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My oldest son, K, has always marched to the beat of a different drum, oftentimes a drum I could neither hear nor see, always straggling a few steps behind… parenting books in one hand and scratching my head with the other.
From the very first days of severe colic, he left me and his father feeling bewildered, even calling the hospital on our first day home because we were certain something was wrong. “Please, he wasn’t like this at the hospital,” I pleaded to the nurse who kindly assured me everything was going to be fine and no, my hospital bed was not still available.
Over time, colic morphed into concerning behavior. In preschool, we started receiving reports of aggression and defiance. My husband and I have jumped through every sized hoop to try to understand, help and support our son, and more days than not we’ve gone to bed overwhelmed with the massive puzzle with pieces scattered here, there, and seemingly nowhere at all of giving this child what he needs. Because what exactly does he need?
It wasn’t until he received his diagnosis of severe ADHD and later Autism Spectrum Disorder (AUD), Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD) and Disruptive Mood Dysregulation Disorder (DMDD), that we were even able to wrap our arms around what we were working with, and what is available to him. How we can support him and what exactly is going on under the surface.
We have made great strides. At age 5, he was also diagnosed with severe depression, and I can say that through therapy, parenting courses, changes at home, my own sobriety, intense parenting modifications, and medication management, K is now thriving. A huge win.
My husband and I started working with our case specialist on how we are going to support K through current challenges he faces around emotional regulation. The specialist referred us to a renowned child psychiatrist in the area and for a hefty fee he is going to support us immediately (having money is a huge privilege and makes all the difference in the world in navigating special needs. A normal wait time to see a child psychiatrist in our region through insurance is probably 12 months or more.)
As I was talking to the psychiatrist on the phone, he said something that stopped me in my tracks. “This is a complex case.”
I felt myself shut me down a little with these words. This isn’t a complex case... this is an eight year old boy. This is just K. My K. Sure he lives under an alphabet soup of diagnoses but at the end of the day he’s a smart, funny, beautiful little boy whose light shines brighter than the sun, who is the smartest human I know and who thinks in a way I could only dream to understand.
Later, in speaking with our case specialist, I told her what the psychiatrist said. “Celeste,” she said. “This IS a complex case. K is a complex child.”
I have always struggled with labels. Labels like bulimic, alcoholic, even the word feminist make me clam up and feel weird. The label ‘alcoholic’ served a tremendous barrier in keeping me from exploring sobriety for years. Labels may sound simple, but nothing about my drinking felt simple. And it frustrates me that a long, complicated journey around why and how I drank could be summed up with such a loaded word.
Alcoholic. A word that feels cold and foreign to me. A word that my dad used to describe himself, and his drinking felt nothing like mine. A word that weighs on me like defeat, loss, and suffering — my projections of my dad’s life in addiction.
My son, K, has a whole bunch of acronyms tied to his medical records, but at the end of the day K comes home and eats dinner, takes baths and goes to sleep like any other 8 year old. He plays Roblox and dreams of being a scientist and a dragon master. He talks about learning how to manipulate time in the future so he can time travel. He may have autism but he lives on his own terms.
Labels say everything and nothing all at once. No labels can define a person, because people are born beyond definition.
Right now, in 2023, professionals have diagnosed K with a range of various neurological disorders. But in 10 years time who knows where any of these diagnostic labels will stand. Some of these acronyms didn’t even exist years ago, and so many discoveries on the intricacies of our brains and bodies are discovered every day.
And alcoholism is the same way. It’s not even a medical term, just a label. No doctor will diagnose someone with alcoholism. The American Medical Association didn’t even define alcohol addiction until 1952. Today, they diagnose someone with ‘alcohol use disorder’ and as we learn more about addiction and our brain that may change over time, too.
So maybe none of it matters. Maybe none of these labels really mean anything other than we are all wired so very differently. We are all scrap fabric quilts made with our parent-figure’s love and tears, trauma and wisdom.
Labels serve a purpose, of course. K’s diagnostic labels help his professional team, his teachers, and us, his parents, understand a little more into some of the ‘why’ behind those ocean blue eyes. And for many, alcoholic serves a self-diagnosing purpose that can help someone feel seen, understood, and connected in a world that can feel terribly lonely and powerless. It can be a gift. But it’s not for everyone, and it’s not for me.
Hi, I’m Celeste. I do not call myself an alcoholic, though some might label me one. I recently self-diagnosed myself with ADHD, my kids are my driving force in life, I like to run, and now you know about 1% of who I really am.
Maybe we’re all a complex case because we’re all complex beings. Maybe it’s our complexity that makes us beautifully diverse beings. Maybe ‘being’ is the only human trait that truly connects us all. Because it’s wonderfully complex. We are all vastly complex.
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