Healing Seth

This week has been a rough week for Seth, emotionally.  Consequently, it's been a rough week for me too.  Institutionalization damages children.  That's probably news to no one, except perhaps me.  I knew it wasn't good.  I had no idea how bad, because really, I never gave it much thought.  Not because I didn't care, but because it hurts to think of those kids.  It's easier to pretend it isn't happening.  Enter Seth. 

Well, I can attest now that it is happening, and the damage is extensive.  It is expensive to get a child out of an institution and work to give them a better life.  Expensive not just in dollars, but in emotions.  It's hard to watch a child struggle to come to terms with a life that should have been his all along, with blessings that were rightfully his from the beginning, except that everyone who was put in his path to protect him, failed to do so.  And so now, we are putting back together the life of a little boy who is damaged in many ways.  Not damaged beyond repair.  But damaged, nonetheless.

Seth is sweet.  He doesn't tantrum.  Doesn't have food issues.  Doesn't have sleep issues.  He's happy and doesn't require a lot of attention (although he gets it).  He's really very happy with any attention we throw his way, because it's more than he's ever gotten before.  But Seth's whole world existed within the confines of four walls.  If it wasn't in there, it didn't exist.  Imagine the shock to the system when you go from that to a life full of busy siblings, therapy appts, doctor appts, visits to the park, church, library, grocery stores, and walks around the neighborhood.  Anxiety.  Any new situation will produce anxiety in him, until we've "initiated" him into it and he can add it to his list of "experiences".  In Seth's world, anxiety = self stimming.  This week has brought about several new experiences- an ENT appt, walks through the neighborhood (yeah for spring weather) and watching a sister's soccer game.  Each experience is met with the only coping mechanism he has- stimming.  It's hard to watch, because I know it's not based in anything other than a previous lack of exposure to things that are completely commonplace in our everyday lives.  But it wigs him out. 

Wednesday was a particularly hard day because of an ENT appointment.  New building, new doctor and a hearing test.  New experiences.  We took the next day off.  We spent the day doing relaxing things, things we knew Seth happened to enjoy.  He gradually calmed down and felt safe again.  Felt in control again.  I went over to snuggle with him, and like a little gift from God, when I went to kiss him, he puckered his lips and for the first time, kissed me back.  And then he giggled, put his hands on my face, pulled my face to his and kissed me again.  As I sniffed back some tears, I thought about all that was wrapped up in those kisses, what he was telling me, thoughts he cannot yet express with words.  "Mommy, I love you, and I know this is hard.  I'm trying Mommy.  I'm trying so hard to trust you.  This is all so new to me and I'm scared.  I get scared at new experiences.  In some ways, I'm like a baby, just learning.  Please be patient with me.  Keep believing in me.  Don't give up on me, even when you wonder if it's ever going to get better." 

Today was another hard day.  His first soccer game.  As he stimmed, I got the looks.  The looks of pity from adults.  The smirks from snotty kids who have no idea what he's been through.  I wanted to yell: "Don't look at us like that.  You don't know anything about this child.  Don't pity him now.  He has everything he could ever need.  And he's healing.  He's getting stronger and healthier every day.  Pity where he's been.  Pity the children still over there, living in that hell he came out of.  Pity them enough to help them".  That's what I'd say if I could.  Instead, I just tried to keep him from stimming.  And I prayed for the game to end quickly so we could get him home to where he felt safe.  Next game will be better for him.  And every game after that, will be even better.  He will add it to his list of experiences and he will know he can do a soccer game, be safe, and come back home when it's over. 

Security.  Something every child has a right to.  "Mommy, will you love me if I stim?  Will you love me if I do things in public that make you uncomfortable and make people stare?  Will you love me if I'm easily overwhelmed and get scared?  Will you love me if I never walk on my own?  Will you love me if I never talk?  Are you willing to teach me table manners, dress me, help me on and off the potty, possibly for the rest of my life?  Because I'm afraid you won't.  I've had loss before.  Loss of the worst kind.  It's scary to trust again.  Will you love me even if I'm hurting and broken? Will you keep me safe?  Will you keep me?". 

Yes, Seth.  I will.  We will.  We love you.  You, my son, are safe. 

And now, an amazingly awesome picture of an amazingly awesome Seth. 

Happy, loved and healing.