"My heart is too wide open."
S is working through abuse memories hard core these days. The ballet obsession is still there, though a bit quieter; she still seems to think that if she can get on pointe, she'll somehow be able to move forward with her life, though she's also aware, in her saner moments, that this is not reality. She's also reexperiencing the loss of her favorite horse, Honey. J, her college buddy, told her recently that Honey would want her to keep riding, to keep loving horses--and she will, and does. Still, her intense love for J's horse Jazz, for our dog and cat--it also scares her, because she remembers how, not so long ago, she'd loved a horse that died, suddenly. And, before that, she'd loved many animals that were tortured and killed in her biological home.
She couldn't save them, just like she couldn't stop her abusers from abusing her when she was wearing a leotard and tights--or at any other time, for that matter.
Recently, while being punished for refusing to do what I had asked her to do, she said to me, "But when adults told me to do things before, it was never for my own good. It always hurt me, badly."
We went over the facts: she's safe now, I love her, I have to punish her when she does something wrong or else she'll never grow into a responsible adult. She knows these things, and I try my best to use natural consequences when punishing her--for instance, to take away computer time if she won't get off the computer when asked, or to make her pay out of her own money for things she breaks or loses, or to make her write about what she should do differently the next time she encounters a situation. And it does work--I really believe this--even if the offense is repeated over and over again. She is learning, and growing--and yet, at times she needs to push me to remember that she does have some power, that she is a person capable of making her own choices, that maybe now, unlike when she was with her bio family, she is capable of hurting others instead of always being the one getting hurt.
She's been pensive a lot this week, and today she became convinced that a horse at the county fair was being abused. She had some evidence that could, in fact, indicate abuse--but it wasn't conclusive by any means. She told a police officer she knows about her suspicions, and the officer, thankfully, told her she'd look into it. This should have calmed her, but instead, it only heightened the obsession--I wonder what she'll do first, S asked, I wonder if she's found the owner yet. Finally, as with the ballet obsession, I had to point out she had become obsessed and needed to stop thinking about it; that she had told the right person, and now things were out of her hands. There was absolutely nothing else she could do, she realized, going over the fact that we can't have a horse right now, that she couldn't take the horse anyway, even if we could, etc.
We came home for awhile in between shifts at the variety of booths at which we're volunteering this weekend and had a healthy dinner (an attempt to counteract the greasy food we've been eating since the fair began). During dinner, she said, out of the blue, that she wanted to sue her father for all the harm that had come to the animals in their childhood home. As far as I know, he didn't himself torture any animals, but he did create an atmosphere in the home that condoned or at least didn't stop the torture from happening.
"What about the humans he hurt?" I asked her, not wanting to push too far.
"The humans, too," she said, and then she was comotose for awhile, staring into space. I texted her college buddy; sometimes I just need someone who loves S to know what is happening in moments like these. She texted back that S had been silent/staring into space a few times the day before when they had been together.
Even though she never fails to come out of these periods of unresponsiveness, I always fear she won't. But then, suddenly, she said, out of the blue, "Honey opened my heart, so now, when I think I don't want to love any more, it's too late. My heart is too wide open."
And then I realized for the first time what is happening in those periods when she is not physically present: her mind and heart are trying to figure out if they can retreat forever from the world, if there's any way to become invisible, to have to stop working at all the hard things that life requires of us. Nothing is harder, after all, than loving another person--but, at the same time, it's also true that nothing is easier, either. That is the greatest paradox of human existence, maybe.
Maybe S is right, and her heart can't close again--but maybe there's another layer to this, and in fact it's not that it CAN'T close again, but that closing it now would take more work than keeping it open. Loving has gotten easier, more natural.
"Say it, Mom," she said, cuddling up to me on the couch.
"You're going to be OK," I said. "That's what you wanted to hear, right?"
She didn't answer, and so I knew it was. We sat there for awhile, until it was time to go back to the fair to volunteer at yet another booth. I asked if she thought she could do it; she said she could, and that she wouldn't go back to the horse, wouldn't even talk about him. And so we did, and although she couldn't keep her promise--she went back to him, of course, though this time, she was less upset, less sure he was really in trouble--she got through the night without disappearing again.
