Thank you to ACEs Connection member @Emily Read Daniels for sharing this essay written by Chris Prange-Morgan. It's a great read even if you are not a parent, have never adopted, or worked with families formed through adoption who deal with the complications of trauma and loss. I love this piece for so many reasons.
It's beautiful and heart-opening personal memoir. It's honest about parenting, still a rare thing. It speaks about the difference between studying trauma and living with trauma in ways real, useful and notable.
It does not perpetuate misconceptions and stereotypes about adoption either and it speaks to family life beyond the adoption process but years and years into a family life. We rarely hear about parenting teens and tweens who have been adopted (and even less hear from adult adoptees about their own experiences as kids and adults).
It speaks to secondary PTSD that parents feel and the gifts and opportunities to learn not only about trauma but ourselves and life itself while dealing with trauma's impact on individuals and families.
It mentions the lack of resources for parents and families and if two parents with advanced degrees feel helpless, end up drinking beer, mid-day and crying in the basement, imagine what parents with fewer financial and emotional resources deal with?
It speaks about how trauma can happen to any of us, at any age, and changes our lives, and not only in horrible ways - though that does not mean anyone wishes trauma on others as a way to grow or change. And how we don't live single-issue lives. All of our lives are endlessly complex and unique. Understanding trauma and ACEs is important but it pales in comparison to understanding one another and our different and shared experiences.
Here are some excerpts:
My husband and I both have degrees in mental health and school psychology. We felt that if anyone could parent a child with a history of trauma, neglect and abuse, we could. Plus, our daughter proved to be a hearty soul, and we hoped she would be a great role model for him. My bloodhound-like tenacity to seek out early intervention and resources, my husband’s expertise, and our daughter’s delightful, humorous personality — these things, I felt, would surely bring our son up to par in the world, where he would hopefully thrive one day.
Yet despite all of my efforts, my son pushed me away. In the early days, he would throw his head back, regardless of what dangerous protrusion might be behind him, or turn his head to the side to avert having to look into my eyes. He held a perpetual scowl and darkness behind his eyes, seeming to prefer being in another world somewhere — anywhere besides with a family attempting to love him.
And
I remember the time he tried to push my parents’ new kittens down the stairs and lock them into a box.
“Wow,” I thought. “He really needs constant supervision to avoid hurting himself or other living beings. He just doesn’t inherently care about anything.”
Fortunately, we had the financial resources and the foresight to know that our kiddo would require specialized interventions and that we would need a village to help him.
Still, it can be difficult to keep up appearances. Nevermind the reality I was living at the time, secretly hiding my loneliness and depression as I raised a child who I had deep concerns about, and who was difficult to connect with.
From a “typical” parenting perspective, there is nothing “normal” about raising a child who has experienced trauma. It is completely and utterly counterintuitive. (This does not even take into consideration that resources are virtually nonexistent for parents who find themselves in our situation.)
As the ruggedly independent, strong person I was, I attempted to swallow my loneliness and carry on. I took my son to medical and Applied Behavioral Analysis Therapy appointments and maintained as “normal” a family life as I could.
I did all of this until a split-second distraction landed me in the hospital. I suffered a climbing fall that was more than likely due to my own pent-up stress and anxiety. Even a severely fractured ankle, pelvis and back did not immediately funnel my thoughts toward my own well-being. In fact, while waiting for the paramedics to arrive, I continued to direct folks toward calling the several appointments my son would be missing because of my little mishap.
I have since read many articles alluding to the secondary post-traumatic stress disorder some parents face when they have children with special needs. Let me tell you: That shit is real. Read entire essay.
I'll be sharing this over in Parenting with ACEs as well and welcome your stories as a parent about parenting. Please post or share essays or send me email links so that I can if that is easier. I can be reached at cwhiteaces@gmail.com
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