110 A Widget, a Useful Tool for Children Who Are Impulsive, Stressed, Autistic or have Difficulty Concentrating?

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     A widget, ever heard of them? I had never heard of one until my children were in their mid-twenties. Fidgets are self-regulation tools, and they would have been ideal for my children when they were young.

     When our daughter was in kindergarten – 3rd grade, she wiggled so much, struggling to concentrate, that she'd fall off her chair or burst into tears when she became frustrated trying to learn a new concept. Both Nicole and her brother were identified with Attention Deficit Disorder. Kyle would also feel so stressed when trying to learn  new concepts, he'd shut down or become angry and either make funny side comments, bang his head on the floor, or wrap a string around a kid's neck. Both struggled with memorization problems when they were young and were very anxious about taking tests. A fidget would have been ideal for them to use. 

     Fidgets could be squeeze balls, plastic key chains, tubing that can be maneuvered into various positions, etc.; Fidgets are self-regulation tools that promote movement and tactile input. They are ideal for kids who struggle with paying attention, or if they have sensory processing problems,  A.D.D., A.D.H.D, autism, or for anyone who feels anxious. 

    However, before giving your child a fidget, you need to set some home and

school guidelines. Then send a note to the teacher(s) informing them about the need for one and how it will help your child. I’m not so sure every teacher knows the purpose of a fidget, so they are misused. 

Some guidelines to review with the child when using a fidget:

1) A fidget is NOT a toy and is only another tool to help your child focus or relieve stress. Therefore they cannot play with it, give it to another child, or become obsessed with it.

2) The fidget is for your child and not to be passed around to share.

3) Help your child to understand that this is one way to help her improve her ability to focus on a task, be a better listener, and help calm her when she becomes frustrated.

4)  Ask your child when he might need a fidget so that it is only used when needed. For example, maybe math is his most challenging subject, so he would like to use it then.  Or he might also need it when he has to sit still in church.

5) The adult needs to ask the child what he thinks should happen if he is distracting others or interfering with others' ability to concentrate or when he is playing with his fidget.

6)  When the child is finished using the fidget, have her return it to the basket or drawer. If at school, the teacher and student decide where it should go.

    Try a few different types before sending a fidget to school, but don't buy ones with cutesy faces on them.  Remind your child that the fidget is to only be used to help her focus or help her become less stressed. It is NOT a toy.

     As a parent or teacher, I would print the rules up and tape them on the cupboard at their level after they sign that they understand the rules. (Or place the sheet of paper on their level near the basket of fidgets.)

https://specialneedstoys.com/usa/tactile/fidget/fidgiball.html

3 - No one can Play the Role of Superman or Super Woman, sometimes Parents and Our Children Need Professional Help

 

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     At 20 Kyle, our son had a breakdown possibly induced by drugs and only then did my husband and I realize that we needed professional help so we could assist our son to become a mature young man. He was diagnosed with Bi-polar II, Impulsive Behavior Disorder, and Schizophrenia after he had a full-on breakdown due to using heroin.  We knew it was common for A.D.D. children to mature slower, but with his alcohol issues and drug problems, we weren't sure how to guide him. The Marriage and Family Counselor taught Alan and me that when Kyle asks us for our opinion, or if we felt like he needed our guidance, instead of telling him what we believed he should do, to ask him what he thought his options were.  What a beautiful technique because we started having conversations, and it was exciting to hear our son sharing what he was thinking and what he wanted to do with his life. Finally, he started sounding like a young adult. 

       Our tall thin therapist gave me tools to help me set boundaries and to be consistent. She helped Alan, and I work together so that we could be on the same page.  And I learned not to feel bad when I was forced to discipline or set boundaries.  I wish we had gone to this Marriage Counselor before we even had children. It would have helped us work together, honor each other’s opinions, and maybe even get rid of some old baggage from our childhood. 

     The counselor also gave Alan homework.  During one couple’s meeting, she hit the nail on the head when she softly said, “You love your son, but you don’t like him.” I remember cringing because two months earlier, Kyle had shared, through a bout of tears, that he knew his father didn’t like him. I remember throwing my arms around him and hugging him, struggling to hide my tears. I assured him that his father did love him; he just didn’t like some of the choices he has made. 

