally ill. I was too naïve to fully perceive the environment that tarnished my childhood and too self-centered to evaluate my contribution. She and I were and always will remain remarkably different people.

She will forever be the insurance agent feeding and creating disasters for her own personal gain. I hope that someday her catastrophic business will close and she will have placed a vacant sign in the window. Although, I think the absence of orchestrating calamities would force introspection, and the disasters we harbor on the inside are usually far worse than those we create.

My lessons in this life are far from over, and I hope that they’re never complete because if I stop learning, I cease to evolve into a better person.

The chapter about my mother has been painful, dangerous, yet exceedingly valuable. I’m grateful for the destruction and nearly being swept away because I was compelled to change routes. I began a migration to a new destination that I plotted and chose on my own. My mother and I will forever be traveling in opposite directions, but we were at the same starting point for a brief time. She may never fully grasp the reason or the outcome of our sudden departure in life, but I hope that one day her course becomes calm and clear instead of winding and uncertain.

Despite the pain she has caused, she unknowingly and unwillingly sacrificed her happiness for her child’s—and that’s the worst punishment of all.

Psychiatric Hospitalization

by | Sep 6, 2018 | Adult Child Loss, Bipolar Disorder, Caregiver, Coping With Depression, Coping With Losing A Child, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Leukemia, Loneliness, Love, Major Depressive Disorder, Mental Health, Sadness, Stress, Suicide, Uncategorized | 13 comments

In June of 2017 my daughter was diagnosed with leukemia. She passed away in November. My husband and I have custody of our 11 year old granddaughter. Grieving is taking it’s toll. Last month I was admitted to the hospital for being suicidal.

I think about my daughter all the time. I spent every minute in the hospital with her for 5 months. Telling my granddaughter that her mom was dead was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. Whenever I go outside for a smoke, I think of my daughter. Whenever I drive the car, it reminds me of the drive to the hospital.

My mind won’t stop thinking suicidal thoughts. My brain constantly hammering me with negative thoughts. I’m hopeless, sad and feel out of my body. I don’t recognize my thoughts or myself. I am so lost. The emptiness is everywhere and I don’t know what to do.

I’ve been treated for depression for years and have had suicidal thoughts the entire time. I spent 2 days in the psych ward. I slept most of the time. I attend an outpatient program and went to a new psychiatrist today. He said my bipolar diagnosis was incorrect and adjusted my medications.

Broken

by | Sep 6, 2018 | Abuse, Addiction, Addiction Recovery, Adoption, Anger, Anxiety, Cocaine Addiction, Compassion, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Denial, Domestic Abuse, Family, Fear, Feelings, Forgiveness, Guilt, Happiness, Helping Someone In An Abusive Relationship, How To Help With Low Self-Esteem, Jealousy, Loneliness, Loving An Addict, Self Loathing, Self-Esteem, Shame, Stress, Trauma, Trust | 4 comments

Me. Briefly.

The first time I used, I was 9. I stole some of my mom’s appetite suppressants. For the first time in my short little life, I felt like I could do anything. I forgot that I felt like I didn’t belong. Don’t ask me why I felt that way. I am an adopted child raised by a good family, so I should have felt fine. I truly believe that addiction is genetic. With dope, at long last, I belonged. I wasn’t afraid.

Life went downhill from there. I gradually branched out to other drugs. At 14, I was stealing my parents’ cigarettes and booze and smoking pot. At 18, I got introduced to what would become the great love of my life-meth. I really could do anything on that stuff-no job was too big, and my mind worked like a pinball machine with an electrical short-thoughts careened around so fast I never held one long enough to examine it, so I never really thought about feelings of inadequacy or fear.

Or shame.

At 19, I was tired of trying to make it on my own, so I found myself married to an abusive bastard; anybody who’s ever been through that can understand what I mean when I say that it destroyed any shreds of self-worth I had a chance of having. By then, I knew how to fix that-I used more dope. It didn’t matter what kind as long as it helped me shove those feelings of worthlessness into some dark, forgotten corner of my soul.

After 3 years of being smacked around, I fought back, left, didn’t look back, and didn’t quit fighting for a long time.

I went through a string of failed relationships for a couple of years, until I met “the one.” He actually started to redeem the male of he species for me. For a year and a half, I somehow managed to limit my drinking and drugging. Life was pretty good. I was living the suburban American dream.

