I love the app “Time Hop”.
I enjoy pulling it up each morning and looking at the posts and photos
from that same day throughout the last 7 or so years. Occasionally they bring a tear to my eye but
more often than not, I smile. The
memories are so precious… even the ones that hurt.
But something happened a couple days ago. My “Time Hop” from a year ago abruptly went
silent. No posts. No pictures.
No memories. Just sudden
stillness. And I remembered. My open book was slammed shut exactly one year
ago. For five days. Five days in mental health facility.
Yes.
You read that correctly.
Don’t let anyone try to convince you that there is no such
thing as post-adoption depression. Or
that dealing with a traumatized child will not in turn traumatize you as well.
Love alone does not conquer all.
But here’s what does:
Love with a heavy dose of Grace, Knowledge, Mindfulness and Eff-ing Hard
Work. And God.
Last September I reached the limits of my own strength. I could no longer “pull myself up by my
bootstraps.” In fact, I didn’t even want
to. I've had such dark moments of doubt that I've questioned whether I could ever believe again.
I had a small child in my home that did not speak. Not English.
Not Mandarin. Not Cantonese. No words except those spoken as an echo. He also did not cry. Not when he hurt himself. Not when he was sad. No. He
did not speak. He did not cry.
He screamed.
All the time.
He was terrified, distressed, fighting for survival. For him every moment was fight, flight or
freeze. All too often it was fight. Pulling out fist full after fist full of my
hair. Spitting in my face. Scratching me. Biting me.
Kicking me. Head butting me. Hitting me.
For hours at a time.
It seemed that nothing could calm this poor child. And as odd as it sounds, while I was the
recipient of all the rage, I was also the recipient of all of his need and
attention. I could not leave him for a
moment. He clung to me incessantly. Always touching me, grabbing me, pulling
me. He would not let me speak to anyone
else… not my husband, my children, my friends without first doing everything he
could to distract me and then, if that failed, yanking my head toward him and
screaming at the top of his lungs so I couldn’t hear the other person.
I knew this was the effect of trauma. I knew he was in terrible pain. I knew that every woman who had ever been in
charge of his care had abandoned him. I
knew that he had been abused. I knew
that he had spent the majority of his life fighting to live.
I also was quite aware that I had willingly signed up for
this. This did not make it any easier.
I hid.
Or I
escaped.
As often as I could.
I began to either recoil or burst into tears
at the mere touch of another person.
A
simple hand on my arm could send me into uncontrollable sobbing or on the other
extreme, feel as if I had been burned.
I
began to isolate myself.
From
everyone.
I was embarrassed.
I was scared.
I was lonely.
I was hurting.
I was, in my eyes, the Queen of
Inadequacy.
And I was failing at
everything.
So… how did all this change?
How did I get to today?
1.
I got help.
Counseling. Treatment. Support.
With people who were trauma-informed.
(VERY important)
2.
I was given grace by those who loved me and
cared for me.
3.
I learned.
I studied. I educated myself on
the effects of trauma on children and the residual effects on those who care
for them. I found resources and was able
to equip myself with the tools I needed to navigate this time of healing for
both me and for my son.
4.
I stopped hiding.
I’m still learning.
I’m still working hard.
This is
not easy.
But as Glennon Doyle Melton
says, “We can do hard things.” (
http://www.momastery.com)
I believe it.
Resources:
Anything written or developed by Dr. Karyn Purvis (Director
of the TCU Institute of Child Development)
