Don’t cry little one. Take my hand.
Let us walk against the wind together.
Let me be the hand that guides you back to hope. Back to love. – source unknown
Sometimes I forget. I forget the years of his life that he spent alone. Trapped in a crib that was less like a bed
and more like a cage. No matter how much
he cried, there was no one to comfort him or hold him or rock him to
sleep. And sleep was rare for him, not
only because of the constant pain caused by his medical condition, but because of
the strangers who came in his room, coming in at all hours of the day and
night. Strangers who would do painful,
excruciating things to his frail body.
He would scream and wail, begging them to stop, but they only restrained
him more firmly, pinning down his arms and legs so that he could not escape
their torment. Sometimes I forget the
horrible trauma that this child has experienced.
He may have no specific memories of those early
years. He would never be able to
articulate now what happened to him, or describe why, even though it’s been
several years, he continues to have frequent nightmares and unexplained
anxiety. Why he doesn’t want his Mama
out of his sight for even a second. Why
hasn’t he gotten over it yet? He has
been rescued from that former life, and theoretically he should be living
happily every in the safety and security of his loving family.
Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. His body remembers. His cells have not forgotten. His soul bears the invisible scars of being
abandoned. The excruciating physical pain. The utter helplessness.
Is it any wonder that he is plagued by fear? That unfamiliar situations cause him stress? That
he is hyper-alert to his surroundings at all times and doesn’t tolerate surprises
or unexpected changes to his routine? Even
being hugged too tightly or being pinned during a tickle fight causes terrified
shrieking. The uncertainty and
insecurity, the hidden wounds that are still healing, have taken a terrible
toll on his behavior. The behavior that
everyone can see.
