My Trauma. My Trigger. My Story.

I picked my son up from his first foray into standardized college entrance exams in the form of the PSAT in November. We had discussed that this test experience was just an opportunity to see what the test was like. It held no bearing on his future. He was taking it early to just experience the test, so I had encouraged him not to study for it or prepare… It was supposed to be a stress-free experience.

As he walked out of the testing site and to my car, his head was down. He climbed into the car and explained that he had not been able to read the questions. He was devastated.

My son does not have a learning disability associated with reading. He does have anxiety, and when his anxiety is bad, his brain shuts down. And when his brain shuts down, he cannot read.

We have seen the results of this on test scores since he was in the first grade. His scores were useless in determining his academic progress because they told the story, not of his reading level, but of his anxiety levels. Scores would fluctuate from far below grade level to far above and back again in a matter of months.

We both know this. He has tools in his toolbox to help navigate this in school, using audio books, extra time for assignments, and access to mental health breaks during tests, all while we also rely on medicine and CBT to support him in needing those tools less often.

We both knew that this PSAT test was inconsequential, but he was sad all day. And so, I jumped into “Mom Mode.”

You see, when you are the mother of a child who has experienced suicidal ideations before, who has received phone calls from counselors and therapists telling you that your son needs to be on 24-hour watch, who has sat with your son as he cried and cried and cried… his triggers are yours.

So, we did all the things that we are supposed to do. I encouraged him to play piano, get outside, work on his artwork, play tennis. I took him for his favorite foods and hot chocolate. I offered to have his friends hang out with him and to visit his brother. I felt like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by my memories of him in his darkest times and of me in mine.

He was sad all day, but then the next day came, and he was fine. He was ready to discuss a plan of action. He wanted to request accommodations for the college entrance exams and to get tutoring early, so that he could feel more comfortable. He wanted to take the tests earlier so that he could avoid taking them on a computer. And we have moved on.

I realized that the day before he just had a bad day and a normal reaction to a hard situation. He wasn’t entering into a depressive episode.

He wasn’t the one who was being triggered. I was.

Today, we learned that a friend of my son committed suicide last night. He will hear about this at school. And so, the puppet master has been triggered again. I have contacted his school counselor to have her check on him. I am cancelling my plans and meetings, so he is not alone this afternoon after school. I am making some comfort food for him and asked his dad to play tennis with him this evening. I know that these are all reasonable responses from any parent in this situation, but I also know that when I was sobbing in the shower this morning, it was not just for the child we have lost and their family, but also because I am terrified.

I live in constant unending fear that I learned from past experiences. And I am more than capable of knowing in part of my brain that my son will wake up tomorrow and be ok. He is healthier now. He is stronger now. He has tools and supports and a level of maturity that he didn’t have before. But the other side of my brain still lives in that traumatic period of our lives.

I often think of trauma as something I carry around. Sometimes I hold it in my arms, and sometimes I put it down and it just follows me around.? When I am healthy it’s like a little grey storm cloud that is following me from a distance, but it, like a child, likes to be carried. Every once in a while, it just jumps back in my arms at a moment’s notice and then it takes time to reassure it that we are ok and safe and then put it back down to walk on its own again.

That storm cloud of trauma is fluffy and fierce at the same time. Having my trauma there, following me around is safe. It's soft to hold and to land on if I fall and it's protective of me, but like any good storm cloud…it's best viewed from a distance.

My trauma jumped into my arms this morning. It had its arms wrapped around my neck clinging like a preschooler getting dropped off on the first day of school. It was shooting out lightning and thunder and it was screaming and crying that we need to stay together, and I am still trying to detangle myself from its arms and put it down and reassure it that we are both strong enough to get through this day.

As I was on the phone with his counselor asking her to check on him and making sure that this very over-worked and overloaded case worker remembered my son’s particular mental health history, I realized that as worried as I was that he may be triggered by the loss of his friend, I was actually responding to my own triggers and the conclusions I was jumping to on how my son would react.??

My son is going to learn a lesson today in grief that a teenager should not have to learn. We will traverse this horror and know that there will be pain. And my little cloud of trauma will be triggered over and over and jump into my arms and pull at my strings, and his will too. But I believe that we will both travel through this next journey from a place of empathy that does not need to be crippling. Perhaps we will be able to remember that you cannot get to the other side of pain without going through it, but that there is another side of pain. It doesn’t last forever.

I am not equating a panic attack in the PSAT with the loss of a child, but I am recognizing that the same cloud of trauma that made me panic when he had a bad day in November is what is speaking to me because my past trauma is there in the big moments and the small. And navigating it in the smaller moment of November is helping me today because I remember that the next day came and he was ok. Today, I can already see that there is a next day. I’m putting that storm cloud down and asking it to take a step or two back so that I can concentrate on what’s ahead.

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