Hope…is knowing that there is attainable solution to what otherwise would appear to be a hopeless situation. As Andra grew older so did her symptoms. During her preschool years she ardently feared the grass. She couldn’t touch it, walk on it (even with shoes on), have a picnic on it, or be anywhere near it. Play dates were spent watching the other children play and frolic on the grass, while she waited patiently for them to finish. My heart broke while I watched her long to partake in the fun, but her fear rooted her to her spot. I tried everything. I read everything. I watched everything. I did everything I knew, but she still couldn’t get past her fears. I thought it was a phase she would outgrow, but her fear petrified her. The one advice given to me was to expose her to the things she feared in order to show her there was nothing bad that would happen to her. That philosophy was the one biggest factor for her, and one used even today.
Exposure therapy was the first step back from all the diagnoses of Broad Spectrum Autism, OCD, Panic Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, and Hypersensitivity Disorder. We saw the results, after years of dealing with what some termed as a devastating diagnosis. The first time we tried it was tough. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to intentionally cause my daughter anxiety over something many would think was insignificant. So what that she didn’t like grass, but I also saw an inkling of more fear and frustration on the horizon, and I knew that if I backed down at that moment then recovery would never be possible.
I carried Andra outside, gave her a quick hug and gently placed her on the grass without shoes on her feet. At first, she was like a deer caught in the headlights. She didn’t move. Her arms readied at her sides in case she fell. I could see as her face initially registered her shock, which quickly turned to dismay, and then full out panic. She was frozen, literally paralyzed with fear. This was it. I had to move before I lost the opportunity and made matters worse. I took both tiny little hands in mine and without hesitation, gently led her forward. She was rooted and was not about to make my job any easier.
I coaxed, cajoled and finally had to give her a firm, but gentle tug over the grass. Who would of thought a three-year old could be so immoveable. With a little effort, I finally got her through the grass. She screamed bloody murder. My heart broke. I thought, “Oh my god, what have I done”. I cried along with her, feeling like the worst person in the world. I was mentally and emotionally done with this type of therapy. To me it was pure torture. I didn’t want to do it again. When my husband came home, he asked me how it went. I was disappointed, mainly because I had expected immediate results. I explained how heart wrenching it was because she reacted like she was being tortured. There was no way we would do it again.
My husband listened and then calmly stated, “what’d the doctor say?” I paused. I knew but I couldn’t bring myself to do it again. What was the mandate from the pediatrician—if we didn’t want to use medications than the only way to overcome some of her issues was to rely on other methods like exposure therapy. My emotions had collapsed. Nothing or no one could persuade me from thinking that all she was going through stemmed from the fact that I had not wanted her pregnancy in the first place. I was being punished, and I had no one to blame but myself for what was happening to my daughter. It was the sentiment that plagued me, as I watched my daughter become absorbed by her symptoms.
It took a while, but I came to the realization that I could either wallow in my guilt or I could actively do something to help her, and give her hope for the future. It was the first time I had wished for a “normal” child. I had to get over myself, and the self-recriminations and put the needs of my child over the guilt that I felt. The next day I tried again. I was determined this time I wouldn’t give up and let the therapy do its job.
Once I changed my mindset, it didn’t take long for the exposure therapy to work. It was during the end of the second session, when we finished and I was holding Andra, she turned her tear-stained face to me and looked into my eyes. But instead of seeing panic there was puzzlement. I asked her what was wrong and she answered—“go”. She wanted to go again. This time we walked together across the grass hand in hand, and an inkling of relief crept in…there was hope.