In the end, untreated addiction always wins. I got involved in some unsavory business, running drugs up and down the interstate. For each time I got arrested, I made it through at least a few more times. I guess sometimes it really is better to be lucky than good, or I’d still be in prison.

My second husband finally had enough, and I got sentenced to prison knowing that divorce awaited me when I got out. Looking back, I can’t blame him. At the time, I was just enraged.

In prison, in a state far from home, I didn’t have drugs but I still had that fight in me, and the ability to stuff my emotions into some dark corner of myself and forget them. It allowed me to survive in a cold and lonely place. When I got out, I did what I always did. I got high. How else was I supposed to deal with my situation? I was 4 states from all I knew, being held against my will by a parole officer who wouldn’t let me move home.

Fast forward to 2005.

I’m on probation for yet another drug offense, headed for an inpatient drug treatment center at the judge’s (and probation officer’s) suggestion. I had reached that point where I used dope to become that static-y snow on a TV with no reception. I didn’t want to feel. I didn’t want to deal with the mess my life had become and I damn sure didn’t want to deal with the mess that I had become.

I muddled along for a while until I had a using experience so horrific I will never forget it. I had finally used so much dope, trying to kill my feelings, that I had used myself into a corner and it was that dark corner of my soul that I had been avoiding for 27 years.

The dope had led me right into the hell I had been denying from the time I first discovered dope at the tender age of 9.

I got clean, finally. It hurt. Detox can kill, and I guess I considered myself lucky to be alive, considering the way I had used my body for a toxic waste dump.

And I grieved the loss of the drugs. I grieved the loss of the numbness. I was FEELING shit again and it was ookie and I didn’t like it.

The human psyche is an amazing thing, with a remarkable talent for self-preservation. I managed to avoid the real problem: here I was drugless, and the big shitty mess inside was still there. Denial became my best friend. I felt no emotions (or so I told myself.) I damn sure didn’t show them.

For the first two years I was clean, I was involved with another abusive bastard. Got a busted eardrum out of it. During that two years, I did a good job of not allowing myself to feel much of anything, partly out of determination to deprive that bastard of the satisfaction of knowing he had affected me, and mostly because I didn’t want to look at that big shitty fucking mess in my mind and soul.

I did all this while calling myself a member of a twelve step fellowship.

Two years into my abstinence, the pain of my living situation became too much. Denial, toughness, bad attitude-none of it was working anymore. Without the dope to numb my soul, the big shitty mess in the darkest corner of my heart began to fester. So I got honest. Well, a little bit, anyway. Six months later, I was out of the abusive relationship. I was healing.

At least that’s what I told the world.

Until the physical after effects of the corrective surgery on my eardrum became unbearable. They also became a physical representation of all that was wrong with my psyche.

Broken.

I could no longer use those old defense mechanisms. I could no longer be the hardass, the tough girl who didn’t give a fuck. I gave a fuck and I was tired of being broken.

Aunt Becky, I cried. Like I don’t think I have ever cried before.

I cried for all I wasted. I cried over all the wasted potential, the wasted years, the wasted lives I destroyed with my sick spirit.

I cried for a little girl who never felt like she belonged. I cried for my mother who couldn’t fix her child. I cried for what was left of myself and for the parts of me that were lost forever. I screamed. I cried until my throat hurt, my rib cage hurt, my head hurt. I cried until my entire head was so congested I couldn’t breathe. I cried over all the sadness I had never cried over, I cried over all the pain I never cried over, I cried over all the fear I never cried over. I have no idea how long I cried. It seemed like forever.

And then I slept. I slept the sleep of the damned. Because as I cried, screaming about how I was tired of being broken, I realized that nothing could fix me. I was doomed to this existence of knowing I was broken and the only thing that ever made me feel whole was dope and I couldn’t have it anymore. It had been killing me while it killed my feelings, except it wasn’t killing the feelings anymore. I couldn’t stop using once I started, and once I used I became this horrible beast who got arrested and burned bridges with the people in her life. So dope was out.

I was, finally, alone with the truth. I was rotten inside and nothing could fix me.

At 40 years of age, I’m glad I can say that a lot has happened in the 3 years since I cried that night and screamed my frustration at being broken. I started working the 12 steps of recovery from addiction. I have a sponsor. I have 5 years clean. I have a reasonably good relationship with my mother these days. I am now in a very serious and mostly healthy relationship with the man who held me the night I cried-he is truly a good man. I am in my first senior year of college. I have been well trained in the work I do and have been working the same part-time jobs for 5 years now. I’m good at my job. I have a few friends-true friends.

