what do i do with this? she's 16 now. not 9. has anything really changed? i mean significantly? besides the basics of multiplication and division?
it's been 7 years since i got the phone call to come pick her up from school. not just school but special school. because she was hiding under the desk. because it was all too much. because she was afraid and overwhelmed.
now i got called again. to come and pick her up from school. not just school, but school with a full-time aide. because she was yelling. because it was all too much. because she was afraid and overwhelmed.
i have ptsd. i do. i have trauma around this- around having a child whose past has been so hard and whose future is so unknown- unpredictable. whose life has impacted mine more than i'd imagined. a child whose challenges have more than challenged me- they've demanded years of my life diverted. they've demanded career holds. they've screamed for time and more time, and patience and way more patience, and hope when hope is hard to find. they've taken hours and days and giving things up and doing things i didn't want to do. they've taken normal.
she hides and yells, and in someways i do too, but on the inside. because for me at times, it's all too much. and i'm afraid and overwhelmed.
today there was a new girl at school, visiting to see if she would go there. i'm sure she's lovely and trying and feeling new and out of place. but all zoe could see was another threat. another change. another person to have to navigate with socially. competition. disruption. so she unraveled. she couldn't put herself back together again.
when i got the call to come pick her, i tried to listen to the feelings inside. there were a lot of them. anger and fear and exhaustion and shame, with compassion and love and understanding buried beneath them. i wanted so badly to clear off the top rubble and get to the good stuff. the stuff i know she needs. the stuff we all need especially after we unravel. and i know for her she was in the same boat- anger, fear exhaustion and shame covered her ability to love and have compassion and understanding for this girl, but also for herself.
that's my job really. to give that to her- to show her, model it for her. the getting out from underneath. the ability to access the good stuff. but how? how on earth can i?
i got in the car and i prayed. i told God that i needed Him to show up NOW. and in a BIG way. i told Him that i had pretty much no strength to dismantle my pile, let alone hers. i reminded Him, in case He'd forgotten, that she is really His child after all. and then i said "help" for about a kilometer until i reached school.
i didn't do a stellar job. i wanted to cry really hard and really badly but i didn't. she came running to me from the front office saying, "there was this new girl....etc". i told her we would talk about it later. she asked if i was mad. i said no. she asked if i was disappointed, and while i know the correct answer is also "no", i was disappointed with a lot of things, so i said "yes". i watched that sweet child with her slight limp-walk, go grab her enormous book bag and we headed to the car. i prayed some more. something like, "this totally sucks and i'm about to cry and none of what i'm feeling right now feels like You are showing up by the way." as we drove out the guard flagged me down and asked for my exit pass. it was all i could do to turn the car around when i wanted to scream at her, "who cares about the blipping pass! can't you tell my life is about to fall apart again!!!"
as i returned to the car with my pass, i saw zoe in the passenger seat. she was looking out the window, maybe at me, maybe at the school, with that hard to read expression she has- probably because it matches her own hard to read feelings. she was looking out at the world through those glasses she's worn since age 3. looking out at a world that is way louder, and brighter, and scratchier and more confusing than my world. looking out from a seat of constant rejection, infrequent invitation, and the deep pain that follows that. looking out from a body that is slightly bent, that doesn't always do what she asks of it, that forgets it has a left side sometimes. looking out and wondering how to navigate it all, and why she has to be different.
i don't think i'll forget that face. maybe ever. it's blankness spoke so much- if you mix all the colors together you just get brown. and it broke me. it took away the anger. the fear and overwhelm moved aside and i could feel the love- the deep forever love a mom has for her babes. i could feel the compassion for a girl whose bad days make mine look foolish.
when we got home, even with the ugly bits moving over, i was still not fine. shame and fear were hanging around and anger had handed it over to sorrow. she went upstairs with her kitten, and i came here to sort it out. to remind myself that God is often in the faint whisper, so i should quiet down and listen. then i told myself- all the parts and feelings- that i would listen to everyone- but they needed to soften so we could also hear God. and this is what i got.
it's really just one bad day, not you life falling apart. there has been a lot of change in 7 years, not just math facts. she is my child, I'm just asking you to love her, not fix her. and by the way kris, you're broken too. My arms are big enough for both of you.
and that's enough for me to feel safe enough that i can find her, and enter in. and sit beside her in a world i don't begin to get, to listen, support and comfort. and then i'll return to those arms- and cry for a while, as i listen to my own grief in this, and all the other parts, and trust that the rubble will clear and from the dust will rise love, compassion and understanding.
