Dr Hannah smiled. ‘Well, these things do tend to take a little time to diagnose,’ she said, and at that point Colby got up and walked out of the room.
Comment (1):
Good on you, Caitlin, for exposing that woman to some criticism. Yes, I think I can guess who Dr Hannah is! I had a very similar experience with her and I get so sick of these so-called experts charging a fortune for advice that is absolutely useless in the real world. All they ever say is ‘Be patient’ and ‘Things take time’. Like you say, we’re living with children who are tearing up our homes and our marriages – how much more patient are we meant to be!
The (Alternative) Book of Benjamin
Hello again. I hope this isn’t becoming a blog of misery – just one bad week or bad month after the other – but I really feel I need to update everyone. So the title of today’s post is ‘What to do when you think your child might be seriously disturbed’. I know that some of you won’t approve of me saying this, but the longer this goes on, the more I’m starting to think we aren’t having the normal problems that people have when they adopt a child from overseas.
We have adopted a child who is seriously disturbed!!!
Example one: I took Benjamin to the park today. I felt that I had to get him outside. I can’t let him lie in his cot, or stand watching the TV all day. But he refused to play on any of the equipment. The only thing he would do is run around after pigeons. I wouldn’t mind if he ran like a normal child, but Benjamin doesn’t run like a normal child. He runs on his toes, like a ballerina, and he flaps his hands, and what’s worse, the expression on his face never changes:
it’s stoic. So, he’s running on his toes with his hands flapping and no expression at all on his face.
I could see other mothers looking, wondering what was wrong with him, maybe even feeling pity for me. I said, ‘Come on, Benjamin. Don’t chase the bird,’ but who was I kidding? Benjamin pays no attention to anything I say. He’s never once – not in the entire time we’ve had him – even made eye contact with me.
I have now taken him to see THREE different therapists to see what might be behind this behaviour, and none of them has given Benjamin any kind of formal diagnosis. I don’t know if they’re scared of doing it, or whether they’ve just never seen a child like him or what’s going on, but it’s so frustrating.
Which brings me to Benjamin’s new habit, which is wandering through the house at night, taking food out of the pantry and hoarding it in his bedroom.
I only found out by accident that he was doing it. I was in bed with Colby – a rare enough thing these days, since he’s taken to spending every possible hour at the office, claiming that he’s got to ‘watch the overseas markets’, whatever that means – when I heard Benjamin heading down the attic stairs.
He’s easily able to get out of his crib and, in fact, has taken to sleeping mainly on a pile of blankets that he’s thrown on the floor.
I heard the pantry open and I thought, ‘Oh, okay, he’s hungry. And maybe this is an opportunity for us to bond.’ So, I shuffled my feet into slippers, and went down the hall. The kitchen was in darkness, and the pantry door was shut – we have a walk-in pantry – but I could see under the door the pantry light was on.
I gently opened the door, and there he was: Benjamin was inside the pantry. His arms were laden with tinned food – tuna fish, and spaghetti in cheese sauce, and Chicken of the Sea – and you name it, he had it.
I spoke very gently. ‘Hey, buddy,’ I said, ‘do you want me to make you something to eat?’
Benjamin did not look up. He stood for a few seconds, and then slowly dropped the cans on the floor, where they bounced and rolled. I had to dance my feet around to make sure that they didn’t get hit.
I was ready to grab Benjamin if he tried to run, but he didn’t try to run. He just stood there.
‘It’s okay to eat, you know,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you let me make you a tuna-fish sandwich?’ I tried to take him by the arm, but he twisted free and ran up the stairs, back to his room.
A week or so later, I found a stash of food in his room. He was hoarding tuna fish in one of his toy boxes, under his crib. And, okay, stock-piling food was one of the things that everyone said is possible. It makes sense. Children who have been denied food in an orphanage might want to store food. The main thing is not to make a fuss. Apparently your child will eventually learn that there is plenty of food and they don’t need to hoard.
As it happened, we had an appointment with one of Benjamin’s three counsellors the following day. I picked him up from the corner of the living room, where he was huddled, and I said, ‘Okay, why don’t we go and talk about this cans-of-food business with somebody who can help us?’
