He’d only been home maybe a week or so. I walked into the
boys’ bedroom and saw the crayon scribbles on the wall and all over the dresser.
Normal kid stuff. I sat down to talk to
him, in very simple English, about not coloring on the walls. That’s the first
time I saw it. It’s etched in my memory forever. The fear. He was shaking.
Tears welled up in his eyes. He was not there. He had retreated inside of
himself to a place where he was safe. This protected him from the horrible
things that he had experienced, a life I had not yet learned anything about.
This routine would continue for years. It was hard to watch,
hard to be a part of. I tried not to take it personally. Eventually it started
making me angry. I went through years of blaming myself, hating myself for the
reaction that I caused my son every time he did something naughty. He flinched
when I came near him. He retreated to his inner world sometimes more than he
was with us. Eventually we had the diagnosis of PTSD and an attachment
disorder, but neither of those prevented me from feeling like it was me. After
all, his reactions were in response to ME. It wore on my heart and my mind so
heavily.
I would sit in his therapists’ office asking her what was
wrong with me. Why didn’t I feel the way I was supposed to feel about my child?
He was the darling of the orphanage. Everyone adored him. I was obviously a
horrible, terrible, evil, miserable person if I didn’t wake up each and every
day excited to parent this child. I dubbed myself an “orphan hater” to jokingly
disguise the turmoil I was feeling inside. And I didn’t dare tell anyone. Oh
no. That would be the worst thing I
could do. They would just confirm everything that I already believed about
myself.
Then one day a dear therapist friend (with experience with
children and trauma) said words that become my safety when it all got too bad
inside: “You cannot attach to a child with an attachment disorder. Attachment
takes two people.” I had read much on attachment. So many books to tell me
everything I was doing wrong. Why didn’t
anyone tell me this? Why were these words, words that gave me peace and sadness
at the same time, so absent? I finally just accepted a forced and sometimes
strained relationship. I grieved a great deal, for his future and for a loss of
hope. I gave up the fight.
Months ago we started seeing glimmers. I went to his
parent/teacher conference and his teacher told me that he talks about the new
baby all the time. What? He didn’t show much interest at home. Then it started at home. He’d lie on the floor
next to the baby reading book after book. If she fussed he’d quickly choose a
new book , convinced that she just didn’t like that book. He’d do this daily
for as long as she could stand. I’d peer around the corner watching them. It
was all so natural, so easy.
The glimmers continued. He was allowing himself to get bad
grades. (Woohoo!) He even talked back to me. (Woohoo!) His communication and
body language was becoming more natural and less contrived. I was seeing a new
boy. He was suddenly no longer the people pleaser. He was just……him. He was the
boy I always saw deep down inside that I wanted to know so desperately for so
long. The people that fawned over him for years, I always wanted to tell them
that what they were fawning over wasn’t real….there was something so much better
deep down inside. There was an amazing young man that had more to offer the
world. What they were seeing was a scared little boy that simply became
whatever it was that he thought they wanted him to be. No more. That scared
little boy was dying away and it was becoming more and more clear.
This past weekend we played Risk together as a family and
one by one children were sent to bed (Risk brings out the worst in people and
that often results in time outs. In your bed. For the rest of the night. This
is why we don’t play Risk often. And I won’t again until my kids are old enough
to drink, but I digress.) My newly confident young man was the only one left at
the table. He made a witty comment about what blood thirsty heathens the rest
of the kids were. We laughed together…naturally. It was one of the most joyful
exchanges of my life.
That very first crayon on the walls incident happened
exactly five years ago. We are just now truly building a real relationship
together. His fear and loss have certainly not just gone away. No. That will be
a lifelong battle. But his therapist remarked the other day, “He seems so
joyful, so real. He is finally trusting.” Five long years. Those years broke me
apart and made me different in ways I haven’t even discovered yet. I can’t wait
to see our relationship grow. I can’t wait for his next joke. I can’t wait for
his next sarcastic comment. I can’t wait for the next time he looks at me and
smiles. The light at the end of the
tunnel just got a lot bigger.
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