Consider this a braindump.
Or a heartache.
Call it what you may. The lines are nothing but blurred.
Last week, Thing One was hospitalized. After a LOOOONG and scary weekend with thoughts of harm and hallucinations, Dr. Brain decided to admit him to pediatric psych for a "period of observation". This was tough for me. I listened to my 9 year old son tell me he needed to be at the hospital because we weren't safe, and I believed him. So, he rots on the unit.
The idea is that he's under the watchful eye (24/7) of trained professionals, and although this is a traumatic event for my child, the trauma is mitigated by the hope of getting to the bottom of it all. Since I spent the weekend sleeping on a couch barring Thing One's door so he couldn't get out or hurt himself in the night, I agreed.
I have been assured by the staff not to worry or be "discouraged if Thing One doesn't demonstrate the behaviours on the unit". That it can happen often, especially when children are as young as Thing One. I have been assured that "they believe him and me". That there is no set discharge date and its a game of wait and see. That he will have a CT Scan and an EKG to rule out organic causes. That WE WILL GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS.
I f**king doubt it.
So this is Thing One's world now. He has the run of the place (cause he's just a lil' guy). He watches what he wants, plays when he wants, orders his dinners according to what he wants, and SAYS NOTHING to them. They tell me he's having a great day, that he's adjusting well and happy and polite.
Even though he calls me and my father five times a day to check that "we're safe". Even though on the first night he heard voices talking in his bathroom. Even though he heard them again the next morning while he was showering. Of course, there was no one else in his PRIVATE ROOM AND BATHROOM. He's doing just fine even though they've taken away the Prozac and his moods flip faster than a pregnant lady out of pickles. That he hates me and then cries and then is normal and then hates me again. All within TEN MINUTES.
Yeah. He's fine. Fricken PEACHY.
So I should think nothing of the fact that on Saturday he LOST HIS FRIGGIN MIND when I said I wanted to talk to the nurses about his meds. That he didn't become so angry that he demanded that I DO NOT talk about him to the nurses. That if I do, he'll have to stay even longer and he DOES NOT want to stay. That when I took him out to dinner with his Grammy on a day pass he DID NOT stomp his feet and tell me "IF you tell, I STAY". Because we just had a lovely dinner together. He certainly did not burst into tears in my backseat and confess (and Tink was there to hear it) that "the man" is talking to him at night and telling him not to dare tell the nurses that he hears him. That telling them that means he has to stay forever. That my wee little boy is hiding the things that torment him because THEY LIE to him.
Except he did. He cried and he talked about the voices still tormenting him and his belief that "the man" must travel with him because he doesn't go away. That he doesn't feel safe at the hospital because the man is there. All the while, he is stuffing his toy dog "Jack" into an empty cereal box and telling me Jack is scared too. That when his tears come hard and fast and he shares his fears that he ACTUALLY WHIMPERS when he tries to speak.
But he's fine.
So guess who has to tell the nurses the truth??
Yeah that's me.