One of the most impactful realizations of my life around this truth was when my first foster daughter was returned to her birth family - the same people who had so severely abused her I had to receive her from an ER covered in human bite marks. The same people who met none of the requirements set forth by the judge to secure her return, but who would still get her back anyway, because they were "family." What came to me in the midst of my devastation as I watched the Case Manager walk her to his car, was that, while I gave her nearly a year of love, security, and childhood, I also took from her the coping skills abused children have developed to survive. It crushed me more than the loss of her.
So, while all around me, the parenting style of choice was "helicopter," I made a silent promise to Janan I would do my best to let her experience the good AND the bad. Never abuse, of course, but the normal, sometimes daily, bumps, bruises, and heartbreak of growth. Those moments, whether we consciously remember them or not, that give us the tools to survive the next thing life throws our way.
Unfortunately, last year I was reminded how all the best intentions can backfire. How giving some children these skills, especially one like mine who only needs to learn once, "Mom let me fall and I got back up on my own," will create in them a belief they HAVE to always do it on their own.
So much comes easily for gifted children that when they struggle it feels like catastrophic failure. They believe acknowledging these struggles will make the world finally realize they're frauds. This overwhelming fear causes them to find ways to compensate - and BOY can they compensate! Often to the extent that NO ONE - not teachers, or grandparents, "experts," doctors, or the most well-intentioned, loving parent can see what's happening.
Eventually, however, the house of cards will fall. MUST fall. Because, literally (and I don't mean that figuratively), their bodies will give them up, unable to support the hyper vigilance of their brain processes any longer. This is when you find yourself in a doctor's office hearing phrases like, "Were it not for your daughter's mental abilities, she'd have been hospitalized, or worse, a long time ago." Or, once again, that she's in a range that is "rarely, if ever, seen." It means, for the millionth (zillionth?) time, coming face to face with the reality of the double-edged sword that is her mind...and the frightening power it wields.
It also means, as the parent, once again seeking the Specialists. Those with all the letters after their names indicating years of schooling and knowledge you don't hold. The Experts. You remind your child that while some struggles bring growth when worked through on their own, some are bigger than even their amazing abilities and this in no way indicates failure. More than anything, you want them to understand there are times we ALL need to ask for, and accept, help. But, as has happened her whole life, the "experts," start apologizing and saying things like, "I'm not sure I can help." Or, "I'm afraid you need to find someone better qualified." She hears these statements; and it only compounds her beliefs there's something SO wrong with her no one can fix it.
Thankfully, after much searching and forgoing ever having insurance cover anything, we were able to find the RIGHT experts. The ones who could not only show her they CAN help, but who let her be an active part of her healing process. Because, the one thing that always brings her mind into focus and drowns out the cacophony of her brain is knowledge. The fact that they KNEW this without being told, not only made her feel safe, but finally let her believe maybe she wasn't beyond help. It allowed her to heal. Taught her HOW her brain works and how to work WITH it. How to use its power for good, rather than evil.
It's been more than a year. But, believe me, coming so close to the edge of a precipice from which many don't return, means maybe this Mama now hovers a bit more than in the past. Maybe it means, just like when she was in grade school, I get up extra early to make her favorite egg sandwich with grapes and a fruit smoothie. It means driving her to the bus stop and waving as she pulls away, just as I did the first time she rode the bus to school. But, it also means I need her to know, now more than ever, that she (and I) can trust her new found skills. It means finding that balance between holding on and letting go.
So, when she bounds through the door from her first day of (yet another new) school, full of excitement, stories, names of new friends, more "really cool" teachers than not, and a willingness to start venturing further out on her own, I dig deep to provide the reassurance and encouragement she's seeking, while also checking in and looking for the clues I didn't see - didn't know how to see - before.
And, my heart smiles, for the first time in a LONG time, when she's sees right through everything I'm doing and in her best teenage, snarky voice says, "MOM! I'm FINE! I know what you're doing! STOP IT!" Because, underneath, I hear that tiny, headstrong girl whose first sentence was "I do it myself, Mama!" and am reassured what lies just below the surface of her lifelong exasperation with me is an awareness, deep inside of her, that I'll never let her fall that far again. More importantly, she knows I trust her new-found wings and will never stop encouraging her to fly.
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