A Tough Day

Today was a hard day. Really hard. Trauma-mama hard. I'm not going to share the details of this day, but I will tell you about some hard trauma-mama days I've had in the past with some of my foster and/or adopted children. Again, please do not attribute these details to the children currently in my home, even though I am writing each story as if it is current. I'm changing some identifying information, but know that these stories are real. Childhood trauma is real, and it affects every single thing a child does.

For example, there is a child who will not sleep with a door open. I cannot enter his room at night because it triggers memories of an abuser that crept into his darkened room. Once, I urgently needed an item that was in that bedroom, and I didn't wake the child up. He awoke in terror and lived in terror for several days.

There is the one who explodes in anger continually. The physical abuse from him is extremely difficult to take. We've tried medications, hospitalizations, and therapies. Nothing seems to work. Surviving is about as good as it gets with this child. I can't figure out and avoid his triggers. I don't know how to reach him to let him know he's safe and loved. I am physically and emotionally drained in his presence. I am in fear for myself and the other children in my home and neighborhood and school. I am helpless and hopeless more than I'd like to admit.

Then there are the days when we have multiple potty accidents with a child that is too old to be facing accidents. Accidents happen for days after every single encounter with her father. Sometimes we go months without seeing this child's father, and she is dry and clean for months. Then we run into her biological father, and there are days of anxious accidents. More laundry than you can imagine. 

And there is a child who struggles years into placement with our family. Struggles to accept imperfections from herself. Struggles to learn anything new because that would mean admitting she doesn't already know everything. Struggles to the point of spending hours defending an innocent mistake, denying that she didn't know how to accomplish some task correctly. Fights and argues to maintain her image of perfection because to admit imperfection means she is worthless. This attitude was ingrained before we met her, and she pays the price for it every day.

Then there is the meltdown king. At an age when he should be able to use words to express feelings, this child goes into classic "flight or fight" during any confrontation. Something as simple as, "Please put away your toys" throws him into a full-on panic, complete with screaming and kicking. "It's time to go home from the park," triggers running away and hiding.

It's exhausting. It's incessant and intense. After a day filled with trauma-triggers and trauma-related-responses, I am ready for bed at suppertime. I struggle to maintain my peaceful responses. I desperately need miracles of hope.

And they come. Rescripted self-talk comes in the midst of mistakes. A small child crawls into my lap and apologizes for pushing me in the hallway. Words come haltingly to describe the situation instead of screams. Anger is managed with breathing exercises instead of hitting. A clean and dry day happens. I get a hug. An offer of help. A prayer for a sibling having a hard day. These small victories are blessings. Some trauma-mamas don't get them. There have been years when I didn't get them; I was hopeless. I desperately needed help and didn't get any.

That isn't true in my life now. There is much hope and much progress. There is much joy and much celebration. I just don't want to leave out those trauma-mamas whose only hope is in a residential placement of their son or daughter. Whose child came from such difficult and damaging trauma that "success" is defined by the child growing up without going to jail. To those mamas, I say that I am praying for you. I am here to listen without judgment. I deeply and truly understand what you're going through.

For me, today was just a tough day. Not an impossible day. Not a day that ended with a psychiatric placement or juvenile detention. And I know the blessing in that. I thank God for that blessing!