She paces frantically in circles, reminding me of a caged bird. A primal look of fear crosses her red, sweat-streaked face. I’m trapped, I sense her trying to say. Words are not accessible to her right now. I sit in silence. I wait. She shrieks. “I can’t breathe!” She screams, “I’m going to hyperventilate!” My heart breaks. Subliminally, telepathically, I tell her, I get it. I know this panic. I know how terrifying it feels to not be in control of your own body. I know. Please believe me. I know. I’m here. She makes eye contact with me for a millisecond, and I send love from my eyes to hers, just before the meltdown seizes her again, and she throws her water bottle as hard as she can onto the ground, into the dirt. She stomps over, picks up the bottle, and upon seeing how dirty it is, she lets out a scream and bursts into sobbing tears. I stand up, and softly ask, “Want me to wipe it off?” “Yes!” she shrieks. Wordlessly I wipe it on my shirt and hand it to her. A few moments later, she catches my eye again. I’m here, I tell her with all the energy I can muster. I know you’re scared. You’re safe. This will pass. Time passes. The guttural moans quiet. The sobs turn to whimpers. Words emerge, here and there. She hears me again. Her vision clears. She holds my eye gaze for longer and longer. I quietly ask, “Do you want to go get a snack?” She says, “Yes” in a loud voice, but not a yell. We walk. I match her pace. She brings up a preferred conversation topic. We talk. Fifteen minutes later, after she finishes her snack, I feel her gaze on me. I look up. “Thank you,” she says. And what I want to say is, Thank you for trusting me to keep you safe. For being real and letting it out and letting me see your pain. You are 12 years old, but I admire you and your bravery. Thank you for trusting me in your most vulnerable moments. But instead, I look at her, smile, and simply say, “You’re welcome.”
Tag
meltdown
Feeling the feelings
“I’m so sad!” He sobs. “I don’t want to leave. I’m going to miss it so much!” Tears stream down his face as he clings to his mom, then clings to his counselors, then back to his mom.
It’s the last day of camp. And he’s heartbroken.
We started previewing the end of camp (Week 7) during the middle of camp (Week 5). Because it takes that long to preview, to process, to feel, to cope. We talked about it every day. And each camper’s response was different. Some ignored, some yelled, some hit, some cried, some became clingy and some became distant.
This little guy did a lot of the above. Some days he was super silly, some days he claimed exhaustion and refused to participate. Some days he got angry and hit.
But on this last day? He was just sad. And as he screamed and wailed about how much he didn’t want to leave, how sad he was, how much he would miss camp, my heart broke for him. Because even as staff, we feel that feeling too. Camp is not just special for our kids, it’s special for us, too. And as I heard him cry over and over again “I feel so sad,” I couldn’t help but realize how huge that was. This kiddo was not hitting, not shutting down, not fighting with other campers, not telling staff that he hates them. He was feeling his feelings. He was labeling his feelings. Do you see how huge that is?? So I felt sad for him. We all did. But in addition to that sadness (not instead of, not a replacement, we spend all summer teaching our kids that they can feel multiple feelings and that it’s okay, and so can we), I felt proud. He was labeling his feelings. He was feeling them for what they are. And that, is a major success.
Little snippits
Snippits of thoughts that I have tried to turn into blog posts but can’t, yet:
–Being a middle school or high school girl is hard. I so remember. It’s hard enough for a neurotypical girl, and when you add an autism or other social-communication diagnosis, it makes it that much harder.
–Endings, transitions, change are so hard. We as staff dread the end of the summer – and it’s that much harder on our kids. Who don’t necessarily have a happy transition back to school coming, who might not even know if they’ll make it through this year at school, who don’t have friends to look forward to seeing, who are dreading leaving camp, a place where they have safely been nurtured and gently pushed forward, and observed in a non-judgmental way, and supported no matter what they said or did. And so the transition behaviors we see…well, they just make sense. It makes sense that kids revert to old behaviors that had been extinguished. It makes sense that there is more stimming, more scripting, more tears, more anger, more hitting. It makes sense that there is yelling at friends and staff, trying to burn bridges that were made, because isn’t it easier to leave if you convince yourself there’s nothing behind to miss? We see it every year and it breaks my heart every year because I know that however hard it is for me, it’s a million times harder for them.
