Patience. It's what I'm learning, what I'm teaching, what I need more of. Patience.
"Children create elaborate imaginary worlds when the real world is too stressful to deal with." The words of the counselor this week as Lizzy had her first counseling appointment. Defeat. That's what I felt first. Defeat. I've made some hard choices over the past couple years, in the belief that in the long run, they would be better for all of us. It would allow us all more peace. More space to be ourselves, find ourselves, become better versions of ourselves. And with one sentence, I caved. Not then, not there. Later. Alone. I cried. My daughter, my Dizzy, my little shining light of positivity and love and fun and laughs... she's created a deep inner world full of imaginary friends because the real world may be too much for her.
Patience came only after defeat. Sadness. Confusion. Anger. Doubt. Then came the patience. But not in that moment. In that moment I couldn't see that she was already so stressed at the age of two that we went into occupational therapy for eating issues and noise issues and sensory issues. In that moment, I didn't remember that the elaborate fantasy world began before the divorce... or did it? When was she just a girl with a huge imagination and when did it cross into an escape?
Patience. It's here now. I must remember that I, too, as a child preferred escape. Fantasy worlds, books, the stories I wrote, movies... anything that wasn't me. Wasn't real life. Wasn't a mirror. i hated mirrors. Still kinda do. Patience. With more counseling, she can keep that wonderful imagination without escaping to it so much that she says she's lonely often. The trade off between choosing imaginary friends over the real ones who reach out to her is loneliness. The result of such overwhelming shyness that ANY attention, positive or negative, is embarrassing is loneliness. I know, I was that shy. I wanted approval, don't get me wrong. From teachers, coaches, parents and friends. I would just rather it came quietly, privately. I see that same shyness in her (one I've worked to overcome somewhat) and want to talk her out of it, train her out of it, show her how hard it makes life. Patience. This counselor is an amazing one. She has helped William immeasurably. Patience. We'll get there.
William has made it so far in this past year. But like our dog (no I'm not comparing children to pets, let me finish), who after one bad encounter made my stomach clench whenever I felt him tense at another dog, I forget how far William has made it when he has one moment that rings too familiar of the past. I forget he's only EIGHT. My stomach clenches, I try to rack my brains for quick fixes. Patience, Mariska, patience.
William's year started out rough. Football wasn't what he wanted and that on top of being in a class with none of his friends, his anxiety shot through the roof. We had referrals, fights, lost recesses, special "social group" counseling at school, sleepless nights, yelling blow outs. Pain. We're in baseball now. His counselor says he doesn't need her any more, he has made such strides on controlling his anger or frustration or disappointment or anxiety. Parents at school have complimented me (well him, to me) on the amazing strides they've seen him make. And then he strikes out at baseball, his true love. And then again and he throws a bat and my stomach clenches. Patience. I must remember that I snap too, it doesn't mean I'm a time bomb who needs help. It doesn't mean he is. I've just slipped. So will he. So will we all. My dear friend Annie reminded the other day as I beat myself up, that I'm HUMAN. I have to let us all be human. And not let my stomach clench and that evil voice rise that says, "Mariska, you've failed. Your choices are making the anxiety worse, not better". Patience. Breathe, unclench stomach, have faith. I can do this. I can set the example of patience, so my children don't learn to beat themselves up.
As much as he loves baseball, William is tired. His hitting has taken a dive like it does at the end of every season and it's already his weak point. Patience. I tell him this as he hits one today and has a nice bunt. Patience, I tell him. Don't let it get in your head. Don't be convinced that you'll strike out. You KNOW how to hit. You've done it the whole season. I'm a hypocrite in that moment... as I let the past get in my head and convince myself I'm striking out. Patience. He and I will learn together. I won't tense and he won't tense and we'll love and forgive ourselves. Lizzy and I will learn together. We won't escape so much, but face the mirror and love ourselves. We have our future ahead. Time to work NOW on what I buried and didn't work on for 40 years. I'm letting them work on it young. We have a future ahead.
Patience. Lizzy is headed for first grade, excited and happy for it... for a full day of school. And she's THRILLED she gets to see a counselor like her brother did. Have her own private time. William and his team are headed for playoffs. Summer is here and Jason and I talk of swimming or fishing or camping with the kids. Patience.
"Steps up the mountain," Jason used to tell me in our first heady days of dating... when I would panic or think too far ahead or worry that he would be freaked out by our connection. He was so calm. "Steps up the mountain."
I'll remember his words now. In the swirl of imaginary friends and counselors and baseball and strikeouts... I'll focus on the steps up the mountain instead. Laughs in the pool. A calm night. Teasing each other with funny nicknames we've all made up. Art on the art wall. A good hit at the plate. A beautiful fairy Lizzy drew in counseling. Steps up the mountain.
Patience.
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