   Alan came to the next meeting with a mental list of things he admired about his son, and it was moving to hear him share.  Tears rolled down my face. There had been so much tension in the house, especially the last four years that I think Alan had forgotten how unique and special his son was.  As Alan shared his list, he choked up a couple of times, but by the end, I could hear the pride in his voice.      Later that evening as we were standing in the kitchen, Alan shared with Kyle those positive attributes, and I watched as a wall disintegrated between them.  Alan walked over and hugged his son, something he hadn’t down in a while.  This made an unconfident young man feel good about himself and loved, something that had become increasingly rare in his world.  Alan had always expected his son to be like him, so all too often he made judgments about his behavior.  This simple exercise helped father and son love each other for who they were. It was miraculous.  A significant shift occurred in our household, one of respect.  Do not give up; it took us three therapists to finally find one that gave us useful tools.

    Everyone in the family needs to be in counseling every once in a while if there is a problem with alcohol, drugs, or abuse, or if one of the children has learning problems. Techniques are taught how to help you deal with the individual who is having the issues, or the counselor will help you deal with feelings, and validate the child’s or parent’s frustration or anger and give tools to handle them.  All too often as human beings, we attempt to deal with things on our own. Or what’s also typical is that we keep thinking everything is going to get better. Don’t get caught up with your busy life of raising children and concentrating on work that you postpone getting help. The time spent working on a relationship or yourself will pay off.

     Everyone is going to feel comfortable with different techniques, and some might work better than others. If you feel too at ease in the sessions, you aren’t healing; therefore, you aren’t moving forward. Crying, getting pissed, feeling uncomfortable, and feeling guilty or sad is okay. The therapist will teach you how to diffuse these feelings thereby releasing them. 

     Also, if there's turmoil at home or if something tragic has happened, don’t be afraid to ask your children how they’re doing personally and in school. Even if they say they’re doing fine, call the teacher about any behavior or grade(s) dropping.  These Pandemic times are really tough for kids too. I taught in the public schools for over 30 years, and often times I had to call because a child seemed depressed or withdrawn. And that's when the parent tells me all the garbage that is going on at home. Get your children into counseling. If you can’t afford it, call the school. Usually, they can refer you to a free therapist or one with lower rates.

   Therapy kept me sane and married. It helped me to forgive myself, my husband, and those who knew Kyle was using drugs to quiet the voices in his head, and it helped me forgive those who knew Nicole, our daughter had withdrawn and was upset with us. For me, counseling released a lot of buttons and reawakened some of my deep issues, childhood trauma. You have to release all that garbage if you want to be a happy, centered person and move forward. Of course, that’s sometimes a lifelong process, but it’s sure nice to feel grounded again and able to deal with issues as a loving adult, instead of like a reactive child.  And when I start becoming mad at myself or my spouse or start spacing out or reacting, I get my butt back into therapy, or my husband and I return to therapy.

     Things to watch for in your family that might hint that there’s trauma or depression: anxiety, shame, anger, hypervigilance, difficulty concentrating or remembering things, difficulty organizing, mentally escaping, or freezing. Sometimes you will see a blank stare on a loved one’s eyes, or he/she will space out and not know what just happened.  Or you might notice your loved one becomes confused easily, or unable to make decisions.  Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is also prevalent in a house with trauma. Irrational thoughts and fears,  obsessions that lead to compulsive behaviors, usually centering on themes such as fear of germs (wash hands constantly) or the need to arrange objects in a particular manner or clean the house over and over. (Mine was the fear of losing my children.)

   Do not attempt to play the role of Atlas, the mythological character who holds up the entire heavens by himself.  You can’t. Believe it or not, you are a human being.

If you wish to write a personal message to me, my email is: tbboivin8@gmail.com    I will attempt to respond in a couple of days.

   

7 - Meditation got me off Anxiety Medication, and so I Taught Meditation to my Students

 

     Meditation is still the best and cheapest gift I've ever given myself. It's a beautiful way to quiet our overactive mind, which loves to worry about the future and replays our regrets. I've meditated for a long time. (I won't tell you how long, or you might guess my age.) But for some odd reason, once I had children, I stopped, maybe because I found it hard to find the time. However, once Kyle, our son, started having so many car accidents and totaled two cars, I turned into a nervous wreck, afraid of losing him, so I picked up meditation again religiously once a day and sometimes even twice. 