He made no attempt to assist me. My hands were on either side of his torso. He had his back to me. His head was hanging down,
with his chin resting on his chest as if they were attached. There’s actually a permanent rash there now, like a mark, from where he drives his chin into his chest.
I turned him towards me and tried to get a look at his face. His eyes were closed. I’m used to that. I don’t mind that. It’s better than the kicking and the thrashing and the screaming and the crying. This huge wave of compassion washed over me: he was being so quiet and stressed, like he was hurting on the inside and couldn’t say so.
I held him close to me – it was one of the first times he’d let me do it – and I could hear his heart beating, and I could feel his breath against my skin. I was thinking, ‘Oh, you poor kid, you’re so mixed up and afraid,’ and – like an idiot – I kissed the top of his head.
I say ‘like an idiot’ because if there is one thing that sends Benjamin absolutely off his trolley, it’s if anyone tries to kiss him. But I put my lips there on his head, and for a moment he didn’t resist me. I could smell his scalp – it wasn’t pretty, since he’s impossible to get in the bath – and then I noticed that Benjamin had his hands balled up in fists, and they were flexing and releasing by his sides.
I put one arm under his bottom. Of course it was wet. It’s always wet with urine. Every pair of pants he owns is ruined. He’s red raw around his genitals because he never gets dry. I lifted him up, so I was standing and we were basically face-to-face, and that’s when he bit me. Literally, he bit me. He sank sharp little teeth into my cheek. I cried out, and tried to wrench him loose, but he had turned into a terrier.
I gasped and pulled and tried to get away but it was too late. He’d really got his teeth into me. Of course I’d dropped him by this point, but it was too late: I had a really big cheek bruise. And I
couldn’t help myself: I just grabbed him, and spun him around and really whacked his bottom.
And do you know what? It was like he didn’t care. In fact, for maybe the first time ever, he actually grinned at me.
Comment (1):
OMG, Caitlin, this is not good. It sounds to me like Benjamin has very serious problems. I know you keep hoping that things will get better but I can’t help thinking that they’ll get worse. These kids, the ones who come out of orphanages badly damaged by their experiences, they start out being very strange but they can end up dangerous! I don’t want to panic you but I think that Benjamin is showing signs of mental illness. I know that you’ve said that you’ve seen three therapists already but my advice is: don’t stop there!! You need to get help for him!!
Comment (2):
Hi, Caitlin, it’s Sandi. I thought I’d write to say I’m sorry we didn’t see you at our last meeting. I know you’re having a really tough time but remember it can help to get together with others in the same situation and not just online! Don’t forget that we are here for you.
The (Alternative) Book of Benjamin
The title of this post is ‘I Am Slowly Going Out Of My Mind’ – and I think that’s self-explanatory! I realise things never seem to get better – despite people telling me that they will – and I’m feeling ragged, and I’m wondering what our next step is going to have to be.
I’ve already explained how Benjamin gets out of his crib and wanders through the house at night. At first it was because he was looking for bottles of Sustagen and taking food to hoard, but now it seems like something else.
Most nights, he gets up around midnight. He makes an effort to do it quietly, but because I’m sleeping on a bed of nails, I can hear him. He comes down the stairs. He goes into the kitchen. Then he’ll reach up to flick the faucet, to get a drink. He doesn’t use a glass or a mug or a cup. He drinks directly from the faucet. I’ve seen him do it. He dips his head down and drinks from the stream. I’ve tried to stop him. I’ve said, ‘Can I get you a glass, Benjamin?’ It doesn’t work. He stops what he’s doing and freezes, like a statue. He can
stand stock still in the dark in the kitchen, not moving for I don’t know how long. I’ve never tested it.
Once he’s had his drink, he goes to the pantry. He takes the food that he wants, and then he starts opening the drawers. The first time I heard him do it, my heart started racing. I said to Colby, ‘He’s looking for knives.’ Colby said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ but he
was
looking for knives. I heard him rattling through the knife drawer. And we still have the monitor in his bedroom. So, I can sit up in bed and watch him when he returns to his crib. And one night, he did go up the stairs with a knife. It wasn’t a carving knife. I’m not being melodramatic. I don’t think he’s going to stab us to death in our beds. But he was holding a butter knife, and once he got back to his room he was running it across the bars of his crib, presumably for the sound it made.