i'm going upstairs to find her.
it's been 7 years since i got the phone call to come pick her up from school. not just school but special school. because she was hiding under the desk. because it was all too much. because she was afraid and overwhelmed.
now i got called again. to come and pick her up from school. not just school, but school with a full-time aide. because she was yelling. because it was all too much. because she was afraid and overwhelmed.
i have ptsd. i do. i have trauma around this- around having a child whose past has been so hard and whose future is so unknown- unpredictable. whose life has impacted mine more than i'd imagined. a child whose challenges have more than challenged me- they've demanded years of my life diverted. they've demanded career holds. they've screamed for time and more time, and patience and way more patience, and hope when hope is hard to find. they've taken hours and days and giving things up and doing things i didn't want to do. they've taken normal.
she hides and yells, and in someways i do too, but on the inside. because for me at times, it's all too much. and i'm afraid and overwhelmed.
today there was a new girl at school, visiting to see if she would go there. i'm sure she's lovely and trying and feeling new and out of place. but all zoe could see was another threat. another change. another person to have to navigate with socially. competition. disruption. so she unraveled. she couldn't put herself back together again.
when i got the call to come pick her, i tried to listen to the feelings inside. there were a lot of them. anger and fear and exhaustion and shame, with compassion and love and understanding buried beneath them. i wanted so badly to clear off the top rubble and get to the good stuff. the stuff i know she needs. the stuff we all need especially after we unravel. and i know for her she was in the same boat- anger, fear exhaustion and shame covered her ability to love and have compassion and understanding for this girl, but also for herself.
that's my job really. to give that to her- to show her, model it for her. the getting out from underneath. the ability to access the good stuff. but how? how on earth can i?
i got in the car and i prayed. i told God that i needed Him to show up NOW. and in a BIG way. i told Him that i had pretty much no strength to dismantle my pile, let alone hers. i reminded Him, in case He'd forgotten, that she is really His child after all. and then i said "help" for about a kilometer until i reached school.
i didn't do a stellar job. i wanted to cry really hard and really badly but i didn't. she came running to me from the front office saying, "there was this new girl....etc". i told her we would talk about it later. she asked if i was mad. i said no. she asked if i was disappointed, and while i know the correct answer is also "no", i was disappointed with a lot of things, so i said "yes". i watched that sweet child with her slight limp-walk, go grab her enormous book bag and we headed to the car. i prayed some more. something like, "this totally sucks and i'm about to cry and none of what i'm feeling right now feels like You are showing up by the way." as we drove out the guard flagged me down and asked for my exit pass. it was all i could do to turn the car around when i wanted to scream at her, "who cares about the blipping pass! can't you tell my life is about to fall apart again!!!"
as i returned to the car with my pass, i saw zoe in the passenger seat. she was looking out the window, maybe at me, maybe at the school, with that hard to read expression she has- probably because it matches her own hard to read feelings. she was looking out at the world through those glasses she's worn since age 3. looking out at a world that is way louder, and brighter, and scratchier and more confusing than my world. looking out from a seat of constant rejection, infrequent invitation, and the deep pain that follows that. looking out from a body that is slightly bent, that doesn't always do what she asks of it, that forgets it has a left side sometimes. looking out and wondering how to navigate it all, and why she has to be different.
i don't think i'll forget that face. maybe ever. it's blankness spoke so much- if you mix all the colors together you just get brown. and it broke me. it took away the anger. the fear and overwhelm moved aside and i could feel the love- the deep forever love a mom has for her babes. i could feel the compassion for a girl whose bad days make mine look foolish.
when we got home, even with the ugly bits moving over, i was still not fine. shame and fear were hanging around and anger had handed it over to sorrow. she went upstairs with her kitten, and i came here to sort it out. to remind myself that God is often in the faint whisper, so i should quiet down and listen. then i told myself- all the parts and feelings- that i would listen to everyone- but they needed to soften so we could also hear God. and this is what i got.
it's really just one bad day, not you life falling apart. there has been a lot of change in 7 years, not just math facts. she is my child, I'm just asking you to love her, not fix her. and by the way kris, you're broken too. My arms are big enough for both of you.
and that's enough for me to feel safe enough that i can find her, and enter in. and sit beside her in a world i don't begin to get, to listen, support and comfort. and then i'll return to those arms- and cry for a while, as i listen to my own grief in this, and all the other parts, and trust that the rubble will clear and from the dust will rise love, compassion and understanding.
i'm going upstairs to find her.
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