Aunt Becky, I wish I could give you a happy ending. I wish I could say that I have finally progressed through the 5 stages of grief. I think it’s safe to say I have passed through denial.

Yet I still can’t let go of those old defense mechanisms. It is so fucking hard to express emotions. It’s just as hard to live through them. So I shop. I eat chocolate. I find things to distract me. Often, I stick my feelings in that dark corner of my soul. Even the good ones. I still miss the ability to deny their existence. I don’t know what to do with them, so it’s easier to deny them.

I guess it’s progress, being able to admit I have emotions.

Some days, I get so angry. Why the fuck can’t I be normal? Why oh why do I always seem to feel inadequate, less than, afraid? At least the rage can be empowering, motivating me to get up and try one more day to find a way to heal my sick spirit. If nothing else, rage feels good. It’s so primal.

Some days, I’m depressed. The possibility of spending the rest of my life knowing I am irretrievably broken saddens me beyond belief. This is where I am grateful for my adoptive mother-she’s my REAL mother. Nothing ever stopped her, and rarely did anything slow her down. She always kept going. What an amazing example; I believe it’s the only reason I keep going on my depressed days.

Bargaining. Yes. I do that. I make bargains with whatever’s out there-if you would just fix me, God, I would try to touch another life so some other woman doesn’t ever have to live with the pain I lived with for so long. Just please fucking fix me so I am not afraid, ashamed, and insecure. Make me not hurt and I will try to share it with someone who needs to know it is possible to not hurt.

Acceptance. Not so much. Today, I refuse to accept that I am irretrievably broken. Maybe that is where the twelve steps are beginning to work in my life.

And maybe that’s the happy ending after all.

Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) Resources

by | Sep 5, 2018

On Losing a Child:

There is no greater loss than the loss of a child. It’s out of order; parents should die first. Yet, these tragic deaths happen more often than we’d like to believe and leave an indelible mark on the worlds of their loved ones.

Sudden death is a contradiction to everything we know to be true; losing a child to sudden death is a disruption in the natural law and order of life. It is a heartbreak like no other. Parental grief is different from other losses—it is intensified, exaggerated, and lengthened. Children are not supposed to die; parents expect to see their children grow and mature, and one day to bury their own parents.  Ultimately, parents expect to die and leave their children behind, as this is the natural course of life, our life cycle continuing as it should.

The loss of a child is the loss of innocence, the death of the most vulnerable and dependent. The death of a child signifies the loss of the future, of hopes and dreams, of new strength, and of perfection. Grieving parents say that their grief is a lifelong process, a long and painful process by which they try to take and keep some meaning from the loss and life without the child.

After a child’s death, parents must embark on a long, excruciating journey that’s scary and lonely and, unfortunately, a journey that never ends. The hope and desire that healing will come eventually is an intense and persistent hope for grieving parents. The child who died is considered a gift to the parents and family, and they are forced to give up that gift, “I didn’t LOSE my baby; she was TAKEN from me.” Yet, as parents, we also strive to let our child’s life, no matter how short, be seen as a gift to others. Parents of a child who died of SIDS seek to find ways to continue to love, honor, and value the lives of their children, and to make the child’s presence known and felt in the lives of family and friends, thereby not forgetting that the child existed.

Bereaved parents frequently live their lives more fully and generously due to this painful experience.

What Is Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS)?

Sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS), also called “crib death” and “cot death,” is the unexplained death, usually during sleep, of a seemingly healthy baby less than a year old. SIDS is sometimes known as crib death because the infants often die in their cribs. Although the cause is unknown, it appears that SIDS might be associated with defects in the portion of an infant’s brain that controls breathing and arousal from sleep.

According to the CDC, in 2016, there were about 3,600 sudden unexpected infant deaths (SUID) in the United States. These deaths occur among infants less than 1-year-old and have no immediately obvious cause.

The three commonly reported types of SUID include:

  • SIDS.
  • Unknown cause.
  • Accidental suffocation and strangulation in bed.

In 2016, there were about 1,500 deaths due to SIDS, 1,200 deaths due to unknown causes, and about 900 deaths due to accidental suffocation and strangulation in bed.

SIDS is a diagnosis of exclusions, meaning that after a child dies suddenly, and an autopsy performed, the medical examiner is unable to pinpoint the direct cause for the child’s sudden death.

Researchers have discovered some factors that might put babies at extra risk. They’ve also identified measures to take to help protect your child from SIDS. Perhaps the most important is placing your baby on his or her back to sleep.