    It's perfect for kids, too, especially children with A.D.D., A.D.H.D., Autism, Tourettes, and depression. I offered meditation to Canoga High School's Special Education classes and taught it to my students, and the teachers were surprised at how calm and focused the students became. A few kids shared that they even taught their parents. I allotted time for it in the classroom when I could or when my students begged for it because they couldn't focus. Some schools are teaching Mindfulness in schools, and the teachers that enforce it find that it also helps their students.

 Some Ways Meditation Helps:

* Lowers anxiety and depression                        * Raises concentration

* Creates emotional balance                               * Immunity boost

* Pain relief                                                         * Improves productivity

* Increased creative thinking                               * Helps in physical health in many ways

* Lowers blood pressure                                     * Reduces brain chatter in the head

 

  Meditating Man

Guidelines for Meditation:

1.   Find a quiet place – no distractions. Silence your cell and tell your family that you're unavailable            for 15  to 30 minutes so that you won't be interrupted (that includes animals if you know they'll bug        you).

2. Sit on the floor, on a bed with pillows for support, or in a chair with your spine straight, your eyes 
     closed, and your palms up on your lap or beside you. (Palms are sensitive.)  For beginners, it helps         to have some soft music playing. There are tons of meditation music on the internet.

3. Take about five deep breaths through your nose and expel the air out of your mouth slowly. (This

     helps your body to slow down.) Feel your breath going in and out… in and out. Notice how

     your body vibrations are already slowing down.

4. Now, if you feel comfortable, add a mantra. Om is probably one of the most common and oldest            mantras used. It is a sacred sound, which means peace. Or you could make up your own   

    mantra, "I love myself," or "peace."

     a.) Let the mantra flow without forcing the word(s), or you might get a headache.

     b.) Sometimes, you might see your mantra in different colors or sizes, or it might speed up or

           slow down. That's fine.

     c.)  If thoughts sneak in, slowly push them away and return to your mantra.

5. If you want to meditate traditionally, raise your gaze to your third eye, your spiritual eye,

     which is between your eyebrows. The third eye refers to the gate that leads to higher 
     consciousness. Don't force this; let it come naturally.    

6. You can glance at a nearby clock or cell to see how much time has passed, but open your eyes 
      slowly and partially. When you are ready to finish, stop your mantra, and give yourself a couple of          minutes of silence; keep your mind clear of thoughts, then open your eyes very slowly. (If you                come out of meditation too quickly, or someone interrupts you, sometimes you will get a horrible            headache.)

If you find you're having a hard time meditating, or you have young children that you are trying to introduce to the concept, here are some baby steps. (Start with 5 minutes and when you feel comfortable with that time, add on a few more minutes until you can concentrate for 15 to 30 minutes. Once you feel comfortable, you can try the traditional way of meditation. Just follow the guidelines above.

1. Follow steps 1-3 in the 'How to Meditation' section, except don't close your eyes.

2. Pick a comfortable spot to stare at and just breathe through your nose and out your mouth. Look at a      place on the floor, a doorknob, a plant, whatever is comfortable for you.

3. If a thought or image pops up, pretend to write it down or draw it in your imaginary journal. 

4. When you are ready to stop, take a few slow deep breaths and then give yourself a couple of

     minutes of silence before you start your day.

5. Try 5 minutes and when you feel comfortable with that time, add on a few more minutes until you  

     can only stare at something for 15 to 30 minutes. (Remember, no one is pushing you.) Then, if you         want to try the traditional way of meditating, follow the guidelines above. Remember, there are a 

     lot of benefits to practicing traditional meditation.

      I would love to hear from you after you or your children meditate for a week or two. I promise I'll write to you/them back, and I won't correct their spelling even though I used to teach English. 

My e-mail is: tbboivin8 @ gmail.com, in case you have any questions or want to share your story.

                         

My blog shares some personal stories and teaches methods about letting go, what happens when we don't forgive, and a technique that teaches you to forgive

     

1 - It was our 30th Wedding Anniversary, but all we could do is Worry if Our Son was going to Break His Promise and Use Heroin Again

     Alan and I woke up late at the majestic historic Fairmont Hotel, in Vancouver, Canada, possibly due to finally relaxing at least a little bit. That day was our 30th wedding anniversary, a special day I should be enjoying, but I couldn't wipe away all my fears. I wondered if Kyle, our 22-year-old son, had found my hidden car keys and had driven to a party even though he had already received his second D.U.I. and totaled his third car and I couldn't even remember how many car accidents he had been in,  

     I jumped with Alan's soft touch on my shoulder. "You okay? We need to hurry."

