The Problem Child

Another subtle difference in life before and after the loss of a child?  Disney World is no longer the happiest place on Earth. 

This is my third day at the conference I am attending for work, where I am learning how to help adults and children learn to manage their emotions, the ability to do which is the single best predictor of future school success, according to my instructors.

This I believe wholeheartedly.  I have always been drawn to helping those children who came in my classroom door struggling with managing their feelings, probably because I'd seen some people very close to my heart have the same exact difficulty, and I know exactly  how far-reaching the implications could be.

So, imagine what a huge role reversal it was to spend the first 2 1/2 days of this conference being that fabled problem child.  Granted, I didn't throw chairs at any of the nice ladies I'd met, or hurl my beverage across the room when the speaker asked me to please stand up, but I was still a challenge.  I was the sometimes even more difficult child to reach, because instead of acting out, I was extremely withdrawn.  Maybe I was even a tad bit non-compliant, that silent but dreaded behavior of the preschool world.  No, I won't do what you ask me to, I'll just look at you full in the eyes, and watch you squirm.  Having fun yet, lady?

I could not regulate myself.  I was likely annoying the crap out of everyone around me as I traipsed in and out of the conference room every 8.5 minutes to "use the bathroom".  Is my bladder that busy?  No, I just had to find a safe place to collect myself- maybe splash some cold water on my face-over and over again.  I left my own circle time and disturbed the two going on beside me.  I was, for the first time in my meek life, an interloper.

I needed a drink every five minutes.  My mind wandered.  I could not follow directions for any small or large group activity by listening.  Instead, I relied on looking to others for cues, and discovered I didn't always completely understand what was happening.  And sometimes I found I didn't even care.  In short, there was zero learning taking place.  Oh, and my attitude sucked.  Just ask Angie.  I have been a complete and total bitch.

The problem?  I was holding in my feelings about being back in Orlando, a four minute walk from Downtown Disney, whose walkways I had last shadowed with my daughter a mere seven years ago, when she was still alive, and before her mental illness struck...the days when I held the world in my hands, and didn't even know it.

Every place I went, I remembered a meal we'd shared, saw a souvenir I wanted to give her, or recalled something funny that had happened with her and her little brother.  I talked about this a little with my friend, Angie, my traveling companion, but felt guilty about burdening her with my plague of dark feelings since I've talked her ear off this past year.  So for the most part, I attributed my sour mood and lack of focus to the fatigue of traveling.  I'm tired.  I'm so tired.  And I feel like crap. 

There may have been some truth to that because I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since I've landed.  Instead, I have lain awake- my insides a miserable stew of aching nostalgia, anger, resentment, and defeat.  Back from Italy a mere two weeks, and already I'm back in this sad, dark place...really?

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but this afternoon I did something about it.

 I had passed a shiny haired gazelle like creature with wedge ankle-strap sandals  that lovingly encircled her slim ankles with a pop of perfectly cut kelly green ribbon one too many times.  I wistfully eyed the woman from head to toe, taking in the crisp form-fitting cotton sundress, the carefully chosen jewelry, and the impeccable eyeliner.   I looked down at myself- so much wash and wear hair, bare face, and wrinkled clothes, before turning to Angie, with a whine normally reserved for a very young child- perhaps one of these exhausted toddlers that we keep seeing ran like foaming overworked horses from the parks' opening to closing hours, "That used to be me."

Angie turned to me, "And that'll be you again...just give it time."

Cantankerous as all get out, I argued, "No, I don't think it well!  I used to care what I looked like, but I just don't care about the same things anymore."

Angie was silent beside me, probably taking a deep breath to center herself as we'd been taught in the conference to do when someone, child or adult, is steadily working your last nerve.  It probably took everything she had within her to wish my whiny ass well.  Becky Bailey should have it on video.

Sitting down at my conference table, waiting for the training to begin, I thought about my statement.  Now, I knew a designer handbag turned out in a color that popped still turned my head.  My sense of fashion wasn't gone, necessarily, but it had certainly moved down my priority list.

So, I scrunched up my forehead that could certainly use a dusting of facepowder, and questioned myself, What do I care about?

Obviously, my loved ones are at the top of the list- although, if I'm to be honest, as I have promised everyone who reads this blog- it's a dicey thing at best.  I love my family and friends, but I wonder when it's just me at night, in the dark, my troubled head on the pillow, trying to press past thoughts of Cory sprawled out on the pavement, lights flashing, sirens wailing, fire engines blatting...will I ever love that fully again?  I know I should be ashamed of myself, since my son, Jake, is at the tippy top of that revered list, but honestly, it is damned hard work to allow myself to get as close to another human being as I was to Cory, given what happened to her.  I don't want to be hurt that way ever again.

  I know what Jake deserves; I do.  And I hope to give it to him, but it's gonna be a process, folks.    I am frankly gun shy right now.  I am still shattered.  I have many more pieces glued back onto my plate since I went to Italy, but I am in no way whole.

So then, besides my loved ones, what do I care about?  Where is my passion these days?  That's easy enough, if I'm not at work, sleeping, or spending time with Jacob, I am writing or making art.  Why am I so compulsive about these activities?
I want desperately to be understood.

When you feel you are understood, you can begin to connect to others, and isn't that the way to open your heart to take those risks again?  So this afternoon, during an activity, I took a shot, decided it didn't matter if I ended up looking like the screwed up depressed grieving mother in my group, and told a nice woman I'd met about Cory. 

What did it feel like?  It felt like I'd been holding my breath since I landed three days ago, and was just right that moment, able to exhale and take a deep breath.

If I were looking at this from that fabled problem child's point of view, how did "misbehaving" feel?  It felt amazing.  I was getting my message across about how I felt inside.  It was freeing.  There was now room in my brain for other things.

By the end of the day, I'd shared with a couple more people.  On a break, I ran up to my room and brought down my sketchbook and watercolors.  My mood had changed.  I was ready to participate, but I knew I would need some supports.

So there I sat, happily sketching and painting my tablemates as I learned.  No one else had art supplies while they listened, but I quickly found no one minded if I did.  That was what I needed to be able to focus, and I was now learning...instead of being told to pack it up, missy, I was smiled at by several people who recognized my brain needed some type of visual activity while I drank in all that audio.

I found I didn't have to go the bathroom quite as often.  I spoke up at table discussion.  I nodded when the speaker made a valid point.  I smiled and participated in the games.

Why the huge difference?  I had let go of some of that pain I was keeping to myself.  I had connected to others.  They were individualizing for my learning experience by letting me doodle to my heart's content, or go sit on the floor if I felt like it when my butt started to fall asleep in the hard chair.

At the end of the day, I thought about all the preschoolers who come into our classrooms, tired, disengaged, possibly housing a disturbing trauma in his or her small chest.  What do those babies need from us, the educators, the caregivers?

They need to feel safe enough to be able to learn.  They need to be accepted, just as they are.  They need to have someone teach them some ways to make it through the day with all the feelings they are forced to carry around.  They need to have someone teach their parents to be able to do the same.  They need to be individualized for. 

They are not problem children.  They are human and they have feelings that many adults wouldn't be able to express, so why in the world should we expect three and four year olds to walk in our doors knowing how to do it?  They should be taught. 

Isn't that why we're here?