The impact of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) presents unique grieving factors and raises painful psychological issues for the parents and family as well as those who love, care, and counsel them. SIDS parents must deal with a baby’s death that is unexpected and unexplained, a death that cannot be predicted or prevented, an infant death so sudden that it leaves no time for preparation or goodbyes, and no period of anticipatory grief. In many cases, parents of SIDS babies are very young and are confronted with grief for the first time.

SIDS often occurs at home, forcing parents and sometimes siblings or other children to witness a terrible tragedy and possibly scenes of intense confusion. In some cases, the parents themselves are the ones who find the child dead and they must always live with that memory. In other cases, the parents may feel overwhelming guilt or anger if the death occurred while the child was in child care. They may feel that the baby might not have died if they had been caring for the infant.

SIDS parents, like other child loss parents, are very often plagued by “if only’s” that they cannot resolve. They replay such thoughts as: “If only I hadn’t put the child down for a nap when I did.” “If only I had checked on the baby sooner.” “If only I had not returned to work so soon.” “If only I had taken the baby to the doctor with that slight cold.”

Professionals need to provide parents with reliable information, as well as emotional support in these situations.

SIDS parents, relatives, child care providers, health care professionals, and other adults feel helpless in trying to explain the inexplicable to other young children who may have been present at the time of the baby’s death. It is especially difficult for children to understand why a baby died when the infant didn’t appear to be sick. Also, in some cases, parents are required to explain SIDS to adults who are misinformed or know nothing about the syndrome.

In some SIDS deaths, the autopsy findings may help answer questions. Parents are often anxious to consult with the pathologist after the autopsy. Discussing the autopsy results often helps most parents accept the reality of their infant’s death. The pathologist reviews the autopsy results, explaining in terms the parents can understand how these findings point (or do not point) to a determination of the cause of death. The pathologist should also take the time to answer any questions that arise.

Friends and family members should try to do all they can to show their concern and help the parents in keeping memories of their baby alive. For most SIDS parents, it is also reassuring for others to try to mention special things they noticed about the baby and remember the child’s birthday or the anniversary of the death. By extending these personal and sensitive gestures, loving and concerned relatives, friends, and caregivers can become a source of reassurance and comfort for the grieving parents.

Some SIDS babies are so young when they die that family members and friends never had a chance to welcome them. They may have missed sharing the parents’ excitement over the birth and affirming the child’s existence. Many individuals do not understand the depth of parental attachment to a very young child. Bereaved SIDS parents should not be made to feel that others don’t want to hear them, that others won’t permit them to openly grieve.

The parents of SIDS babies want their child’s short life to matter not only to them, but to their families and friends, to the others in their circle of loved ones, and to the world. “All too frequently, a SIDS loss is not socially validated in the same way other deaths are. Others often fail to recognize that, despite the brevity of the child’s life, the family’s attachment to that child is strong and deep and has been present in various ways since the knowledge of conception.

Potential Causes and Risk Factors for SIDS (SUID):

It’s likely that a combination of physical and sleep environmental factors can make an infant more vulnerable to SIDS. Researchers are still looking to pinpoint an exact cause for SIDS, as it is a diagnosis of exclusion, meaning that when an autopsy is performed, no other cause for death can be found, it is called SIDS or SUID (sudden unexplained infant death. Potential risk factors vary from child to child.

Physical factors

Physical factors associated with SIDS include:

  • Brain defects. Some infants are born with problems that make them more likely to die of SIDS. In many of these babies, the portion of the brain that controls breathing and arousal from sleep hasn’t matured enough to work properly.
  • Low birth weight. Premature birth or being part of a multiple birth increases the likelihood that a baby’s brain hasn’t matured completely, so he or she has less control over such automatic processes as breathing and heart rate.
  • Respiratory infection. Many infants who died of SIDS had recently had a cold, which might contribute to breathing problems.

Sleep environmental factors

The items in a baby’s crib and his or her sleeping position can combine with a baby’s physical problems to increase the risk of SIDS. Examples include:

  • Sleeping on the stomach or side. Babies placed in these positions to sleep might have more difficulty breathing than those placed on their backs.
  • Sleeping on a soft surface. Lying face down on a fluffy comforter, a soft mattress or a waterbed can block an infant’s airway.
  • Sharing a bed. While the risk of SIDS is lowered if an infant sleeps in the same room as his or her parents, the risk increases if the baby sleeps in the same bed with parents, siblings or pets.
  • Overheating. Being too warm while sleeping can increase a baby’s risk of SIDS.