     I nodded and finished getting dressed.  As we settled in the hotel shuttle,  my stomach was rock hard, worried that Kyle would start using heroin again because we were gone.  

   Wait a minute. I promised myself that I was only going to focus on my husband. Dammit! It’s our special day. We arrived late at the bus to Butchart Gardens, so Alan and I couldn't sit right next to each other. I forced myself to push away any worries and laid my hand on his shoulder. His warm hand covered mine. It felt good, and the gentle squeeze, comforting.  This is the man I used to love, my handsome, brilliant, funny architect/ musician husband, but so much has happened these last few years my heart seemed to have forgotten.

Butchart Gardens

   As I sat by the window, I tried to focus on the lush scenery, but a rush of scenes of our 17-year-old daughter flood in, me finding out she was sneaking out to meet a man much older than her father or I would ever allow her to date at 17, her refusing to talk to us or come down to dinner without a lot of prodding which led to her father losing it and slugging her, something he had never done before. I was forced to take her out of the house for two months, two days before she turned 18, she secretly packed her backs and left. Finally, on the last day of school, I watched my daughter walk across the street as my students called out, "Have a nice summer, Miss B."  Frozen, I watched my beautiful daughter enter into a huge white truck, and knew that I would not see her again for a long, long time. I felt frozen, but my brain kept telling me to yell out, I love you and hope you have a wonderful life.  But I couldn't. My brain was overloaded; often, it felt like it was about to explode.  I prayed, Please, God let Nicole be in a safe place where her boyfriend can help her heal and so she can be happy with someone who'll listen to her needs and help her feel safe.  Please teach her to forgive two parents that were so brain dead from all the chaos with Kyle that we didn't see her needs. We didn't realize how closed down she had become. 

     I blinked a couple of times and snapped back into the van, reminding myself to relax and enjoy our special day. Things are better now. Kyle had just finished his court-mandated A.A. meetings, and we had encouraged him to continue with the meetings and find a sponsor. Now all he had left was his drug rehab and group counseling meetings at the hospital. Kyle had stopped staying overnight at his friends' homes and made sure he was home no later than 11. I was still drug testing him every once in a while, and he was back at school, taking a class, and doing well.  In fact, he was excited because he finally realized that the math level needed to major in architecture was too difficult and stressful for him, so he had switched his major to history and minor in Physical Education.  He had returned to the idea of teaching high school.  Finally, his anti-depressants and Bi-polar/Schizophrenic meds were balanced, and I didn't have to remind him to take them or fight him on the need for them. I had stopped counting his meds. He returned to the jovial, joking Kyle, but now with confidence, we had never seen before. Everything had changed so much that I even stopped drug testing him.

     I stared out the window forcing myself to focus on the landscape, but thoughts of Kyle kept popping into my head.  I was angry with myself because I couldn't run away from worrying about our son. That day was supposed to be about us! Just us! But I  had one more thing to do before I would allow myself to do that. I had promised myself that I would do long-distance Reiki, a natural healing modality, on Kyle that day and then no more worries. Immediately, I noticed something off. I didn't feel the usual little electrical shocks on my hands caused by his body's blockages. Oddly, there was nothing.  Zero.  What the hell, I thought. This had only happened twice before when I worked on a friend and my stepfather; their spirits had said to me it was time to let them go. They were ready to die.  

     My heartbeat was irregular for a few seconds.  Could  Kyle be using it right now?  And then the staggering truth washed over me, and immediately I knew: … Oh, God, he's dead…  I draw in a deep breath, struggling to slow down my hammering heart. No... this couldn't be. It must be all the alcohol still in my system, preventing me from pulling in the Reiki energy.  Kyle is fine. I sat back and forced myself to look out the window at the scenery. The snow-covered mountains slowly helped me relax.

