Controlling the Narrative

When I talk with neighbors or acquaintances, and the subject of our kids casually comes up; it gives me pause. I get a panic feeling when people ask about my son. It is difficult to determine what is my story and what details belong to him and are his to tell- when he is ready. There is quite an important distinction between the two. I have listened to parents share with others the painful, personal details of the hell they went through with their family member, to hopefully help other families from experiencing similar events. I admire these families who feel that the greater good of helping others is worth any discomfort when sharing their details. I also listen when my husband worries that none of it is our story to tell, that the details are too personal to broadcast out to FaceBook communities or to share with other families. That it is still all too raw for us and that we must control the narrative. We must not provide any opportunity for gossip, cruelty, or prejudice towards our son from those who don’t understand.

As I listened to and weighed both points of view, I realized that I agree with both sides. At first, there was my story – what happened to me, to us, and I controlled that narrative. I managed all the information regarding our family’s spiral out of control. I was cautious about limiting who knew that we were a family in crisis, and how much they knew. I kept it incredibly close to the vest to protect my family. I forbade my daughter from telling anyone, and my husband bottled it up and wouldn’t speak about our personal life. Part of me felt that by controlling these secrets, I was doing something to help. I was so overwhelmed at the time and needed to think I was helping in some way. As things at home grew out of our control, I was forced to open up and to ask for help. I did so by putting a minimal version of our story out there. Thus, the dilemma of how much information to share and with whom.

The reality is that my husband and I were ashamed. We couldn’t understand what exactly was happening to us, let alone why. We let shame dictate many of our decisions, and I spent much effort trying to keep straight whom I told what to. It made me feel alone, isolated, and that I was a victim. The one thing I thought I could do to protect my family, keep it a secret, only made things worse.

Our son had been with the same group of students since preschool, and abruptly, he was not in school right before midterms. As our troubles intensified, we found ourselves at the local behavioral health hospital asking for admittance for our 13-year-old. After the Christmas break, he returned to school for a few weeks, and then we quietly withdrew him from the only school he knew so he could get the specific help he needed hundreds of miles away.

He was on a mental health rollercoaster ride that became intense over several months. It disrupted not only our family life but his education. Surprisingly to me, it also severely challenged his sister’s ability to cope. My daughter had an emotional breakdown in school. Not only was she trying to figure out how to process her little brother’s removal from the home, but she was not allowed to talk about it. It was too much for her to handle alone. We put her in an impossible situation.

For months I found it difficult to speak about my son without tearing up, even when the only question asked was how he was doing. Every phone call I received from concerned families turned into me performing verbal acrobatics to provide limited and vague information. Because I was protecting us.

I was also grieving and didn’t realize it - for the future that I once knew with certainty was waiting for him, but now was no longer possible, for the fractured relationship with him I did not know if I was willing or able to repair, and for my boy that I could not help, could not reach. I also grieved for the parent I thought I was and found that I was not. Once I recognized and accepted grief for what it was, I found a strength that I did not know I was capable of. With it, I was determined to get past myself and help my son through the nightmare he was living.

It was with anguish and trepidation that I eventually began speaking about the details. I learned to be mindful of facts that could cause him embarrassment – his story. I focused on our story. His was the details: threats made, harm prevented, and why things escalated. Ours: he was receiving medical care, he was out of town, which later turned into he was in boarding school, and that we spent our weekends visiting him. To his school, I had to explain more. I spoke with the administrators in confidence. I explained that he was in treatment and that we were withdrawing him. I never told why. I never needed to. I learned that when you are in crisis, personal details don’t matter. Others have their stories of family members with their rollercoaster rides too. These administrators confided in me with their stories. Once I allowed myself to be vulnerable and to trust those whom I needed their help, I learned that they understood the value of my secrets, and I felt a kinship with them I never expected.

As far as those neighbors and acquaintances, I simply tell them he is doing great, and I then change the conversation. I never told them our story, which is remarkable. Just one month before the end of the school year, we enrolled him in the middle school down the road. I held my breath as I saw my neighbors and tried to anticipate how the conversations would go. However, when they saw him appear in classes with their kids, they welcomed him as if he had always belonged. Never have they asked why we made the change of schools so close to the end of the school year. If they had, I was prepared with one sentence – “He just needed a change of environment.” It is a grace that our neighbors gave our family as I waited for that first awkward conversation that never happened.

This year he is enrolled in a new school. I made a choice not to let them know what happened last year. I didn't want his nightmare to define how others saw him, not to give the school a reason to treat him differently. As long as he stays on a positive track, who am I to squash that for him? Every day I still hold my breath a little and hope I made the right choice.

The most unexpected discovery I learned from controlling the narrative is that it is therapeutic when you share your story. It is so when you can share the whole truth, the truth that makes you look like the bad parent you feel you must be, the truth about the monster you feared but who was your child, and most importantly, the truth of the lessons learned throughout the rollercoaster ride. When you share your truth with those who have earned the right to hear it, they not only won’t repeat it, but they know people who will benefit from your journey. I now find myself willing to talk to those with similar situations. I find that by telling my story and his, with both compassion and honesty, I finally have a way to turn heartache into something positive. It is my gift that I give to others.