When my daughter was born, it was one of the happiest days of my life. She was my rainbow baby, born following an early miscarriage the year before. Hers was an easy, uneventful pregnancy. I found joy in how my body changed in order to give her exactly what she needed. I had so much fun shopping for all her frilly, little baby dresses and headbands. I was so excited for her to arrive, to have something totally dependent on me. But come delivery time, she wasn't at all interested in being born. She was 10 days late, but more than content to stay where she was. I could just picture her grabbing onto whatever she could hold onto! After a 29-hour labor, she finally made her appearance. All 7lbs 11oz and 21 inches of her, with so much hair that people thought she was wearing a wig (I know, people are weird!).
From the day Ellysa was born I knew I would do whatever was in my power to always protect her. I would raise her in a "normal" family where she would always feel loved and safe. No one would do to her what had been done to me.
I endured severe trauma in my early childhood (birth - 4 years), the effects of which I am only just beginning to understand. It destroyed my trust, and damaged my ability to form emotional attachments. Affection became a scary thing for me. People were unsafe, even the people in your own family.
When my younger sister and I entered foster care, we were placed with an extremely affectionate family. We were hugged, and held, and kissed. Our parents hugged and kissed in front of us. Even today, our family greets each other with a hug and a kiss. It's still really hard for me. It doesn't come naturally.
At some point, I fell into the routine. The kisses before bedtime. The hugging of pretty much every person I knew, whether it was family, extended family or church. It's what was expected, so it was what I did. I never really felt like I had a choice. My body was still not my own. I wasn't allowed to refuse, even when it made me quite uncomfortable. (I'll save that for another post.) During that time I really harbored a general dislike of men. I didn't link that to the events of my early childhood because I just didn't understand it then. I had snippets of memory, but it was all so compartmentalized. I didn't allow the memories of abuse into my conscious thoughts. It was too scary, too painful. Still, I understood that babies needed affection and touch in order to develop, so I set out to do something that was unnatural to me. It came easier than I thought. She was so peaceful and looked like a baby doll. I loved to hold her, to look at her, to dress her up. Olan Mills (I'm really aging myself) made a lot of money off of us.
All the while I was coddling Ellysa, I was teaching her what I knew about the world. Both good and bad. I taught her that men were scary and the world wasn't to be trusted. I taught her that her body was hers and no one-- even her grandparents-- could not force her into hugs or kisses if she felt uncomfortable. That ruffled feathers. I taught her to always be aware of her environment. Don't go places alone, and if she did to exude all the confidence she could muster. Don't be distracted by her phone when she was walking through a store or a parking lot.
I thought I was helping her, preparing her to protect herself. Instead, I was scaring her. Creating fear, increasing anxiety. I thought I was teaching her that I would always be her protector, all she had to do was tell me. Instead, she heard that if she wasn't like me she was weak.
Following her time in YWAM, she moved to North Carolina to live with her roommate. She was young, naive and far from home. My ability to protect her was so limited. I could only hope she was being safe. Sadly, her roommate became involved with drugs. She ransacked Ellysa's room and mail. Living with her became a scary thing. When I visited, the roommate was conveniently never there, so I wasn't able to size her up, to have a clear picture of what Ellysa was dealing with. I didn't have a way to help. I would have liked for my daughter to move home. She wanted to prove that she could make it on her own.
During this time Ellysa met Mike. We loved him! He cooked. He was into computers. He looked like Ryan Reynolds! We spent time with him while we visited, and he was always charming and polite. Behind the curtain, however, he was destroying her credit, emotionally controlling and sexually assaulting her. I still don't know all that happened, but I don't need to know. I can't be mad at her for "letting it happen", when Mike was able to bypass MY radar systems, too.
Eventually Ellysa called and asked us to move her back home. She was broken, sad and angry. I was, too. I had trusted that man with my most valued possession, and he had treated her like she was a raggedy old doll. With time she began to heal and settle into life here.
After Ellysa met her wife, Alli, and moved out our working together became even more important to me. We made sure to see each other each shift. Our offices were close together, and she usually stopped by before she'd head out for the day.
All along Ellysa had been dealing with increasing levels of anxiety. It has been a constant for most of her life. She's medicated. She's professionally treated. Still, it can overwhelm and envelop her.
Nearly 2 years ago I got a phone call no parent wants to get. They were headed to the hospital. My daughter wanted to hurt herself. It's all she could think about. They would let me know more later. My heart was racing. My mind swirled with all the scary thoughts of what she could have done.
I went to work, going through the motions of my day, waiting for news. (On a side note: this is when we learned how incredibly broken the mental health care system is. Despite Ellysa's critical state, no in-take was available to her for 5 days. I don't know what people without support systems do.)
Alli called with the update. They were home. She had taken Ellysa's car keys and hidden all the sharp objects. People would need to stay with Ellysa until she could get into a program the next week. I had never felt more helpless. There was literally nothing I could do to protect her.
Ellysa ended up being out of work for several weeks while she was in treatment. I would walk into her office and begin to cry thinking about what I almost lost. She had left a sweater hanging on her chair. Sometimes, I would stop and touch it. Smell it. I would pray for her, thanking God for sparing her life.
Tomorrow, Ellysa turns 29. It's not lost on me how this could have been a birth remembrance instead of a birthday celebration. I haven't always been able to protect her like I have wanted, but I hope she always feels protected how I could.
*Are you in a mental health crisis?
www.nami.org
www.nimh.nih.gov
www.thetrevorproject.org
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