Risk factors

Although sudden infant death syndrome can strike any infant, researchers have identified several factors that might increase a baby’s risk. They include:

  • Sex. Boys are slightly more likely to die of SIDS.
  • Age. Infants are most vulnerable between the second and fourth months of life.
  • Race. For reasons that aren’t well-understood, nonwhite infants are more likely to develop SIDS.
  • Family history. Babies who’ve had siblings or cousins die of SIDS are at higher risk of SIDS.
  • Secondhand smoke. Babies who live with smokers have a higher risk of SIDS.
  • Being premature. Both being born early and having a low birth weight increase your baby’s chances of SIDS.

Maternal risk factors

During pregnancy, the mother also affects her baby’s risk of SIDS, especially if she:

  • Is younger than 20
  • Smokes cigarettes
  • Uses drugs or alcohol
  • Has inadequate prenatal care

Can We Prevent SIDS/Sudden Infant Death Syndrome/SUID?

There’s no guaranteed way to prevent SIDS, but you can help your baby sleep more safely by following these tips:

Back to sleep. Place your baby to sleep on his or her back, rather than on the stomach or side, every time you — or anyone else — put the baby to sleep for the first year of life. This isn’t necessary when your baby’s awake or able to roll over both ways without help,

Don’t assume that others will place your baby to sleep in the correct position — insist on it. Advise sitters and child care providers not to use the stomach position to calm an upset baby.

Keep the crib as bare as possible. Use a firm mattress and avoid placing your baby on thick, fluffy padding, such as lambskin or a thick quilt. Don’t leave pillows, fluffy toys or stuffed animals in the crib. These can interfere with breathing if your baby’s face presses against them.

Don’t overheat your baby. To keep your baby warm, try a sleep sack or other sleep clothing that doesn’t require additional covers. Don’t cover your baby’s head.

Have your baby sleep in your room. Ideally, your baby should sleep in your room with you, but alone in a crib, bassinet or other structure designed for infants, for at least six months, and, if possible, up to a year.

Adult beds aren’t safe for infants. A baby can become trapped and suffocate between the headboard slats, the space between the mattress and the bed frame, or the space between the mattress and the wall. A baby can also suffocate if a sleeping parent accidentally rolls over and covers the baby’s nose and mouth.

Breastfeed your baby, if possible. Breastfeeding for at least six months lowers the risk of SIDS.

Don’t use baby monitors and other commercial devices that claim to reduce the risk of SIDS. The American Academy of Pediatrics discourages the use of monitors and other devices because of ineffectiveness and safety issues.

Offer a pacifier. Sucking on a pacifier without a strap or string at naptime and bedtime might reduce the risk of SIDS. One caveat — if you’re breastfeeding, wait to offer a pacifier until your baby is 3 to 4 weeks old and you’ve settled into a nursing routine.

If your baby’s not interested in the pacifier, don’t force it. Try again another day. If the pacifier falls out of your baby’s mouth while he or she is sleeping, don’t pop it back in.

Immunize your baby. There’s no evidence that routine immunizations increase SIDS risk. Some evidence indicates immunizations can help prevent SIDS.

Grieving The Loss of a Child to SIDS:

Grief is a process, not a singular event. Although parents might wish otherwise, grief cannot be bypassed or hurried; it must be allowed to happen. Parents cannot work through the grief and come out the other side the very same person. Grief changes parents. One approach to understanding bereavement, developed by Dr. J.W. Worden (2002), identifies grief not as a succession of phases through which a person passes with little or no control, but as four tasks for the bereaved person:

Accepting the reality of the loss:

When someone dies, there is always a sense that it hasn’t happened. It may seem like a dream or an alternate reality. The first task of grieving is to come full -ace with the reality that the child is dead, that the child is gone and will not return. The opposite of accepting the loss is not believing through some type of denial. Denial usually involves either the facts of the loss, the significance of the loss to the survivor, or the irreversibly of the loss. To accomplish this task, the parent must talk about the dead child and funeral, as well as the circumstances around the death.

Working through the pain of grief:

We must acknowledge and work through the pain of grief or it will manifest itself through some symptoms or atypical behavior. Not everyone experiences the same intensity of pain or feels it in the same way, but it is impossible to lose someone with whom you have been deeply attached without experiencing some level of pain. The negation of this second task is not to feel. People may avoid feeling pain by using thought stopping procedures or by avoiding reminders of the child. Many emotions such as shock, anger, guilt, and depression may be expressed. The bereaved must allow themselves to indulge in the pain: to feel it and know that one day it will pass. It’s been said that it’s easier to express emotions with someone who knew the child or who can relate to the experience directly.

