Trauma doesn’t take a vacation.

It’s 11pm. I should be in bed unwinding, maybe watching a little tv, or reading a book. Instead I’m walking around the hotel grounds, because vacations are a trigger. Since the folks in the hotel room next to us don’t understand trauma. Since slamming doors and screaming “Don’t touch me” are not acceptable things to do in a hotel room, we walk. We walk around aimlessly, in the cold, wearing our pajamas. I didn’t have time to look for my shoes, so I quickly slipped on my husbands sneakers and I could only coerce my child into flip flops without an additional melt down. You see I don’t even know what caused us to get to this point tonight. We have had a great few days on vacation. Everyone has been getting along. We have had very little melt downs. Everyone was in bed, on the verge of going to sleep when trauma reared its ugly head. We were past the point of calmly de-escalating before I could even say “coping skill”. I could feel my own anxiety rise with each screech. When my child is hurting like this, all I want to do is hold them, squeeze them, love them, reason with them. Unfortunately, an embrace, a pat on the shoulder, wiping their tears, actually causes physical pain when they are in survival mode. I have to fight every motherly urge I have to comfort my child. I have to overcome my own anxiety that security is going to be called because it sounds like someone is being beaten in our hotel room. 

We love to travel and I never imagined our family vacations would look the way they do. I didn’t expect that family vacations would bring anything but joy. Unfortunately, in the real world, in our trauma infused world. Change is hard. Being out of routine is hard. Our kids become easily dis-regulated. We need to be sure our days consist of regular meal times, lots of opportunities to get the extra energy out and we have zero expectations on how things will go. Anxiety, irrational fears, defiance, worse case scenario all creep their way into family vacations. It starts before we even hit the road. We try to keep travel plans under wraps until the very last minute to minimize the amount of anxiety our children will experience. All of our children LOVE to travel. They love going on adventures and for the most part they all do really well on vacation. The day before we depart and the day we return home typically provoke the most anxiety driven behaviors but every once in a while, some days and nights in the middle turn out like this. 

There is a new level of understanding trauma when you walk in silence alongside your child who is hurting but can’t vocalize whats wrong. You can see the chaos that takes over their brain. You can watch the fear, and the guilt sink in as they start to de-escalate. You can feel the tug of war they have within. You hear the hateful statements they make about themselves. No matter how many times you explain how wonderful they are or how perfect they are, their self worth is non existent in these moments. Through tears, a runny nose, shivers and chattering teeth, I hear the words “I’m sorry Mommy”. We are getting somewhere. We are making progress. It’s safe to start heading back to the room now. We are almost back to our building, only to have to turn around because the quiet crying has now turned into sobs. 

We walk past a couple on their balcony and human nature takes over. I start to imagine what they are thinking. I wonder how long they have been out there. We get back to our bench, overlooking some lighted water fountains, away from civilization. It hits me that we are surrounded by beauty but filled with brokenness. I take a deep breath and ask if it’s ok for a hug. The lean into my shoulder lets me know it’s ok. I hug with everything I have, in hopes it can take away the pain. Even though I know its just wishful thinking. Once again, we head back to the room. This time we are successful. We tip toe inside to not disturb anybody else. Too tired to even remove our jackets, both of us retreat to our rooms where we collapse from the physical and mental exhaustion the last hour and a half has taken out of us. We will wake up tomorrow with a fresh new start. We refuse to let trauma win. Together, we will be ready to conquer the next battle.

This is foster care. This is adoption. This is trauma.