“After all, what is happiness? Love, they tell me. But love doesn't bring and never has brought happiness. On the contrary, it's a constant state of anxiety, a battlefield; it's sleepless nights, asking ourselves all the time if we're doing the right thing. Real love is composed of ecstasy and agony.”
― Paulo Coelho
― Paulo Coelho
Okay, Paulo. I read your book The Alchemist and it has lots of nice nuggets of wisdom it in. Nothing about it wowed me, but everyone else seems to like it and the critics think you're pretty ingenious. So I read your thoughts on happiness, Paulo, and I feel pretty much the same way--a combination of, "Yes, Paulo, I do believe you are right" with a touch of "But I'm not sure that you really have it as figured out as you think you do."
And isn't that the case with all of us.
I come upon your quotation tonight, Paulo, with a heart heavily weighing my decision to take my son to the doctor in the morning to have him medicated. This is an idea I have struggled with for many years, and a path that I have longed to avoid. After all, hasn't yoga replaced my own need for anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds, and sleeping pills? Haven't I come to understand peace through meditation? Through new friends and growing relationships? Though learning that I have the ability to pick myself up, dust myself off, and face another day--even if it has to be on my own?
Then again, Paulo, there are those old habits that don't die hard. There's the sugar. And then there's the bottle of Jose Cuervo sitting up there on the shelf--the one I've had for six months, the one that I don't open often, just tempting me to mix it up with some limones y limas y azucar and find felicidad at the bottom of a glass. I think that's called self-medicating. I think maybe I haven't come as far as I think I have; but the difference between then and now is that this time I won't beat myself up over it.
So back to my son, because certainly this is not about me. Is it? I am not completely certain. On the one hand, I think, "Wow, I am a shitty mom" (all about me). I could work more with him at home, teach the boy more about breathing exercises and help him practice more yoga, make more visual aides and daily schedules and scrape up the money for more therapy, OT, SLP, ABA, all the alphabet soup. I could have found a way to send him to that autism program at St. Adlebert School this year--I could have found a way to get him to school in Berea even though I live and work in opposite directions--I could have done that if I would have just tried harder, right?
On the other had, this isn't about me. It's about my son. Am I medicating him so that my life will be easier, or am I medicating him so that his life will be more peaceful and productive?
Listen, Paulo. I can't friggin' do everything. I am not superwoman. I can't even get a decent dinner on the table half the time anymore. One would think that tacos and grilled cheese would eventually get old with the kids, but thank God they don't. And I have to work. Someone has to pay the mortgage. And I have to clean the house sometimes, too. I don't have time to worry about everything I have to worry about.
I think maybe you're right. Maybe love is just a constant state of anxiety, worrying, will my son's growing anxiety and aggression land him in jail one day? Will he ever be able to hold a job? Will be even graduate high school? Will he live in my basement for the rest of his life?
Am I too soft on him? Do I give him too much power? Do I not empower him enough? Do I allow him to control me? Do I try too hard to control him? Do I yell at him too much? Do I make things better or worse? Does he know that I just want him to be, you know, "normal"? Do I want him to be "normal"?
You're right, Paulo. Sometimes it's agony. I have spent many a day and night wondering why I am such a shitty mom for this child. Why on earth would his soul choose me? What can I really do for him except stand by feeling helpless? And what is he supposed to be teaching me?
But the ecstasy... when he gets out of the car in the morning during school drop off an tells me he loves me... when he hugs me good night... when he rambles on with his scientific trivia about jellyfish that asexually reproduce and how the rapid cell reproduction caused by animal growth hormones could give humans cancer if they eat meat... when he sleepwalks into my bedroom and snuggles up beside me... when he is the center of my entire universe, which is really pretty much always....
How can I medicate a child who has his passion? How can I not medicate a child who has his passion?
I am stuck between a rock and a hard place, Paulo. And I am tired of fighting these endless battles. So medication it is.
