Fallout

Angel calls me into her bedroom after school to ask for a plaster. 

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘Oh nothing’ she says. ‘Just scratched my arm.’

I inspect the two scratches.

 ‘You sure you didn’t do this to yourself?’  I say - casually, not accusatory, just curious. 

She immediately fesses up. She says she was very stressed on the school trip to the museum and it’s the only thing that stops her brain whirring when there is too much chatter and background noise.

‘What does the brain whirring feel like? And do you feel it anywhere else in your body?’ I ask.

‘Just in my head.’ 

‘How did you do it?’

‘With my finger nails.’

I get the plasters and as we put them on, I say,

‘It must be really hard having that feeling but we need to find some better ways for you to  manage it.’

She nods. 

I suggest a rubber band she can wear on her wrist and snap, and she is keen to try it. I ask what else might help and she says her fidget rings, which she has been banned from wearing in school. 

I get the elastic bands, trying two for size and she snaps them, one at a time to see the effect, and is pleased. 

‘Don’t snap them too much’, I say. ‘Or they won't be as effective when you need them’. 

She nods again. 

I tell her how proud I am that she was able to tell me; that recognising when she is overwhelmed is a big thing in itself. This is her body indicating something, and it's important to listen. 

—--------------------------------------------------------

 Later, we talk more.

Has it happened since the last time, just after she joined the new school in May? No, but she admits to working old scars with her fingernail when she was stressed. 

‘How often?’

‘When it's bad, once every few weeks. When it’s not, maybe once a month.’

‘When exactly does it happen?’

‘Only when there is a lot of chit chat.’

She is sitting on her bed, knees pulled up to her chest. I put my hand on her knee and begin carefully. 

‘I imagine it was very hard to process all those moves before you were two. And that what you feel now with the APD, when there is lots of noise and chatter, might be similar. That feeling of not being able to process what’s going on. That might be triggering some very big feelings from those early years.’

I hold my tears at bay as she nods and squeezes my hand really tightly. 

—---------------------------------------------------------

I don’t know why I have never made that connection before. 

How what she has now is a processing issue and how in those early years, what happened to her was probably also too much to process.

It’s not lost on me that this is happening when she also has a lot to process because of meeting her birth mum.

But I don’t say that. Not yet.

—--------------------------------------------------------

The next day she calls from school reception. 

‘It’s still really bad Mum. I’m trying not to do it and ping my band instead but Amanda keeps telling me not to ping the band, so I don’t hurt myself.’ 

Amanda is an exceptionally chatty and interfering classmate that Angel finds particularly difficult.

‘Do you want to come home?’ I ask.

She says she doesn’t think so and that she told her favourite teacher about it in the break.

I ask when the next break is so she can get outside and move, which always helps. She tells me they don’t always go outside.

I think really she just wants to hear my voice. Like when she was little and used to call me on every break at Steiner.

She decides to stay.

The lovely lady on reception comes back on the phone. 

I tell her Angel is having a hard time processing some things, that what would really help is going outside and maybe having some time out of the classroom to let things settle.

‘We can do that,’ she says.

I am flabbergasted.

‘What, now?’ I ask. 

‘Yes.’ 

The tears well in my eyes. 

It is so incredible, and still unbelievable to me, that Angel is at a school where they can meet her needs in the moment. 

It makes my heart ache for all the kids who aren’t and need to be.

—--------------------------------------------------------

After the call, I email the school SENCO, who calls me back within a few hours. 

Again, I am flabbergasted.

Yes, she can bring her fidget rings in, how about headphones too and a safe word to enable her to leave the class?

YES

YES

YES

By the end of the day the SENCO has spoken to Angel and everyrthing is in place. 

—----------------------------------------------------

She comes home happier, but her brain is still whiring. 

This is the first time I have known it to last beyond a day.

 But still, she wants to go to school.

Testament to how brilliant the school is. 

The whirring continues but she seems lighter. 

She comes to the park on her roller skates with me, hubby and the dog. I can feel she wants to stay close with us again.

I don’t think it’s the brain whirring that makes her want to hurt herself - but her reaction to it.

The voice that says:
Why doesn’t my brain work properly?

 Which becomes:
I am not good enough.
I am stupid.

Most of us carry this inner critic to some degree.

But when you’ve experienced trauma and disrupted attachment, that voice can engulf you. 

As she skates beside me I say, 

‘Even though the APD makes school harder, it is also your superpower. You can sense, see and feel things other people miss because of it. So when the brain whirring comes, try to remember that, so you dont beat up on yourself too.’ 

She smiles. 

Little by little.