I couldn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night. I was actually terrified.
I suppose it goes without saying that my heart is breaking. This adventure that we went on was supposed to be so much fun. Like everyone, I had a vision of being that family – that all-American family! – where the dad goes off to work while the mum stays home in the beautiful house taking care of the lovely kids.
I’d do some online study. I’d get a degree in massage, or nutrition, or interior design. We’d visit friends on weekends. We’d take vacations. Benjamin would learn to ski. We’d go to Disneyland!
What have we got instead?
I’m trapped in my house with a disturbed child and nobody seems able to help. We can’t put Benjamin into a school. Not after the disaster with St Paul’s, and he’s really got no better. I can’t
imagine what kind of school would take him. He has days where he does nothing but thrash around on the floor. He kicks his legs in circles around the floor, like some kind of break dancer. Of course he conks out eventually. He falls asleep. But the way he falls asleep is strange. He will just stop. And then he’ll snore that awful snore that we heard on the first day.
But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is that Benjamin has now found a way of getting out of the house. He got out just the other day, went out of the house, wandered down the hill and around the corner, through somebody’s garden, right up to their house, and looked in through the window.
The poor lady who lives there, she almost had a heart attack. Luckily she saw that Benjamin was only a child, not a stalker or a peeping Tom. She was startled, but she went outside and collected Benjamin from the bushes outside the window. She asked him what he wanted. He didn’t answer. She asked him where he lived. He didn’t answer, but pointed up the hill to our house.
Thank God he did.
I would hate the police to come into our house and see the fortress it’s become. I’ve had to put child locks on everything.
Anyway, the lady took Benjamin by the hand and walked back to our home with him. She knocked on our front door and she had that expression that women get when they want to have a serious conversation with you about your children. I was so horrified to see her standing there with Benjamin that I didn’t know what to say.
She gave me a lecture. I kept my mouth shut. I don’t expect anyone to understand about Benjamin. I don’t expect them to understand what he’s like. I thanked our neighbour. I closed the
door. I told Colby when he got home and he scolded me. He said, ‘Why didn’t you say, “He’s a Russian orphan. He hasn’t been with us all that long. We’re still trying to figure him out”?’
Well, didn’t we have a fight! I was so upset. I said, ‘He’s not a Russian orphan! He’s your son. I have the paperwork to prove it. All that paperwork! Paperwork that took six months to put together!’
I reminded him how we had taken turns, placing kisses on the envelope before we’d sent it off.
All my dreams were in that envelope. All my hopes for a beautiful family. And what did I get? A boy who rocks backward and forward on his knees in his bedroom, who refuses to eat, who won’t make eye contact, who is now playing peeping Tom with the lady down the road. I know it’s nothing I’ve done that has made him this way. Benjamin was like this the day we picked him up. But I always thought that if I just loved him enough, we’d be able to fix him.
We’d love him, and keep on loving him, and eventually he’d crack, and we’d cry and bond, and on we’d go as a family. It hasn’t happened, and more and more I can’t help thinking, ‘What have we done? What have
I
done? Who is this monster that I’ve moved into our house, and did I really invite him? And can it really be true that I can’t now ask him to leave? Not now? Not ever?’
Comment (1):
Oh, Caitlin, I can hear your anguish in your post. We all go through these moments when we wonder what on earth we’ve done, but you are strong and you will get through this and the rewards will be immense. You have been given an opportunity to really change a child’s life and that is not an opportunity that can or should be
wasted. I know you probably don’t feel like company right now, but please, please remember that we are here, and I am happy to talk to you anytime. Hang in there! Sandi Miller, Ho-Ho-Kus, USA
Comment (2):
I have no idea what you are trying to achieve with these whining posts. You obviously regret your decision, but telling everyone about it is really bad form. Have you ever considered that your son is growing up and he can feel your negativity. Worse, he will soon be able to read these posts? Maybe you think you’ve disguised yourself and by using only your first name people won’t be able to find out who you are, but believe me it’s not hard to work out your real identity, but then maybe you don’t care. Maybe all this is you showing off and seeking sympathy because really every post seems to be about YOU.