Mourning Missy

*From my former blog*

As Zoey becomes more our daughter, letting go of past traumas and abandonments, as she attaches more deeply to us, what filled her up before has to go somewhere. As Missy becomes Zoey her "stuff" has to be released, a little at a time. These last two nights, I've been waist deep in it. Tomorrow morning, an investigator will be coming to gather more information about the incidents that occured last spring. This has triggered PTSD-like behaviors. Before she went to bed tonight, I really thought I was going to have to call in an emergency sitter for Maddie so I could take Z to the ER to be sedated. She had attempted to pick a fight with me over bedtime, but I could tell it was anxiety about tomorrow - but she insisted on arguing about other things like me being late from a meeting earlier and not spending enough time with her. She had some valid points, but her anger was overblown for my little offenses. Finally, when I wouldn't give in to her need to fight with me, she broke down. Her sobbing and the intermittent visible urges to rage made it clear this wasn't about me running late. She cried like she would never be able to convince herself to stop. When I did get to her to look up me, the pain in her eyes was utter misery. Eventually, I talked her through it. I remain so calm in these situations that I surprise myself - I sometimes say to myself in my head "holy crap how are you not loosing it!?" I get into a "zone" when these things arise, both the terribly painful ones and the painfully terrible ones. I just go to center and know I have to remain calm...I must be the parent she needs; strong, calm, ever nurturing, unfazed by her sometimes repulsive behavior. I don't always begin that way. Tonights argument had me at first arguing back, but as she pushed to take the argument higher, I realized we weren't talking about bedtime anymore and then I let my end of the rope go. I went to center, she fell apart. After she pulled herself back out of that hell, she asked me to cook her some scrambled eggs and then promised to go to bed. I layed with her awhile and we didn't talk about tomorrow at all.

Tuesday night's release of "stuff" resulted in stiffled speech and stuttering. After letting some anxiety out, she cried silently and surprised me in quite a strange way by coming to me and sitting in my arms to let me hold her. In adoption terms, that is known as a breakthrough. A moment when the child claims you or clearly demonstrates that they see themselves as your child. Letting someone hold her is something she doesn't often do. I stroked her nearly bald head and just said "it will be ok." There are a million things I could say in moments like these, but sometimes the simplest is the most profound. As we sat there, I was struck with conflicting emotions - deep grief and gratitude. Grief for what she's been through and gratitude that I am finally here for her. When she finally stopped crying last night, she also stopped speaking. Any words she did speak were hard for her to get out, she stuttered forcefully to answer some of my questions about what she was feeling. It occured to me to acknowledge the difficulty she was having, I asked her if she knew why she was having trouble talking. With a couple of forced words and hand gestures, she expressed that if she started talking she was so angry that we'd end up having to call 911, so it was better for her to remain silent.

I grieve this. I mourn Missy. No person ever starts out this way. The things that we see now are the result of things that have happened to her. I mourn her life before I could protect her. Watching her pull out her own hair, one side is almost all gone now, seeing her have moments of real, brutal misery...I could say it's too much, but too much for what? There's no way through this except through it. There's no saying "uh, this is just too intense for me, sorry." I totally understand now the phrase some people use about adoption, particularly older child adoption, "this is a labor of love." Because the emotional pain is equated with the physical pain of child birth. You can't not have your baby once you're ready to deliver (believe me!) and you can't not birth your adopted child once you've claimed them as your own. As Zoey lets herself become mine (attaches), she has to let some of the pain out to let the love in. It's sort of a tragically beautiful thing - she's becoming a newer version of herself and Missy, with all of her tragedy, must be mourned and laid to rest.

Any doubts I had about the credibility of her accusations evaporated in the face of the misery I saw in her eyes these last two nights. Think what you will, torment like this can not be faked. Not on purpose. Not for attention. I didn't always know this, regretfully now I do.