If you knew little Ashley, you probably would have described her as shy. I was actually typecast as Bashful in our Kindergarten’s rendition of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. People were always asking me when I was going to come out of my shell, not stopping to think that I wasn't in there by choice. Now I know the thing I actually experienced was called Selective Mutism. I was walking around with an anxiety disorder and nobody knew. Not my family, not my friends nor my teachers and definitely not me. Nobody knew Little Ashley wasn't just shy, she was terrified. All the time. My stomach was so tied up in knots that I didn’t have regular bowel movements until I was an adult. I pooped my pants during my first sleepover at Snow White’s house when I was five. What a shameful memory. Until now. Now that I know it has a name and I can see that it wasn’t something I was doing wrong, it was something that was happening to me.
I learned all this just weeks ago, right before my 40th birthday. Again I say it: my whole life, I never knew. Ever since I heard the words anxiety disorder I have been walking around with one eye on the rear-view mirror, thinking about all the times I couldn't say a word. Not just when I was a child, either. Well throughout college and into adulthood and even in the last few months when my husband will ask me a question that feels too vulnerable and I can't bring myself to speak. Now I can see it more clearly; now it makes sense.
Now that I know all this, there's a huge part of me that needs everyone to know. Not for me-- I have therapy, social skills, deep relationships, faith and vulnerability to see me through. I want everyone to know this part of me for the sake of the children. For all the shy kids. For all the kids who are dysregulated and either act out or clam up. For those kids who tell us their tummies hurt and we don’t believe them. For the kids who aren’t sleeping through the night.
My husband and I really value mental health and we willingly and openly utilize counseling services. Still, we took months to find a child psychologist when one of our kids had been exhibiting disturbing behavior for a solid year. So I get it. We’d lie there night after night with pillow talk like, “we should probably see somebody,” and “poor thing, something is really wrong,” and “I don’t know if I can handle this.” But eventually we made the calls and put it in our calendar and it has been nothing short of life changing. Not only are we helping her, but she is helping me. I feel like I am, in some ways, witnessing the childhood I could have had. I feel like we are being the change we want to see in the world.
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| "The more a daughter knows the details of her mother's life, the stronger the daughter" Anita Diamant, The Red Tent |
I want to challenge us to think of therapy not only as something we need when something is wrong. I think of it more as a professional service like a massage therapist or hair stylist. I know where to find one locally and I see them when something is a little off and they help me feel like myself again. Sometimes I go a few times a year and other times I go a few years between visits. We don’t need a disorder to see a counselor because we all have stuff to unpack. Just like we all need a haircut from time to time-- even our kids.
I read an article today saying a federal task force just recommended that children as young as eight years old be screened for anxiety, even if they don't have symptoms. Because a 2018-2019 National Survey of Children's Health found that 7.8% of children aged 3-17 had an anxiety disorder. And that was before the Pandemic.
Our children could use a therapist when they transition to a new school year. When they see something scary in the news. When something embarrassing happened in public. When they ask questions we find it hard to answer. When a loved one or pet dies. When they are bullied. Eh hem, when they've just lived through a global pandemic [elbow, elbow]. The list could go on and on. Their little brains are more malleable and extraordinary than we can imagine and, if given the opportunity, we can help them to create neural pathways that will guide them for a lifetime. We can’t shield our children from the hard things in life. We can't fix our kids or change them— nor should we want to— but we can give them words. And words have the power of life and death.
On my dad’s last day of life he confided in me that he was scared to die. I told him that I was scared to lose him and, in fact, I was scared all the time. He looked at me with pure shock and said, “really?” To his dying day he didn’t think I was ever scared. He didn't know I was hiding fear in the quiet spaces. He thought I was resilient and brave and amazing and in many ways I am, if not in spite of that persistent fear then because of it. But what if he knew then what we know now? What if he really knew me? I don’t blame him one bit for not knowing but now that I know better, I’m going to do better. Not just for me, but for the kids. Mine and yours.
