Understanding the hard time

A year ago, I didn't understand what was happening inside me. I knew something was wrong and I had known for a very long time, just not what. Now I have some understanding and words around it, and more self insight. That doesn't make it easier to carry, but it makes it possible to explain.

I am 51. I have ADHD, BPD, major depression and alcohol use disorder diagnosis. And I have two kids, 15 and 17, who live a five minute walk from me — and who I am not allowed to see.

That is where the pain lives.

There is a term for what I am experiencing: parental alienation. When children are gradually isolated from a parent, from grandparents, from people who love them. Love with nowhere to go. And the body knows, even when the mind tries to stay calm. I wake up at four every morning with my heart pounding and crushing feelings of guilt, dread and stress. An inner tension I have never experienced before. On guard from the moment I open my eyes to the moment I close them again.

And still, I choose to believe this is not happening out of cruelty. That the people doing this are struggling themselves, and simply don't know better. That is not naivety. It is the only thing that makes it possible to keep moving without becoming someone I don't want to be. This is me, this is my integrity, and who I want to be.

My parents are in Norway. They mean everything to me — the same way my kids mean everything to me. Mamma is starting to forget. I watch her change, slowly, from far away. That is its own kind of grief, sitting quietly alongside everything else. Them being here, flying from Norway, and not getting to spend time with their grandchildren was hard and still is. Not once, but twice. They only love my children, and my children only love them. This is time critical, it is not a rewind and replay scenario, it is forever.

The ADHD diagnosis came late in life. But understanding it — that my brain works differently, not that it is broken — that was its own form of hope. Then came a brief encounter with medication that, for a few days, lifted a problem I didn't understand. And then came the crash. Not just the side effects, but the emotional landing after catching a glimpse of what things could be like, and then losing it again. That hope is still alive in me. But my body is running on chronic stress, and this is not the right time yet. That is not giving up — that is listening.

Alcohol was, for a long time, how I tried to silence the alarm. It worked briefly, like the breaks between waves. Long term, it made everything worse and fogged my judgement. I have now been sober for seven weeks, and mostly over the last year. That is one of the most important things I have done, to escape the vicious cycle of self harm. It has been an unfair fight, to put it bluntly. I think I have won, and that makes me sob.

Some days I want to give up. That is true, and I write it because it is true. But I am still here. I see a specialist every week. I am doing DBT. I write, because putting words to things is part of how I carry them. This is therapy for me.

My hope is simple: that my kids will come back to me one day. I know they love me. And I want them to know — always — that they are loved. By me. By their grandparents. By my partner and her son, who have become part of the life we are building together, and it was absolutely wonderful for some time. A full house of laughter and joy. They know it, and we all know it. And the pain is real.

For myself, I have hope in finding peace with who I truly am, and find peace within.

Being here is not always easy. But I am here.

And that is enough.

"If you're reading this and you want to talk, I'm here. Pappa."