I knew as soon as I picked her up from the sitter's. Tears were welling up in her eyes and she was visibly shaken.
I loaded her little brother into his car seat, then helped her throw her violin into the back seat, and took a deep breath. I watched her in the rear view mirror as she buckled her seatbelt and simultaneously wiped the tears that now fell down her face.
"Lyric, you can do this" I said. But the words were hollow - even to me. The words came out of my mouth but my heart was crying out "there's NO WAY she can do this." She knew it too. And the tears fell even harder.
It was recital night. The junior high orchestra concert. And the very real possibility that my once fearless daughter would have a severe anxiety or panic attack in the middle of their performance. This was now our life. Challenge Lyric to take on new opportunities and then desperately hold our breath knowing that at any moment she could have a break down - a break down marked by sudden, terrified screeching and a panicked need to cling to any human remotely close to her. "The world is spinning!" "I can't feel my legs!" "Stop the spinning! MOM STOP THE SPINNING!". "Help me! Help me! Help me!"
Once, it happened in a movie theater with her dad. A single man. With a little girl. In the dark. Screaming for help. It happened another time during a fireworks display with her stepdad, my husband, Pat. Concerned passers by intervened. "Are you ok?" "Do you know him?"
We used to be able to predict when they might happen. As she reached her teenage years we were blindsided. At the mall. During a hair cut. At a graduation ceremony. Once she has a panic attack in any particular location or situation she forever fears returning there. In fact, a therapist explained to me that clinical panic disorder is when you "panic about having a panic attack".
Wonderful.
So when she had a panic attack in her bedroom over Christmas we couldn't get her to sleep in her own bed for over a month. Two Tylenol PMs (yes, I did) and a looooong night sitting by her bedside later and we successfully broke her "weirdness" (as she calls it). At least when it came to her bedroom. But we had won one of the battles. We would win more right?
So here we were. The night of her orchestra concert and she was fearing her own fear.
The last concert hadn't gone well. She was overwhelmed. Crowded into a sea of students. With music just a little too fast for her. People were watching her. She panicked. She managed to ride it out that night with discomfort only her dad and I would recognize, but the fear stuck with her.
So I spent the 15 minute drive home glancing in my rear view mirror as she visibly struggled to be brave. I had my own struggle. My mind told me she had to try. She had to show up to that concert. Take her place on the stage and give it her best shot. She knows the violin, I told myself. She does well in private lessons. (Lessons she's taken for nearly 2 years). She has orchestra class every day and has one-on-one lessons with the orchestra teacher once a week. She has performed solo for her 6th grade Christmas concert. And performed beautifully. She knows how to play the violin. And that mama voice deep inside me - the one that ignores a mom's heart and instills tough love - told me she had to do this. The world is not kind. She will not get breaks along the way. She has to learn how to face these fears, this anxiety, and work through it. When all along I wanted to take her home, take her in my arms, and cuddle her fears away.
"Mom?", she asked. "I really do try to run away from my fears, but they always chase me and catch me."
My heart broke. "I know sweetheart. I know."
"Can I have one of your magic pills when we get home?" she asked.
I smiled. "Yes, you can have a magic pill. That will help."
After the Fireworks Panic Attack (we give them names now - the Bleacher Panic Attack, the Family Picture Panic Attack, the Remember-the-Time-We-Were-Just-Walking Panic Attack) her dad and I took her to a physician whose own son has autism and severe anxiety. He was, and is, a God send. He started her on a low dose anti-anxiety med that we've since increased. It has helped her function day-to-day, but it hasn't prevented situational anxiety. Once, in desperation, I told her I had a magic pill that would help calm her. It was a vitamin. But the placebo effect worked. I prayed it would work again tonight.
It didn't. She cried as I did her hair. As she changed her clothes. As we loaded back up in the car again and headed towards the school. She sat next to me this time, and I held her hand.
"You can do this," I said. And then, in desperation, I resorted to bribery. "I'll buy you whatever Monster High doll you want. All you have to do is try. That's it. Just try."
She took a deep breath and I could see her willing herself to be strong. "Ok, Mom. I can do that. I'll try." And with that, she bounded out of the car towards her rehearsal room while I headed to the auditorium.
Fifteen minutes later, I watched from the balcony as her peers started practicing. The doors hadn't opened yet, but I had snuck in to make sure she was ok. I scanned the stage. One hundred students all dressed in white shirts and black pants. I looked from one violinist to the next. She was no where to be found. And then I saw her. Confused and tearful, she entered the auditorium. She still had her coat on. Her violin was still in its case. She had no idea where she was supposed to go. I watched helplessly from the balcony. The music from the dry run would have drowned out any attempts to call out to her and she was simply too far away. My stomach lurched.
Thankfully, a teacher or parent seemed to notice her confusion and helped guide her across the room. She was in shambles. She clumsily opened her case. She bumped into a couple students and then set up right in front of them - blocking them from reading their music. They scooted her aside, gave irritated looks to one another, and continued playing. And there she stood. Talking to herself. Shaking.
I called her dad. He was on his way.
"What would happen if she didn't perform?" I asked. We agreed that he would go back stage as soon as he arrived and talk to her.
And then the tears began to fall.
I thought of all the dance recitals where she had so courageously performed cartwheels and back bends and round offs. Tap routines and jazz dances. I thought of the little girl who fearlessly and joyfully ran into any gym daycare, Sunday School, or babysitter I threw at her. I thought about the times I had her play softball, take up bowling, horseback riding, summer camp, and art class.
I thought about how much I'd take back the days where autism was her biggest challenge because now I knew better. Now I knew that Lyric's autism was manageable. But this...this was terrifying and an altogether different level of concern. I literally had no idea how to help her and I was terrified that my little girl would start to fear the whole world.
But tonight she feared the stage.
Soon, her seventh grade class took their places. For a brief moment I was relieved. She was seated at the back row with a teacher. Then I saw her. Contorting her face. Shaking her legs. Frantically talking to herself. I saw the teacher try to help her set up....to no avail. She was having her own private argument.
I knew her enough to know what she was saying. "You can do this, Lyric. "Your family is watching you, Lyric." "But I can't do it! The room is spinning. My legs feel funny." "Don't be a baby, Lyric." And then desperately asking, "Please God make the spinning go away."
The orchestra started without her. One song. Then the next. All the while I helplessly watched my little girl battle her demons. Twisting and cavorting and fighting a torrent of tears. On stage.
I tearfully pleaded to her dad, please go get her off that stage. I didn't want her to see me so upset and I literally couldn't stop the tears from falling. I was crying for all the fear she must feel. For all the unknowns we had ahead of us. And for all the guilt I felt. I was failing my daughter and had no idea how to turn it around. And I was crying because my 13-year-old daughter wasn't worried about boys, and best friends, and One Direction. She wasn't worried about school dances, sleepovers, or Snapchat. She was fighting to navigate this crazy world through a lens none of us could ever understand. Now she was doing it without a map, without stability, and with insane fear choking her every breath.
Every single day the world puts a mountain at her doorstop and every single day, she has to climb that mountain in the fog ...while the rest of us romp and play on the straight and narrow pathway below her.
And so I cried. I cried for my beautiful girl and I cried for all the things I wish I could do for her - but knew I couldn't.
And yet, tomorrow would come and tomorrow I would fight again. Tomorrow I would be fine. As my dad always said, the sun will come out tomorrow. And I would meet my daughter at the bottom of that mountain and we would start the climb to the top. One brave, if not anxious, step at a time.
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