–I keep replaying a conversation that we had with one of our 10-year-olds the other day as she struggled through a meltdown. “What do I do when I’m not mad, I’m just sad?!?!” she screamed, as she sobbed and lunged herself at us, trying to find relief. “You have no idea how this feels!!! I’ve never been so mad and it’s all in my body!!” she screamed, as she shook and her teeth chattered. You could see the anger and sadness and despair swirling throughout her body. While we sat with her through it, we took turns calmly empathizing with her. “I do know how that feels,” I softly and slowly told her. “No you don’t!!!!!” I waited. “I do,” I said. “I hate that mad feeling. I know what it’s like to be so mad that the best solution seems to be to use my body to calm myself down.” She stopped screaming and looked at me. My co-worker and I spent the next hour or so empathizing and sharing bits and pieces from our own life, just tidbits that might be helpful, but all the while….my heart was breaking. Because we weren’t lying, we DID know how this girl felt. It’s just that we are able to internalize it. Keep it inside of us. And who knows, who’s to say that’s better? Who’s to say that walking around with panic and anger and despair inside of us is better than screaming and crying and hitting until it all comes out?
—Collaborative Problem Solving works. Like, really, really works. Think back to when you were a kid, or a teen, or even now at work in a meeting. Are you more likely to do something when you are told to do it? Or do you feel better, and are you more likely to agree and compromise when you’ve been able to share your thoughts and feelings, to a non-judging listener, and when you’ve been able to be a part of the solution? Our kids are brilliant. BRILLIANT. And sometimes they just need to be heard. And usually they’re right. Try to compromise with them, let them be heard, and you’ll be astounded at the difference it makes.
–And, a related, reminder: kids are doing the best they can. They really are. They might annoy you, push your buttons, frustrate you beyond belief, but if you see it through the lens of, “They are doing the best they can with what they have,” it helps. (And, as always, a connection to us: we are doing the best we can, with what we have, too.) Compassion, empathy, understanding.
A hypothetical note to parents
[Ed note: I started to write this using “I” instead of “We”, but it didn’t feel right. We do everything as a team, we have been a team for years, and despite not having asked everyone if they share these thoughts, I am nearly certain that they do.]
We are in Week 3 of our 7 week program. We see it every summer – Week 3 is when things shift. Kids are getting to know their peers better, the novelty has worn off, group leaders are getting into the nitty-gritty of social thinking development, kids are feeling more comfortable around us and in our setting, and, as we always say each year, “The honeymoon period is over.”
So we start seeing behaviors that we might not have seen the first two weeks. Refusal, noncompliance, anger, meltdowns. And we aren’t bothered by that. We expect it. We know that in a lot of ways, it demonstrates the kids’ comfort with us and our program. They are being themselves, allowing for vulnerability, and letting us step in and guide them through it.
Sometimes a meltdown turns physical. We know that. Please know: you do not, ever have to apologize for your child’s meltdown or physical aggression. We know the difference between a tantrum and an autistic meltdown. We know this is a meltdown. A neurological storm, a complete inability to do anything except ride it out. Please know that we don’t think your child is being purposely defiant or difficult. We get it. We don’t think any different about you or your child post-meltdown. We aren’t upset if papers got torn up, if the walls were colored with markers, if water was purposely spilled. We are okay if we get scratched or pushed. Please know that in those moments, our focus is in no way anger or hatred toward what is going on. It is purely compassion.
There is something powerful and beautiful about every single moment we spend with your kids. In the midst of a full-blown meltdown, complete neurological storm, a level 5 on the “volcano,” the powerful part is that we are able to be there for your child. To help them stay safe and regulate. To let them know, usually nonverbally, that they are not alone. That we are there, that they are okay, that we understand. It is powerful and beautiful to be with your child at his most vulnerable moment, when he has lost complete control of his words and body – and to know that we are entrusted to be his compass and guide him through the storm.
The moments we hold onto are not the aggressive ones. It’s the moments when we see him take that first deep breath, after an hour of shallow ones. When we can see the tension leave his face and body. When we see his core, true self, start to emerge again. When words return to him. When he calmly asks for a drink of water. When he looks right at us and asks us to please help him put his shoes back on. We don’t hold onto when he was screaming at us, telling us how much he hates us. Instead, our radar is on the moment when he is calm again, and happily asks us if we want to join him for ice cream.
Please know that. We love what we do. We don’t judge. We adore your children. We are honored that you have entrusted them to us.