By Chaya Liba Aarons
4 I call my mother with the news: “Nachman’s going to be on Ritalin.” Why, where, when, how? I answer all the questions with undisguised self-satisfaction. I was right, after all. I’m not a loser. I’m not a hopeless, inexperienced mom who can’t get her act together. It’s here on paper. I’ve got the evidence! I feel like displaying Dr. Walker’s letter to the Health Ministry about Nachman’s endangerment of himself and his surroundings to everyone I meet. I can’t wait to tell my sisters and sisters-in-law. At least I deserve the glee in telling them, “I told you so.” Aryeh gasps when, with the phone in my hand, I announce that I can finally prove myself right to Mindy, Chaya, Miri, and the others. They thought I was a complainer. They thought I was doing something grossly wrong. They thought I was a weakling. They thought I remained the same spoiled child they had once known. They are wrong, and I am right. “You are not telling anyone about this. You don’t publicize a mental disorder, even to family. Once they know, we’re not far off from getting the ‘problematic family’ stigma. Put the phone down, now.” Aryeh was never so strict about anything before. I place the phone on the table and breathe slowly. There goes the validation I was hoping for… But we want to keep up our good image. Yup, we also have shidduchim to make, one day. And for all of my smug superiority, even my mother isn’t thrilled with my decision. My mother is worried, peppering me with questions and doubts. Each time I falter again, but I remember fast enough that I am doing what I must do. I consulted with professionals and continue to do so.
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