At home, she was back to herself, giddy, obnoxious. "Balls!" she shouted. "I'm just saying BALLS because I know what you think of when I say that. But really, I'm just talking about Cody's DOG TOYS." (Mad laughter).
"You need to go to bed," I said to her.
"Tomorrow," she answered, wisely, sobering up, "is a new day."
She couldn't save them, just like she couldn't stop her abusers from abusing her when she was wearing a leotard and tights--or at any other time, for that matter.
Recently, while being punished for refusing to do what I had asked her to do, she said to me, "But when adults told me to do things before, it was never for my own good. It always hurt me, badly."
We went over the facts: she's safe now, I love her, I have to punish her when she does something wrong or else she'll never grow into a responsible adult. She knows these things, and I try my best to use natural consequences when punishing her--for instance, to take away computer time if she won't get off the computer when asked, or to make her pay out of her own money for things she breaks or loses, or to make her write about what she should do differently the next time she encounters a situation. And it does work--I really believe this--even if the offense is repeated over and over again. She is learning, and growing--and yet, at times she needs to push me to remember that she does have some power, that she is a person capable of making her own choices, that maybe now, unlike when she was with her bio family, she is capable of hurting others instead of always being the one getting hurt.
She's been pensive a lot this week, and today she became convinced that a horse at the county fair was being abused. She had some evidence that could, in fact, indicate abuse--but it wasn't conclusive by any means. She told a police officer she knows about her suspicions, and the officer, thankfully, told her she'd look into it. This should have calmed her, but instead, it only heightened the obsession--I wonder what she'll do first, S asked, I wonder if she's found the owner yet. Finally, as with the ballet obsession, I had to point out she had become obsessed and needed to stop thinking about it; that she had told the right person, and now things were out of her hands. There was absolutely nothing else she could do, she realized, going over the fact that we can't have a horse right now, that she couldn't take the horse anyway, even if we could, etc.
We came home for awhile in between shifts at the variety of booths at which we're volunteering this weekend and had a healthy dinner (an attempt to counteract the greasy food we've been eating since the fair began). During dinner, she said, out of the blue, that she wanted to sue her father for all the harm that had come to the animals in their childhood home. As far as I know, he didn't himself torture any animals, but he did create an atmosphere in the home that condoned or at least didn't stop the torture from happening.
"What about the humans he hurt?" I asked her, not wanting to push too far.
"The humans, too," she said, and then she was comotose for awhile, staring into space. I texted her college buddy; sometimes I just need someone who loves S to know what is happening in moments like these. She texted back that S had been silent/staring into space a few times the day before when they had been together.
Even though she never fails to come out of these periods of unresponsiveness, I always fear she won't. But then, suddenly, she said, out of the blue, "Honey opened my heart, so now, when I think I don't want to love any more, it's too late. My heart is too wide open."
And then I realized for the first time what is happening in those periods when she is not physically present: her mind and heart are trying to figure out if they can retreat forever from the world, if there's any way to become invisible, to have to stop working at all the hard things that life requires of us. Nothing is harder, after all, than loving another person--but, at the same time, it's also true that nothing is easier, either. That is the greatest paradox of human existence, maybe.
Maybe S is right, and her heart can't close again--but maybe there's another layer to this, and in fact it's not that it CAN'T close again, but that closing it now would take more work than keeping it open. Loving has gotten easier, more natural.
"Say it, Mom," she said, cuddling up to me on the couch.
"You're going to be OK," I said. "That's what you wanted to hear, right?"
She didn't answer, and so I knew it was. We sat there for awhile, until it was time to go back to the fair to volunteer at yet another booth. I asked if she thought she could do it; she said she could, and that she wouldn't go back to the horse, wouldn't even talk about him. And so we did, and although she couldn't keep her promise--she went back to him, of course, though this time, she was less upset, less sure he was really in trouble--she got through the night without disappearing again.
At home, she was back to herself, giddy, obnoxious. "Balls!" she shouted. "I'm just saying BALLS because I know what you think of when I say that. But really, I'm just talking about Cody's DOG TOYS." (Mad laughter).
"You need to go to bed," I said to her.
"Tomorrow," she answered, wisely, sobering up, "is a new day."
Comments