Dear Mom, today I shouted that I despise you and wish you were never a part of my life.
I feel frightened almost all the time. Over the years of being shuffled between homes, I’ve come to realize that people don’t stay. I’ve learned that caring for someone can lead to heartache, because in a blink, they can be gone. I’ve decided it’s better to push you away first; it feels safer to hate you than to love you, fearing you might abandon me or someone might take me away again.
Mom, today I lashed out and kicked my teacher at school.
I am constantly on edge and overwhelmed. School feels like an impossible challenge for me. There are unexpected sounds, unfamiliar smells, and a whirlwind of chaos with adults demanding things from me. I try hard to maintain my composure to avoid trouble, but the sensory overload often makes me lose control. When everything becomes too intense, I lash out; it’s as if my mind needs a physical release.
Mom, today I hit the dog with a stick.
I feel powerless almost all of the time. For years, strangers have picked me up and taken me to new places, handing me off to others I don’t know. I was never allowed to express my fear or discomfort about these changes. I’ve learned that I have no control over my own life; others dictate what happens to me. Hitting the dog, even though I care for him, gives me a fleeting sense of power.
Mom, today I had a total meltdown in the car with my adoptive brother and his friends. I kicked the seats and yelled that I hate all of you.
I often feel invisible and unheard, particularly in cars with other kids, which still terrifies me. I spent countless hours in vehicles with social workers and other children, being shuffled from one appointment to another, from one temporary home to the next. My feelings and words never mattered. I’ve learned that travel is unpredictable and can lead to anxiety. Cars and other kids together create a panic in me.
Mom, today I scribbled on the kitchen floor with a marker, cut my pants with scissors at school, and dismantled a nightlight after bedtime.
I feel angry almost all of the time. There are fleeting moments when calmness washes over me, but they are rare. The chaos I’ve endured has left a lasting impact on my nervous system. I take my medications, all five of them, and attend therapy, yet the scars of my past remain. I can’t always explain why I sometimes yield to the rage inside and destroy things I care about; it feels beyond my understanding and control.
Mom, I don’t have any real friends.
I often feel lonely. I watch other kids interact effortlessly, their easy smiles and trust in others. They seem to navigate social situations without fear, while I feel lost and anxious. I yearn to understand friendships like they do, but my early relationships were tainted by the absence of family love and stability.
Some might think that because I can’t recall much of my early life, it doesn’t affect me. They couldn’t be more wrong. The lack of consistent comfort and care during my formative years altered my brain development. Stress and anxiety became my constant companions, and now I must face the daunting task of recovery.
It will be incredibly challenging, and I’ll need all the support I can get.
With hope for both of us,
Your complicated kid
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Summary:
This article articulates the inner struggles of a child grappling with trauma, revealing feelings of fear, powerlessness, anger, and loneliness. The narrative emphasizes how past experiences shape their current emotional landscape and the need for support in their journey towards healing.