Cory was my little color chameleon. Part of it was the artist in her that wanted to express herself in every way possible, changing her hair color the way other girls changed clothes- blonde, dark brown, red, purple, blue streaks, pink streaks, and every possible combination in between. Although she looked adorable no matter what hue she chose, she usually ended up disappointed, sometimes even angry when the look she imagined in her head didn't show up in her mirror. Was that edgy, beautiful girl there that turned many a boy's head? Yep. Did she ever see her? Hardly ever.
Instead, every hair cut, every color change ended with her sobbing on the hallway floor in front of the mirror, screaming that she hated herself, and wanted to shave her head, and be done with it. "I am hideous...HIDEOUS! Can't you see?" she'd scream, raking her little hands through her hair, sometimes pulling strands out with the brutal force of her upset.
If she was in the middle of an episode, I'd convince her to wait just a little longer before making a change. Once on medication, she stopped having the rages, and instead dealt with a much less violent, but still exhausting bout of racing thoughts and occasional flight of ideas.
I remember sitting with her in Dr. Z's office once as he asked her, "How fast are the thoughts going through your mind?"
Cory responded instantly, snapping her fingers, "So fast...boom, boom, boom. I can't keep up."
Dr. Z nodded, making a note on his paper. "And, have you been having lots of ideas? Thinking of lots of projects?"
Cory looked at me, and grinned. I chuckled. Had she? This illness did not play fair. There were days she would wait to eat something until I got home at five in the afternoon because she didn't have the energy to get out of bed, and the thought of making a sandwich - all those steps- was just not worth it, no matter how hungry she was.
On the other side of the schizoaffective coin, there were the days, she suddenly decided to reorganize her drawers (at 3 a.m.), draw a design for a dress and sew it to completion in less than two hours, paint furiously for hours, one canvas right after another, and then maybe decide it was a good idea to start training for the Olympics gymnastics team.
This could all take place in a single day. At the time, it seemed she would simply go on forever, no rest required. Eventually, though, she would crash, and end up as worn out as if she'd had one of those rages spent screaming her lungs out and throwing things, remembering nothing afterwards.
All this creativity was great in some ways, and dangerous in others. I loved seeing her making things, and encouraged her to channel her energy in positive ways. Unfortunately, sometimes the voices would join her on those artistic endeavors, criticizing her every move. She sometimes ended up agitated, paintbrushes thrown with disgust to the side and her head in her hands, wailing.
I hope you can understand why I was hesitant for her to get a tattoo just yet. I had seen too often how impulsive actions to her outside exterior couldn't fix the storm raging on the inside. It never seemed to work. I'd seen her take scissors to a haircut she didn't like, whacking off locks in anger one too many times. What if she decided she didn't like her ink? Would she be hacking away at it with a razor blade, back to the cutting that had taken so long to stop?
I told her when she'd been stable for a nice, long spell, she could look at getting a tattoo then, but I was just afraid if she got one when she was still having symptoms, she might regret it. I didn't want to see her go through that. Like every teenager told no by their parent, she wasn't thrilled with me, but she respected the limit I gave her, perhaps because I gave her a reason other than I just didn't like the way tattoos looked on girls. That would be my reason, and have nothing to do with her. Cory knew that the decisions I made when I threw down the Mom card were always in her best interest, not mine.
So after the accident, I went through her things, sobbing over nearly every item her hands had touched, whether it was her hairbrush with the pink-streaked strands still in it, or her secret stash of Taco Bell Fire Sauce in practically every purse she owned.
I also went through the little cedar bench in the dining room, that had become, for all general purposes, her school locker. She kept her art projects in it, her history videocassette tapes, her textbooks with enlarged print, and her color coded folders and notebooks. Towards the time of the accident, Cory was showing so much improvement, I knew she'd be able to take on more classes in the fall. She was making a huge effort to be organized, and finish projects, which was something she had struggled with since her illness began. All of those executive functions (planning, attention, memory, multi-step tasks) had been compromised by her illness.
Along the way, we came up with some little tricks to make that easier to do- such as the color coded system her special education case manager had suggested. One Saturday, she was complaining of the horrid on-line computer class she was trudging miserably through. I asked her what was hard about it. She responded that she took notes down, but since her hands shook so badly because of the tremor, she often couldn't read her own handwriting.
We were driving in the car, on the way home from dropping Tim at work, when it hit me that she could use a tape recorder, and play back her notes verbally. She screeched, "Mom! That's a great idea! Can we go get one right now?"
Can we go get something that will help you do your homework, get your credits, and feel successful? Ummm, yes, please! We turned around right there on the road, and headed out to the mall area. We picked up an affordable recorder at Staples, and celebrated by getting frappes to go from Barnes and Noble. While Cory was inside, paying for them, Jake and I left her a surprise message on it that said, "Hi Cory! We hope you like your new tape recorder, and it helps you with your class cause we love you and you're a smartie!"
I still have that, the message saved, and a few units of Cory toiling over computer basics, sounding completely frustrated...oh, how she hated that online class!
Another thing I picked up for her was a skinny little notebook covered in horses. I thought maybe she could use it to keep track of her assignments and check them off as she finished. Sure enough, when I pulled it out of the bench days after the accident, there was her shaky handwriting, with her assigned reading and other school projects listed faithfully, checks beside the ones she'd finished.
It broke my heart then, and it breaks my heart now to see how hard she tried to do something so many kids take for granted, and something she would've sailed through prior to her illness.
When I flipped past the assignments, I found her tattoo wish list. She had drawn some tiny hearts, described their color, and the locations she wanted them to be.
One more thing my good girl who didn't ask for a lot would never get...such crap!
I decided right then and there, to get one of her hearts, replicated exactly in her own shaky hand, and put somewhere meaningful on my body.
----TO BE CONTINUED
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