—--------------------------------------------------

It is Mothers Day. 

We settle down to watch a movie. Angel has her phone in her hand, poised to text.

 

I ask her to put the phone down - we have a one-screen-at-a-time rule.

She resists. It escalates quickly and she storms out. 

I leave her to cool off and go to find her thirty minutes later. 

She is in my home office, face like thunder. 

‘You don’t look very good,’ I say.

She nods, not looking at me. 

An alarm goes off on her phone. She says she set a timer for 30 minutes, not to use it. 

She is trying.

‘Anything I can do to help?’ 

She shakes her head.

I sit down, lift her feet onto my lap, gently pulling her toes to make them click the way she likes.

I wheel through some old anger relievers, 

Punch bag.

Kick gymnastic mat.

Punch through newspaper. 

No

No

No.

‘Go for a drive?’ I suggest.

Her face lights up.

—---------------------------------------------------------

At 8.30pm on a Sunday night, we head out.

We drive to find the highest point we can - somewhere with a view.

Once in the car, her whole mood shifts.

‘I’m sorry Mum.’ 

‘That’s OK, we all lose it sometimes but I appreciate you apologising.’ 

She tells me the brain whirring has been bad. 

‘You’ve had a lot to process,’ I say. ‘Meeting your birth mum was big, even for me’.

She pauses.

‘You know, I haven’t cried for two years. Apart from when I’ve fallen off riding’.

‘Maybe you need to,’ I say.  ‘Often a big cry helps everything move through you.

I pause.

You have a lot to be sad about. Even though you did end up with me and dad, it’s still sad for you, and your birth mum, that she didnt get to keep you’.

She nods. 

I know she knows she needs to find a path to the sadness.

But I also know, sometimes grief is too big. We have defenses for a reason.

Maybe this grief is too big for 14. Too big for now.

But naming it matters. 

—-----------------------------------------------------

Later in bed, I see the messages she sent me before our drive. 

I am very sorry for how I acted. 

That was so rude of me, especially on Mothers Day. 

I’m too embarrassed to come down….

I feel very ashamed. I was in the wrong, big times.

I wish I had seen the messages before. 

Still, we got there in the end. 

I message back from bed.

‘Awww sweetie - just seen these messages! You never need to feel ashamed. I always know if you are acting strange it's because you are feeling bad but really appreciate you apologising. Love you so much xxxxx ps. So glad I came to see you and we went for a drive.

‘I love you more.’ she shoots back ‘Thanks for taking me’ 

‘Never lol and welcome. Now let's get some sleep! Xxxx

—----------------------------------------------------------

The next day at my desk, I find a note. 

I am a piece of shit, my parents are ignoring me and I don’t blame them because I am so shit. I am so ashamed. 

I go to her.

‘Do you really feel that way?’ I ask.

‘Nah,’ she says.

Maybe not now.

But maybe she did then.

I think of teen hormones and how they can change like the wind. Hang on to that, I think. 

—---------------------------------------------------------

It is a few weeks later, one of those rare evenings when Angel wants me in her room. 

The photo of her and her birth mum has finally arrived. We place it in the frame her mum gave her. She rests her head against me on the bed.

‘Have you been thinking about her?’ I ask.

‘Yes and no. I just want to see her again. And meet my sisters.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘We wilI soon and eventually, it won’t be such a big thing. I imagine it will be like the twins. You know, we see them 3 or 4 times a year and it's all very normal.’

I feel the hesitation in her.

‘Do you want more than that? I ask.

‘Yes’ she breathes 

I feel it ripple through me.

Ah.

She wants her to be her mum too.

I steady myself.

What do I need to say?

‘The next meeting might feel big,’ I say carefully. ‘It might be hard seeing your mum with your sisters - because they got to have her, and you didn’t.

There was something else to say too, but it wasnt totally clear to me. I fumbled 

‘And even though she is your mum and she probably feels very familiar…….she doesn’t know you like me……because she hasnt been here.’ 

—------------------------------------------------------

Afterwards, I wondered, was that for me or her? 

I think of my dad. How when we met after 15 years, it felt so easy, like we had everything in common, a natural bond.

Then, when I was talking about liking animals, he said, 

Oh, I didn’t know you liked animals.’ 

It was like a slap in the face. The sudden cold reality that he didnt know me at all. 

I don’t want that for her.

But then, she won’t have that same void.

There have been letters. Photos. Connection.

Or maybe…

I just need her to know:

I can’t be replaced.

Because I was here.

I am here.

It is all of it.

And probably more I haven’t yet uncovered.

We are feeling our way.

I am doing my best.

It isn’t easy.

But we are good.

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