Adjusting to an environment in which the deceased is missing:

Caring for a child takes an amazing amount of time and energy. Parents and other caregivers once consumed with the constant task of meeting the needs of a baby are suddenly forced into inactivity. What was once responsibility is now gone. During their adaptation to loss, people can work to avoid promoting their own helplessness by gradually reforming schedules and responsibilities. Creating meaningful rituals like making a special memorial, keeping a journal, or writing poetry are helpful components of completing this task.

Emotionally relocating the deceased and moving on with life:

Survivors sometimes believe that if they withdraw their emotional attachment, they are dishonoring the memory of the child. In some cases, parents are frightened by the prospect of having another baby because he or she might also die. For many people, this task is the most difficult one to accomplish. They may get stuck at this point and later realize that their life in some way stopped at the point the loss occurred.

Some bereavement experts note the grieving process includes not only the parent adapting to the loss and returning to functioning in their life, but also includes changing and maintaining their relationship with the infant or child. It is normal for parents to report that they having an on-going relationship with their child through their memories and mental life.

Factors that may interfere with the grief process (read more about grief and grieving here)

  • Avoiding emotions
  • Overactivity leading to exhaustion
  • Use of alcohol or other drugs
  • Unrealistic promises made to the deceased
  • Unresolved grief from a previous loss
  • Judgmental relationships
  • Resentment of those who try to help

Complicated grief is delayed or unfinished adaptation to loss.

Those who have complicated grief experience a failure to return, over time, to pre-loss levels of functioning, or to the previous state of emotional well-being. Grief may be more difficult in younger parents, women, and persons with limited social support, thus increasing their risk for complicated grief. The grief surrounding a child’s death is unique in its challenges and may necessitate professional counseling from the clergy, grief counselor, family physician, or mental health professional.

Grieving Fathers:

Although both mothers and fathers grieve deeply when such a tragedy occurs, they grieve differently. Fathers are expected to be strong and stoic for their partners; to be the “rock” in the family. All too often, fathers are the ones who attend to the practical but not the emotional aspects surrounding the death; they are expected to be the ones who should not let emotions show or tears fall outwardly, the ones who will not and should not fall apart.

Men are often asked how their wives are doing, but not asked how they are doing. Such expectations place an unmanageable burden on men and deprive them of their rightful and urgent need to grieve. This need will surface eventually if it is not expressed. It is not unusual for grieving fathers to feel overwhelmed, ignored, isolated, and abandoned, but many say that such strong emotions are very difficult to contain after their child’s death.

A father’s grief needs to be verbalized and understood by his partner, other family members, professionals, coworkers and friends, and by anyone who will listen. Fathers repeatedly say that for their own peace of mind, they (and those who care about them) need to move away from this mindset and allow themselves to grieve as they need to.

Families Needing Extra Support:

The tragedy of a child’s death brings profound pain to all affected, and it presents incredibly difficult and unusual problems for all grieving parents.

For some parents, the effects of such a complicated and devastating tragedy can be further compounded when the death occurs in a family already experiencing added stress in their lives, such as substance abuse or domestic violence.

There are some parents for whom there is no “circle of concern” or extended family.

There are also families who choose not to seek out a support network for their own reasons.

It is important to assess each family’s special needs and preferences. Additional resources for families include hospice organizations, local health departments, bereavement support programs, and community or religious leaders or healers. Each family’s cultural beliefs and practices must be honored during the bereavement process.

Types of Non-Traditional Families:

When a non-traditional family experiences the death of an infant, the community’s response may be less supportive of that family. It may be necessary to assist the family to seek out support networks that will best address their needs. Examples of a non-traditional family include:

  • Single parent
  • Unmarried parents
  • Teenage parents
  • Step-parents
  • Parents in blended families
  • Adoptive and foster parents
  • Gay and lesbian parents

All of these parents and those in traditional families may find their grief unusually complicated. Regardless of the family’s composition, parental experience, coping strategies, and cultural practices are unique for each family.

Helping The Grieving Family:

Acknowledge the child’s death by telling the parent(s) of your sadness for them and by expressing love and support and trying to provide comfort.

