"Mom, I think I've been shot."
I'm dashing around, trying to complete one of many tasks that will, inevitably, remain incomplete. I dejectedly turn my attention from the half-loaded dishwasher, the disinfectant wipes I tore upon hoping to at least wipe down the table, the online banking site open on my laptop, and a wistful eye on Laundry Mountain.
A deep sigh (it's mine).
"I promise you, you weren't shot," I say flatly.
While you might think I should sound more concerned, please understand that while my home is a disastrous place for many other reasons, the odds of being shot in our quiet, suburban neighborhood are really quite low. Occasionally we will hear abrupt, loud bangs, but they are - without exception - industrious neighbors hammering picket fences, a recycling truck or someone installing underground sprinklers.
My son continues, deeply concerned. "Mom, I need immediate treatment. Come quick." He holds up the body part in question so I can examine it. It's his pointer finger...on which I see absolutely nothing unusual. Upon closer inspection, I suspect he's complaining of a hangnail or a paper cut. I have no idea. But more than a bandage, he needs reassurance that he has not, indeed, been shot.
This started a couple of years ago. He's always been a clingy, anxious kid, and he began taking Prozac long before I care to admit. The medications are what allow us to actually leave the house, though. For as long as I remember, he was scared of birthday parties, costumed characters, darkness, certain songs, certain movie scenes. Colic has nothing on the crying spells we endured when he was a baby. Sometimes I could identify the fear-inducing agent; other times I had no clue. Separation anxiety also entered the mix.
Unfortunately, this particular phobia has proven stubborn and persistent. Sadly, I think he will be fighting this one for the long-term.
At 10, he is a smart, creative, affectionate and
heartful child. People are constantly telling me that he is special (s
pecial like sweet and sincere...not like in the euphemistic sense), that he touches their heart. He really is good down the soul. Unfortunately, that purity and kindness coexists with deeply rooted anxiety and fear. His intelligence counter-intuitively exacerbates the symptoms, fueling his imagination, and proving to be tragically debilitating.
When it comes to the WORRIES, we are at first patient, sympathetic, supportive. We consult with psychologists, specialists and cognitive behavioral therapists, trying a variety of methods and antidotes: worry time; absurdities; talk therapy; role playing; journals; ignoring; exposure; catchphrases; rules; lockboxes. We send the WORRIES packing. We feed them to the fishes. We read books about tomatoes, worry hills and buckets (he has now hidden the books and refuses to read even one more).
We are proud of him for his perseverance in overcoming his anxiety enough to keep going. He triumphantly reports that the good parts of the day outnumbered the WORRY parts. We're relieved and slightly concerned that our son insists and achieves in keeping his fears private, although we question what classmates think when he randomly groans, dramatically clutches his throat and checks his own pulse during math.
His hypochondria begins with himself and extends to those he loves. To him, a shaving cut indicates an infected limb that must be amputated or I will die. If his father is running a few minutes behind, his "go-to" reaction is that his father must be the victim of a fatal car accident, not simply traffic. He touches the dog's nose to see if it feels colder or hotter than yesterday. His sister is not breathing rhythmically enough in her sleep. A little rain indicates the onset of another Hurricane Katrina.
We have a few possible explanations for what triggered this extreme condition, but nothing as dramatic as one might think. We're very blessed that those closest to us are alive, albeit with the various ups and downs of the living. Our son does have a congenital neurological/medical condition that clearly is using his brain as a playground. In private, we call him "best case scenario," because we know we are fortunate that these symptoms would be considered "high functioning" on the spectrum of his condition.
