This morning as Truman screamed at me to fix his train tracks (which I had just rebuilt for him), I shut my bedroom door, locked it, and curled up in the armchair with my fingers in my ears.
This was how I prayed for patience to handle my preschooler today.
I’ve been kind of blue for awhile, not in a major, nonfunctioning kind of way, but enough that I’m lethargic, snippy, and prone to fall to pieces when people cram muffins between the couch cushions.
Currently, it’s daytime and light outside and my belly is filled with croissants, so I feel I can effectively examine this demon that is plaguing me.
I am content with the progress we as a family are making, so why am I so crabby? I’m getting enough sleep, so why am I so sleepy? Basically, what is my problem?
I’m not sure, but I may have figured it out. And, as usual, it comes back to fear.
I’m fearful that Truman’s anxiety is going to do me in. I’m afraid of what it is going to take to potty-train this anxious four-year-old. I fear how anxiety which manifests so cripplingly in a preschooler will play out as the boy ages. What will this mean for him and, by extension, me?
And the big one: can I handle yet another mental health issue in this household? Because my metabolism and my mood are telling me no.
This is difficult for me to talk about. Weirdly, I feel like I should hide the fact that my youngest son also has a diagnosis and that it, like all his brothers’ diagnoses before him, is killing me softly. Because it is just anxiety doesn’t make it easy. Of course it is much less consuming than Jack’s pervasive cognitive delays and communication deficits. And according to the psychiatrist, it isn’t autism, or even a super great cause for alarm.
It’s just anxiety. And yet I’m unraveling because of it, just as I did with Jack’s M-CMTC diagnosis and Charlie’s autism/anxiety diagnosis.
Despite my inward struggle, I have identified some things I am doing differently with this new behavioral health challenge for my youngest son:
- I’m less panicky about time and it’s passage. I’m not so concerned about how long it will take to work through Truman’s anxiety issues. My perspective of how time moves has changed. Seasons ebb and flow, and, thankfully, do not last forever.
- I’m exceptionally good at getting in to the right doctors, who can hook us up with the right meds. And I’m really good at ignoring pharmaceutical non-believers.
- I more readily give myself permission to chill on the afternoons when Truman goes to preschool, and by “chill” I mean climbing under my electric blanket and down comforter, silencing my phone, and sleeping deeply.
So there it is. Jack is less violent and more content, yet still entirely a full-time job. Charlie is making progress but is still anxious and still on the spectrum. And Truman faces mountains of his own to climb. It feels better to just say it. Because “it” is real, and really difficult.