Allow the parent(s) to express feelings without imposing your views or feelings about what is appropriate behavior. Avoid telling the parent(s) you know just how they feel.

Allow the parent(s) to cry–it is appropriate to cry with them.

Visit and talk with the family about the child who died; ask to see pictures or memories the family may have.

Refer to the child by name.

Extend gestures of concern such as bringing flowers or writing a personal note expressing your feelings, letting the parent(s) know of your sadness for them.

Attend the child’s funeral or memorial service.

Offer to go with the parent(s) to the cemetery in the days and weeks after the funeral, or find other special ways to extend personal or sensitive gestures of concern.

Remember anniversaries and special days.

Donate to a specific memorial in honor of the child.

Make practical and specific suggestions, such as offering to stop by at a convenient time, bringing a meal, purchasing a comforting book, offering to take the other children for a special outing, or treating the parent(s) to something special.

Respect the dynamics of each person’s grief. The often visible expressions of pain and confusion shown by the grieving parent(s) are normal. Grief is an ongoing and demanding process.

Keep in mind that the parent(s) may not be able to ask for help or tell you what they need.

Ways That May Help Parents Heal from the Sudden Loss of a Child:

Admitting that their grief is overwhelming, unpredictable, painful, draining, and exhausting—that their grief should not be diminished or ignored.

Allowing themselves to be angry and acknowledging that they are vulnerable, helpless, and feeling disoriented.

Trying to understand that to grieve is to heal and that integrating grief into their lives is a necessity.

Acknowledging the need and desire to talk about the child who died as well as the moments and events that will be missed and never experienced with the child.

Maintaining a belief in the significance of their child’s life, no matter how short.

Creating memorial services and other rituals as ways to commemorate the child’s life.

Deriving support from religious beliefs, a sense of spirituality, or personal faith.

Expressing feelings in journals, poetry, prayers, or other reflective writings or in art, music, or other creative activities.

Trying to be patient and forgiving with themselves and others and refraining from making hasty decisions.

Counting on, confiding in, and trusting those who care, listen, and hear, those who will walk with them, and not be critical of them, those who will try to understand their emotional and physical limitations, while also trying to understand and respect the limitations of their caretakers.

Increasing their physical activity and maintaining a healthful diet.

Volunteering their services to organizations concerned with support for bereaved parents.

Obtaining help from traditional support systems, such as family, friends, professionals or religious groups, undergoing professional counseling, joining a parent support group, or acquiring information on the type of death that occurred as well as about their own grief.

Reassuring themselves and others that they were and still are loving parents.

Letting go of fear and guilt when the time seems right and the grief seems less.

Accepting that they are allowed to feel pleasure and continue their lives, knowing their love for the child transcends death.

When Does The Pain End?

When are you ready to live again?

There is no list of events or anniversaries to check off, and in fact, you’re likely to begin living again before you realize you are doing it. You may catch yourself laughing or pick up a book for recreational reading again. You may start playing lighter, happier music.

When you do make these steps toward living again, you’re likely to feel guilty. “What right have I have to be happy when my child is dead?” And yet something inside feels as though you are being nudged in this positive direction. You may even have the sense that this nudge is from your child or at least a feeling that your child approves of it.

All newly bereaved parents must find ways to get through, not over, their grief—to go on with their lives. Each is forced to continue life’s journey in an individual manner. Many bereaved parents find solace in their religion. Seeking spiritual comfort in a time of grief does not mean repressing the grief.

Many grieving parents also find comfort in rituals. Funerals or memorial services have served many parents as beautiful and meaningful ways of saying goodbye, providing a sense of closure after the child’s death.

For others, ending announcement cards about the baby’s death, writing poems, keeping journals or writing down personal reflections or prayers, or volunteering with a parental bereavement group become ways to remember and honor the child who died.

Grief is a natural response to any loss. Healing for bereaved parents can begin to occur by acknowledging and sharing their grief.

Friends and caregivers who care should grieve and mourn with the parents; and listen. Bereaved parents need to know that their child will be remembered, not just by them but also by family and friends. They need to have the child acknowledged and referred to by name. They want that child’s life to matter. They do not want to forget and they don’t want others to forget.

What has happened to these parents has changed their lives; they will never see life the same way; they will never be the same people. As they attempt to move forward, bereaved parents realize they are survivors and have been strong enough to endure what is probably life’s harshest blow. By addressing their grief and coping with it, they struggle to continue this journey while making this devastating loss part of their own personal history, a part of their life’s story, a part of their very being.

