Stephanie Giese - All I Never Knowed

Copyright 2021 by Stephanie Giese, Binkies andBriefcases. All I Never Knowed. All rights reserved. No partof this publication may be reproduced without the prior writtenconsent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotationsembodied in critical reviews and other uses permitted by copyrightlaw, including educational use. Neither the author nor thepublisher assumes any responsibility whatsoever on behalf of theconsumer reading this material. Any perceived slight of anorganization or individual is unintentional. Resources provided arefor informational purposes only. This book should not be used as areplacement for specialized healthcare or professional resources.Please consult trained healthcare professionals for treatment.Neither the author nor the publisher can be held responsible forthe use of information provided in this book. Although the storytold in this book is factual, some names and locations have beenchanged to protect individual privacy. LEGO is a registeredtrademark of the LEGO Group, which is not affiliated with thisauthor or publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-7372068-2-8

To Nicholas, because you asked and I promised I wouldtry.

My laptop sits open on the oblong oak dining table,next to scattered Play-Doh crumbs and unfinished coloring pages.Im trying to meet the Friday deadline for the education article Ihave been assigned by our local parenting magazine. I need tosubmit a thousand words on college savings options to my editor,but finding financial experts willing to be interviewed on shortnotice is proving trickier than anticipated. The girls, havingabandoned their crayons, are now standing on the stone fireplacehearth, using it as a stage to take turns belting Disney ballads. Ithink I saw Donny take a miniature screwdriver into his bedroomafter lunch. Hes probably tinkering with last years PinewoodDerby cars again. Nicholas sits across from me, piecing togethertiny bricks. Hes been working there for three hours.

Mommy, Penny runs up to me, still in hermismatched pajamas at 3pm. Ana keeps singing the wrong words onpurpose even though me and Abby told her to stop.

I said not to tell Ms. Stephanie, Ana yells fromthe living room.

Abby and I, I correct my six-year-old. And donttattle. You can work it out. Mommy needs to write. I wave her backto the living room, where she sits arms-crossed on the overstuffedleather loveseat, deflated with the disappointment of beingunsuccessful in her attempt to get her foster sister intotrouble.

Mom, one day will you write a book about me?Nicholas doesnt bother looking up from the LEGO helicopter hesputting together on the other end of the table. We dont have ahelicopter set, hes working from his memory of a Google image heasked me to look up yesterday. I have to admit, what hes puttogether so far is impressive, not just impressive for a fifthgrader, actually impressive. Much better than anything I could do.Its realistic and to-scale, and it looks like something LEGO couldactually market and sell.

Would you like that? Do you like when I write aboutyou? I pause and fold the top of my computer down in order to lookat his face while I speak to him. His glasses are smudged and hisfingernails are filthy. I think he wore that same Star Wars shirtyesterday.

Yeah, people like to listen to my stories. Hefurrows his dark, bushy eyebrows behind the glasses. His freckleshave faded from months of being indoors and his skin is sotranslucent it almost seems blue. The harsh Pennsylvania winterhasnt helped, but of course there are other reasons.

Your story is a very important one. I try toconvey with my tone and my facial expression just how solemnly truethis is, but it doesnt matter because he isnt watching. When hefinally looks at me, hes holding a long, flat brick between twofingers.

What would the book be about? I ask.

You know, how brains can get sick and stuff.

I would like to do that one day. I wish there weremore people talking about that. This is not the first time wevehad this conversation. Last week he told me the same thing. I wishmore books like that did exist, as I havent been able to find themwhen I need them. It might help to know how other people cope.

Uh-huh. Have you seen the other grey piece thatmatches this one?

No, I havent seen that. Do they have to match? Canyou use that yellow piece right there?

I want the grey one. I need the grey one. Yellowisnt grey, he stands and shouts. His chair crashes behind himwhile he turns to throw the helicopter at the wall. It shattersinto hundreds of separate pieces.

Ana scrambles off the fireplace and joins Penny onthe sofa, where she curls into a ball and rocks while she screamsin that high-pitched wail that pierces through my patience. Pennygently pats a small hand on Anas head and whispers that it isgoing to be okay in a few minutes.

Ana, stop, its just Nick being Nick. Ignore him.Come sing with me, Abigail tries to coax her, which only makes herscream louder. Donny appears in the doorway, holding the tinyscrewdriver like a weapon and glaring at Nick.

Pick it all up, I tell Nicholas, mostly for thepretense of attempting to seem in charge, even though I knowperfectly well the only person cleaning any of this mess is goingto be me.

***

There are three things I know for sure. The first isthat real love is unconditional, and the second is true beauty isfound in brokenness. The third is that our stories are our mostpowerful assets. They are the basis for how we understand theworld, form human connections, and find meaning and worth.

My son asked me to tell this story. It is his story.He will happily tell it himself, should you ever meet him inperson, but he wanted me to be the one to write it down. I stilldont know if that is the right thing to do, but I will do my bestto honor his request to the best of my ability. I know that inorder to do his story any kind of justice it needs to be told withthe kind of raw, uncomfortable honesty that only a mother owns. Ialso know that if Im going to be authentic, then I have to use thelens of my own experiences. So, this is my story as much as it ishis. It is the story of the unbreakable, beautiful love between amother and her son, as well as a husband and his wife. It is astory of family, trauma, treatment, and education, and my hope isthat it may also be a commentary on the many ways we can all bebetter to each other. May it serve as a love letter to each familystruggling through mental illness, each child battling the scars oftrauma, and each mother questioning her worth.

Every part of this story is rooted in truth,although subject to the error of human memory. A few names ofpeople and places have been changed to protect individual privacy.The dialogue has been recreated from memory, reviews of socialmedia posts, journals, emails, and text messages to friends andfamily, with some artistic license taken. I also recorded severalinterviews with my children and my husband, a few of which aretranscribed at the end of the book. Some specific dates have beenconfirmed through medical records, academic testing, and courtdocuments. Where they could not be confirmed, others areestimations. In some cases, scenes have been condensed in order toconvey events that occurred over the course of several months. Onewritten encounter with police, social workers, or educators maycontain events that actually occurred over several separateoccasions, for example.

There are people represented within these pages whohave been invaluable in carrying us through more tumultuous times,and still so many others I wish I could have included, butunfortunately one book only has enough space to hold so manystories and characters. To everyone who sees themselves representedin these words, and also to those who dont but are no lessimportant in our story: we have seen and felt your love throughyour actions, and we are grateful. Occasionally within these pages,one person represents a compilation of many. Pastor Bob is a realperson, and I did attend several counselling sessions with him. Inthe context of this book, for the purposes of continuity andsimplicity, he stands in to represent sessions with severaldifferent professionals. Certain other characters were built in asimilar way.