     The sun had fully risen now, and the warm rays pierced through the conifers into my window.  The quack... quack from my cell woke me from my daze. Instantly, in my heart, I knew our son was dead. This time I couldn't deny my intuition. For some reason, I didn't feel anything. Then, out of the blue, my son's voice bounced into my head, clear and intense, almost as if he was afraid. "I’m sorry, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to do it.”  In a panic, I struggled to find my phone in my bottomless purse, pushing my camera out of the way and then my wallet. Finally, I find it.  Then everything seems to happen in slow motion. I recognize the voice of one of Kyle's close friends, Steve. He asked to speak to Alan.  I tapped on Alan's shoulder and handed him the phone.

     “It was an accident… an accident," Kyle stuttered while sobbing.

     I know, I know, Kyle. I answered in my head. I struggled to focus on the people around me, but their blurry figures faded in and out. The bus was noisy, but I heard Alan asking questions about the cops. Everyone on the bus kept their eyes forward. They must have felt the urgency in the air even though Alan somehow stayed calm and collected.  I sat in silence, waiting as Alan learned about our son's horrible demise. I was a prisoner in a gas chamber, fighting to stay conscious.  My fear of losing our son had finally been realized. Blurry curtains of tears formed behind my eyelids, but the tears refused to fall. Why can't I cry?  Why? Was it because I was all cried out?  

     Once Alan hung up, he turned around in his seat and told me what Steve had shared.  I listened through a cloud of disbelief. We didn't care who could hear us. No one seemed to be talking anywhere on the bus as if they felt our loss. 

     Do I cry? No, not yet. That takes energy, and I had none. I felt my body falling deeper into the hole of oblivion, where there was no pain. Alan and I stumbled down the van's steps, holding onto each other's hands for support.  I walked through the gardens as if I was inside a fishbowl, everything distorted. Sounds seemed to be buffered, and other times they seemed to echo. The famous gardens with trimmed hedges, fountains, and unusual flowers could barely be seen behind the panes of tears that no one could see. Alan and I walked around numb, not able to talk about much. There was so much blame: with each other, with Kyle's friends, but for some odd reason, we weren't mad at our son. Strange.

     This was supposed to be a vacation to reconnect and think only about us. How could this have happened? What happened? Kyle was doing so well.

     When we arrived home from Canada, Alan opened the front door, and I walked into the foyer of our house, set my luggage down, and took a deep breath.  I turned around, “Alan, do you feel that?”

     “What?” he asked.

      I paused before answering, puzzled by the novel feeling. “The peace,  do you feel the peace?” I swallowed back the tears.

     Alan set down his suitcase and took a couple steps into the center of our foyer. He seemed to soak in the tranquility. Then he responded, “Yes, I do."

     Our house had been in turmoil for so long that we had forgotten how that feeling felt like.

If you wish to write a personal message to me, my email is tbboivin8@gmail.com; I will attempt to respond in a couple of days.

    

 

2 - Heroin, now was our Son's Drug of Choice

     Within minutes the rumbling of the engines was heard, and my husband and I were taxied down the runway at the Los Angeles Airport. After minutes of waiting, the engines revved up. Vroom, we were up in the air.  I sighed as I watched the waves crashed to the shore and wondered how many sea creatures and empty shells whirled around like a tornado, stuck in the undercurrent, unable to escape.  Alan, my husband, clasped my hand tenderly and said, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”   Our 30th wedding anniversary was just around the corner, so Alan had decided to make it extra special.  We were on our way to Vancouver, Canada, scheduled on one of the most important trips of our lives, one of survival, the survival of our marriage.

     Once our son began driving, our house turned into a house of fear.  By the age of 22, Kyle had been in about 12 accidents, totaled three cars, and received two DUIs.  Often, I would wake up with a start and walk to his bedroom, praying he had already arrived home, asleep in his bed. When he wasn’t there, I crawled back into bed, imagining all types of horrifying scenarios: he and his car were wrapped around a light pole, or he had driven around the ‘S’ Curves in Topanga too fast and had plummeted over the edge, and no one was there to help him.  The irregular heart palpitations or forgetting to breathe had become the norm for me.  
    Alan would yell and say hurtful things to his son in regards to his Kyle Petty need for excitement and speed. And I would step in as the savior who attempted to calm down their testosterone. Except, I don’t think a counselor would raise his/her voice.  Kyle was named after Kyle Petty, a famous race car driver. Somewhat ironic that our Kyle was always speeding, don’t you think?) 

