I was in over my head. I felt like a piano had been dropped on me from the 7th floor of a building. I felt deflated and lost. Our premie, Josh, in his 5-year-old vocabulary, was explaining his thoughts in the best way he knew how, “Mom, it’s traffic in my head.” And my heart wrenched. “Who can live like that? Who can be that small and manage messy, loud intersections of thoughts bumping into each other? To have emotions that are always way too big for your heart to carry?” I don’t want this for my son. I don’t want this for our family.
For 16 years now, I have been parenting a child who struggles with severe anxiety.
He is my firstborn, and between not knowing what typical shyness, big feelings, meltdowns for a child is and parenting two others, I honestly can’t pinpoint at what point I realized my one-size-fits-all idea of mothering wouldn’t fly.
He wouldn’t play with other kids, he took forever to warm up to people, he needed to be held and kept close ALL THE TIME, he wouldn’t enter elevators so we needed to take the stairs when we were out. It was as if everything intimidated him; everything was hard. His meltdowns could go on for an hour, leaving the entire house drained. He never slept well at night and looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself during the day—like it was uncomfortable to be in his skin. By age 9 and after a year of resisting, we agreed to medicate him.
Over the years I’ve learned to meet the day by abandoning things to Our Lord. I’ve gotten better at allowing Him to reveal what today will look like for Josh.
But it wasn’t always this way. I kicked and screamed. Like a petulant child, I’ve told God, “I don’t want this.” I want a happy child. I want a child who will grow content and easy.
I want a son who will spend his evenings like most boys do-- doing some homework, joking around with his siblings, eating dinner over funny stories about his friends or telling us about a point he scored playing basketball or soccer (or anything!).
Instead, he spends his evenings worrying. Worrying that if he goes to bed tonight, tomorrow will come sooner. Worrying about if he’s going to be able to sleep tonight. Worrying about waking up in the morning and having to power through (again) feelings upon feelings about everything—school, teachers, friends, people he likes and people he’s afraid of, his weight, acne, clubs, homework, chores, the emotional fatigue which, like clockwork, turns into physical exhaustion 1 hour into the start of classes. Lord, don’t you see it? Surely, you love Josh more than I ever could. You stitched him in my womb, remember? You promised that you would know all the hairs on his head. If I don’t want this for him, surely you don’t either. The child suffers. I hate to have to ask, Jesus but do you think you could make this go away?
16 years into it and my Lord hasn’t taken any of it away. As a matter of fact, if I were to permit myself momentary gloominess, I would bemoan that it’s even harder now with the pendulum swing of teenage hormones, not knowing which is what.
But I have a feeling that the God I serve, the God of Abraham and Job, the God of the Holy 40 and Joan of Arc, the God of Maximilian and John Paul, of Therese and Pio, Mary’s God—He’s not a God who makes things go away. He’s not a magician; He’s a grace-giver, an equipper.
So no, He hasn’t taken it away. Instead, He has filled our lives with some pretty incredible stuff not because of it, but through it:
A son who’s so good at doing hard things and at “doing it scared”, that I honestly don’t know if even I would be as good at it.
Another son who is so good at bridging the gap, filling the “holes”, being flexible, reading the room and his brother that my husband and I joke that he’d make an excellent husband. Orconcierge.
A daughter who, bless her heart, has learned to practically raise herself because we were almost always preoccupied with meltdowns and doctors when she was little. And doesn’t seem to be bothered by it at all. Nor has she ever made us feel like crappy parents.
A marriage wherein we laugh easily and much -- keeping me buoyant, making lots of room for life’s mess, but one that is also deeply rooted-- a steadfast anchor for when I feel unmoored.
A big, loud village of friends and family who are on a steady rotation for being Josh’s cheer squad, mentor, tutor, hugger, love-assurer.
A school that has put Josh’s needs first, and supported us in our plans for him. The Sacraments which I cannot do without. I love Mass, Confession and Adoration. I cannot do without them. I recall being told that after we receive the Eucharist, we are like walking tabernacles—that you may as well walk around all day with a lit candle in your hands.
The saints whom I admire—how little attention they paid to their feelings, despite wrestling constantly with some pretty big ones. It’s a recurring theme in our conversations with Josh, and he, like all of us, has found a particular saint he is drawn to.
God has been more than generous. He has filled in holes that I never even noticed. Like an ant crawling along the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel (borrowing an analogy from Leo Trese), I have no clue what majesty I trod upon; what genius is stitching Josh’s days together. And being certain of this eases the traffic in my head. I know it does for Josh, too.
Are you a parent with a child dealing with anxiety? We want to invite you to join us at our upcoming workshop.
