My nine-year-old has a demon. It's called anxiety. Anxiety disorders which strike children prior to puberty mean that these children are at especially high risk of developing a mood disorder later on, according to research done by Myrna Weissman at Columbia University. And it happens, all too often, to children of mothers who deal with depression--especially if they weren't getting adequate treatment (as I wasn't, during my pregnancy with Rebecca and for the first year after her birth). Or maybe it was just in the cards; maybe it would have happened no matter what. All I know is that my youngest was born after I knew more about how to take care of myself, and her equilibrium is pretty steady. But my nine-year-old was diagnosed at age seven as having an anxiety disorder. When she is not freaking out over something, anxiety can manifest as rage.
Yesterday she got upset because summer camp was going to feature some dance lessons that day. Rebecca is very self-conscious about performing in public; she didn't want to go. She told us that. She told us that again. She told us perhaps 25 times during breakfast: "I don't wanna go to camp today." At what point does a parent say, "Okay, honey, you don't have to," and at what point does a parent say, "You have to at least try"? We opted for the latter; letting a child know that throwing a hissy fit will get her out of something she wants to do...well, we just weren't going there. She began to cry. She began to moan in a theatrical way. My five-year-old tried to comfort her and was rudely rebuffed. I took my five-year-old into the living room and laced her shoes while telling her she had done a sweet thing, that this wasn't her fault, and that her big sister wasn't feeling well. She nodded; she's seen these things before--all her life, in fact. Meanwhile, back in the family room, Rebecca was getting louder and more insistent: she wasn't going, that was final, nobody could make her. And what's more, she hated us. She hated us all.
At these times, one of two things happens to me. Either I get very Zen and just ride out the storm, or I get hauled into the maelstrom myself. This time I managed to maintain my Zen. Rebecca was hysterical now, red faced and crying. "You are having an anxiety attack," I said. "I DON'T CARE!" she screamed at me. Her green eyes were like demon eyes. I did something I rarely do: I got one of my own anti-anxiety pills, cut it in half, and offered it to her. "It will help," I said. "Not for every time, but this time I think it will help."
"I DON'T WANT YOUR STUPID PILLS!" she screamed. "Okay," I said. The last thing I would do was force it down her throat. I knew at that moment that millions of parents would be horrified I had even offered it to her.
It got uglier. More screaming, more vitriol. She had worked herself up into complete hysteria over the prospect of having to learn dance steps in front of people she did not know. Finally my husband picked her up and carried her out the door. She was screaming, grabbing at the door frame, fighting every inch of the way. I can't imagine what the neighbors saw. He put her down just outside and said, "Now will you walk?" Her answer was to race upstairs to her room and lock the door. I went upstairs with the cat and talked my way in. She was sobbing on the side of her bed. We sat and stroked the cat for a while, which helped. Eventually--it took about 15 minutes--I got her downstairs. We got her hairbrush, a cold damp cloth (her eyes were red and swollen), her shoes and socks, her lunch. When my husband pulled out from the driveway, all I could see was her face in the back seat, tears running down her cheeks, her mouth making the words, "I HATE YOU."
I went inside and sat down. My hands were shaking. I called her therapist and told her what had happened. "You did the right thing," her doctor said. I even told her about the pill. "I'm not an M.D.," she said, "but I think a psychiatrist would have told you to do that."
"I know a lot of parents who would report me for that," I said miserably.
"They don't know what it's like," she said.
"I feel like crying," I said.
"Then do," she said.
So I did. I put my head on my desk and sobbed.
That afternoon at 3 I picked her up. I could expect one of two things: either a sullen kid, full of rage, or Miss Congeniality--the persona she adopts when she realizes she has made a spectacle of herself and wants to forget it as soon as possible. This time, it was Miss Congeniality. She bounced to the car, all smiles.
"How was camp?" I asked.
"Great!"
I'm still getting over this scene; so is my husband. The five-year-old has weathered the storm, more or less. This is our life. It could happen again next week, next month. You never know. Neither does she. My big girl, my sweet girl, has these demons to fight, and because of that, we all do.