    I used to cry and raise my voice, telling Kyle to slow down, be more careful. One day I actually accused him of wanting to kill himself. Taking the car away for a few days, a couple of months, half a year, making him take a Defensive Driving class after he totaled the second car, nothing worked. One day as we were driving to a movie, I had to pull to the side of the road because an ambulance or a cop car was screaming by. Alan sniffled away a few tears, “Every time I hear a siren, I’m sure it’s my son, dead from a car accident.” That’s when it hit me why Alan yelled at his at Kyle. He was terrified that he was going to lose him.

   After so many years of having my worry button stuck on fear and worry, my body and brain were exhausted. If I wasn't worried about Kyle, I was worried about Nicole, who seemed to have excommunicated herself from her friends about in the middle of 10th grade. I oftentimes could feel her disconnect even though she told me she was okay. And yet, I didn't have the energy to force her to go to counseling. I knew she was not okay even though I'd ask her. I walked around in a glossy daze feeling like I was stuck behind a pane of lead glass, the scene distorted.  I could barely remember my students’ names even though I had some of them for three years. I struggled to remember what I had taught the previous day.  A boa constrictor had taken up permanent residency in and around my lower and upper intestine, squeezing the organs hard or stretching the small tubes to fit its body through. And then by magic, we had a respite for about 4 to 6 months, no more car accidents.  We were ecstatic! We finally remembered how to breathe normally.

    But that peace was not meant to last. In the middle of his second year in college, Kyle had a breakdown. He was 20. I remember my initial fear when I heard him talk about some weird stuff, Oh, my God, my son is crazy… but then the thought zapped out of my brain like so many things did.  The habitual feeling of floating above a scene watching me try to function as a mother, wife, and teacher happened so often that I thought nothing of it.   Alan and my buttons were set on denial for a few months, hoping that he’d snap out of it if he slept long enough. But one day, our daughter, Nicole, walked up to me and said in a very adult serious voice, "Mom, you need to really listen to what Kyle's saying." 

     Immediately, I walked up to Kyle, wondering why Nicole was so intense. Kyle had his foot up on something and looked at me in a bizarre way and said a few things that I can't remember, but then he said, " Mom, did you know my toenail is farting out, Jesus?" I sighed, realizing that I had been hoping so much that Kyle was okay that I couldn't see the truth; our son was mentally unstable. (How our daughter could maintain an 'A' average and remain sane in this house still astounds me.) It took about a year for the juggling of the meds to finally work. His paranoia, speedy speech, scratching, and twitching had disappeared.  We were positive the breakdown was due to heavy partying and drug use. Kyle, of course, swore that it wasn’t. 

Paraphernalia for smoking Heroin

Once, while vacationing for three days in Vegas, attempting to remind ourselves that we were still a couple, that Alan and I did have things in common, that we did love each other even though we've said hurtful stupid things out of frustration and anger.  Nicole had already escaped living her own life. Kyle called me on my cell to tell me he was smoking heroin.  He sounded so grounded, so adult.  Then he asked to talk to his father. Honestly, I thought Alan would freak, but he stayed calm and listened. Finally, Alan and I realized Kyle was on his own road, and no matter how much we worried and struggled to help guide him, he was the one who had to navigate his life, not us.  We had to start living our own lives. It’s so frustrating as parents to realize that we have such little control over our children. We can be there for them, listen, help guide them, discipline them, but ultimately they make their own choices. w

   About four months after Kyle had finished his stint in Kaiser Permanente’s walk-in drug rehab, he walked into our bedroom while I was folding clothes, and our 22 years old announced, “Mom, I need to go back into a Drug Rehab Program.” He took his sock off to show me where he was now shooting the heroin.

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    “What the hell happened to ‘I’d never shoot that stuff into my veins, mom?' ”   I was surprised that I didn’t feel anything. Yes, I was disappointed, but I was calm, if that makes sense. There was no judgment behind the words, just surprise.  It’s amazing how years of trauma makes one numb. The fear, the worry…. None of that existed at that moment.

    Yes, even though Alan’s soft, warm fingers entwined into mine, an invisible hand ripped through my rib cage, tearing my heart in half.  I wanted to kidnap the plane and force the pilot to fly back to LAX. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, "Turn back! Give me a parachute!  I have to be home with my son!"  Thank God some type of sanity slowly seeped in. I know that Alan and I have to rekindle this relationship, or we won’t survive. He used to be my rock. I wanted to remember how that felt. I needed to remember. Slowly, my heart slowed down as I continued taking more deep breaths. I reminded my mother’s heart that our 22-year-old son was on his own road, and we can only be there to help guide him, support him, love him, and give him encouragement.  Yet, sitting on the back burner is this unspoken fear that Kyle was still lost.  