Eventually, time will cease to stand still for parents. Painful and terrible moments will still occur—striking, poignant, but in some ways comforting reminders of the child who died. There will also be regrets for experiences that were never shared. But at some unknown and even unexpected point, parents will come to realize that there can be good moments, even happy and beautiful moments, and it will not seem impossible or wrong to smile or laugh, but it will seem right and beautiful and a fitting way to honor and remember the child who died.

One day, bereaved parents may come to be surprised by joy.

But in time…nature takes care of it; the waves of pain lose intensity a little and come less frequently. Then friends and relatives say the parents are getting over it, and that time heals all wounds. The parents themselves say that as the pain lessens, they begin to have the energy for people and things outside themselves…This is a decision parents say they must make to live as well as they can in their new world. They can become to be happy, but never as happy. Their perspective on this and everything has changed.

Their child’s death is the reason for this and is a measure of the depth and breadth of the bond between parent and child.

Last Edited 7/1/2019

Welcome (Back) To The Band!

by | Sep 5, 2018 | A Letter I Can't Send, Loss | 0 comments

Hey, The Band,

It’s been a spell, I know, and it’s primarily my fault.

Let me explain: when I became homeless after getting sober, I had no money. I had LESS than no money after all the medical bills added up together. When that happened, I had to let go of most of my sites – unlike other sites, The Band was built on Django, and required about 30 bucks a month. Sounds pretty measly, I know, and if you can believe it, that cost was FAR less than the previous server which was 90 bucks a month – I’d been paying for it for several years out of my own pocket and I didn’t and don’t care.

My server guy paid for the site for an additional three months, and then, not hearing from me, he closed it.

No backups existed.

(As a sidebar, there were no missing Go Fund Me funds: the money I’d gotten went back and forth to The Band and Mommy Wants Vodka’s account, which is why this site was up as long as it was, even after I began my downward spiral. The bank account for The Band over-drafted, then closed, mostly due to the sluggish sale of the calendars we’d made. So, I paid the server out of my money. It sounds more complicated but it’s really not. The money always went to the right place.)

As  I healed from addiction and worked my recovery, I knew that I wanted to get The Band, whelp, Back Together. Unfortunately, with no backups of the site, it’s an enormous task.

Some of our volunteers (click to join), including myself, have been tirelessly working to get the site back to its previous life. It’s quite tedious, actually: we are copying and pasting the old data from the Wayback Machine. This would be why you see my name on a great number of comments and posts – I didn’t write all the comments and I certainly didn’t write all the posts.

The user data from the old site is gone, so each post is anonymous. I’m sorry about that, but trying to replicate that data would be an unnecessarily challenging event, as I don’t even have a list of emails for the old site.

When you’re ready to share your stories, you will have to make a new login (https://bandbacktogether.com/login) and here is a page about HOW to use Band Back Together.

The site, I’m aware, is a bit funky looking right now, but that’s just because we’re trying our best to get the site as user-friendly as possible.

Resource pages, like posts, must be recreated for the site, and as many of the pages were written ages ago, need to be rewritten and audited. I think I’ve done around 90, but there are HUNDREDS more to go. Here’s the master Resource Page, which may be a bit challenging to use at the moment, but will be easily accessible…eventually.

We have hotlines as well, tho they must be tested as they are also old.

If you’re new around here, welcome. If you have no idea what we are, let me make this plain.

The Band Back Together Project is a group weblog and nonprofit* organization that provides educational resources as well as a safe, moderated, supportive environment to share stories of survival.

Through the power of real stories written by real people, we can work together to de-stigmatize mental illness, abuse, rape, baby loss and other traumas so that we may learn, grow, and heal.

All are welcome.

When I say all, we do mean all, people are are welcome. We’re not a narrowly focused site, rather accept all stories – happy and sad. About love and loss, life and death, illness and health, mental illness, and addiction. If you’re story doesn’t fit into a boxed category, know that we will make the category for you.

September is A Letter I Can’t Send month, and October is Loss month. This doesn’t mean we’ll only publish these types of stories or these particularly stories will only occur once a year. We are always open and we are always accepting submissions – no matter the topic.

I cannot wait to see what stories you are going to share!

Any questions? Please email bandbacktogether@gmail.com OR becky.harks@gmail.com

Love,

Aunt Becky + The Band

*another thing lost to homelessness is our 501c3 status. We are working to build a board and achieve our 501c3 again. However we do operate not for profits – every cent goes back into the site and promotional material.