If you wish to write a personal message to me, my email is: tbboivin8@gmail.com    I will attempt to respond in a couple of days.

After Our Son's Death Due To A Heroin Overdose, Many Friends Encouraged Me To Start A Blog Because They Felt I Could Help Other Families Struggling With Loss And Drugs.

     I was already walking around in a daze for over a year because our daughter had left to live her life without saying goodbye. My heart hurt because we weren't emotionally and mentally there for her for quite some time. Then, Kyle, our son, zapped us of our brain: the car wrecks, the totaling of three cars, the lies, the overdose, the breakdown. Then a year later, Kyle, our son, passed away from a heroin overdose. I wallowed in unbearable pain. There was nothing but agony, and anger at myself, my husband, and Kyle's friends, who knew he was using again, and yet told no one. 

     And then something extraordinary happened a few weeks after his death: Kyle's voice broke through the fog. "Mom, this had to happen. You're going to write a book which will help many people. This is one of the reasons I died. You'll write a book about your journey of healing and your experiences with me, and this book will help thousands of others who have lost someone. People need to know there is life after death. This had to happen so you could develop spiritually." I remember thinking, What does he mean?

     I muttered through tears, "So I had to lose you so that I could help others and spiritually develop? This isn't fair. I'd gladly choose you to be alive over any of this suffering."

     He replied, "It's the way it's supposed to be, mom.

     Because of Kyle's visits the first few years after his death, I was able to trudge through that horrible misery. I slowly found the courage to fight for my life and for my marriage: I wrote a lot, paid for trauma therapy, took natural healing workshops, and delved into tons of spiritual questioning. Over those first six years after his death, instead of tumbling entirely into that cavernous hole of loss, I grew in ways I could have never imagined. Am I perfect today? Nope, but almost…. Ha! Ha! I wish. 

     The spiritual growth and healing have been breathe-takingly painful and yet remarkable, not only for me but for our marriage of 40 years. It would have been so easy to divorce or lock myself in a room after Kyle's passing and emotionally shut down entirely to the world, but I wanted my life back, so I knew I had to do something to heal. And I think my husband knew he would lose me if he didn't agree to attend counseling. As a result, both have learned to show respect and talk to each other without judgment. However, we're still perfecting the art of being human.

      I was lucky that Kyle spiritually remained earthbound until we were both strong enough to let each other go, finally trusting the healers that we would still be able to talk to each other. He helped me not to go insane, to stop blaming his friends, my husband, and most of all, myself for his death. 

   Recently, I learned that from 1999 to 2020, over 10,000 have died from heroin alone nationally. That's over 125 people a day. "Overall, drug overdose deaths rose from 2019 to 2020, with 91,799 drug overdose deaths reported in 2020. Deaths involving synthetic opioids other than methadone (primarily fentanyl) continued to rise, with 56,516 overdose deaths reported in 2020. "

https://nida.nih.gov/research-topics/trends-statistics/overdose-death-rates

    I was floored. Honest, I had no idea that so many people had died due to opioids alone. But then, I realized that all the writing, growth, healing, and learning that allowed me to be at peace might benefit others. Now, I'm ready to share my experiences with people who have gone through a similar loss. It's time for me to be there for others and share how I went through hell and survived. I also realized that by taking a lot of healing workshops, I learned many things that could help families, children, and adults to live a happier, more fulfilled life.

   Helping others means revealing my painful backstory: Kyle's struggles with A.D.D., learning problems, depression, Bi-Polar II, Schizophrenia, alcohol, and drug abuse. And equally important, we finally understand how our daughter, whom we still miss horribly after 11 years of silence, had to escape this crazy house to live her life, find out who she really is and heal her way. 

    But now I'm ready to start this blog. Or should I say I'm ready? How many people want to air their dirty laundry, right? But I remind myself there was a lot of beautiful, colorful laundry hanging on that clothesline too.

   Your comments on the blog are welcome, but if you prefer, you can contact me directly at my email, tbboivin8@gmail.net. Also, you may have had some similar experiences or want to ask for some guidance. I'd be happy to listen and write back.