There is a beauty in the chaos and stillness after a storm has ended. The air smells fresh, clean, and renewed. The earth seems still and quiet except for the chirping of birds emerging from hiding. Trees have fallen in a random yet not random at all pattern that creates art to be admired. I always feel different after a storm, like something has been freed from inside me yet there is new damage, different damage - I can’t do anything about it, it’s now permanent. This is how I feel after Malc and Teo have meltdowns. Not any meltdown but the big, violent, chaotic, earth shattering ones that suck up all the air on the planet for that duration of time.
Have you every walked a hiking path after a storm? It’s gorgeous. I love walking a hiking path after a storm, to take pictures, to look at how the path has changed, to admire the enormity of mother earth, and to also breath deeper. The air seems to be easier to breathe deeply in. I can’t help notice the wreckage, or what we consider wreckage. But is it wreckage? Or is it the natural order of things? Is it how it has to be in order to evolve? What if storms didn’t happen? What if nothing ever changed?
Malc, when he is mid meltdown, he pulls things off of the wall, he throws things, he kicks things in his path, he “clears” tables - throwing everything off with all of his might. He’s a tiny but mighty tornado like storm whirling through the entire house wrecking anything in his path for a couple of minutes and then he is done. We don’t go near him during this time. We let him do it. Why? Well because we don’t want to get hurt and well, the truth is, he needs to get out something big that is raging inside him. We will scurry to remove anything that might hurt him or others in his path and meet him at the other end- his calm corner. Once he is calm I ask him “do you need a hug” and he will fall into my arms, exhausted. I squeeze him tightly while we sit on his bean bag and we pull a blanket over us, “cozy” he says. I try and remain calm, breathing, while the adrenaline inside me is still rushing. I wasn’t always this calm. I went through a period of time I would yell “stop” and try and hold him down. I’ve learned that the melt downs will last longer and are more dangerous and also more exhausting. Eventually, we get up, we assess the damage, and we clean it up. He helps me clean it up, most of the time. He then will hop away from me humming and singing and smiling like nothing happened and I am left with sadness. Something always changes inside of me, every single time. I think it’s because I never truly know what set him off. I can hypothesize, but I will never know if I’m correct.
After an experience like that, there is always lingering PTSD, attached to my insides, when will it happen again. Anticipating.
Teo, his meltdowns are of epic proportions. They are the hurricanes that can last for hours sometimes days sometimes weeks, stopping to give us breaks and then abruptly begin again. He will jump up, kick out his legs and land on his back. He will bang his head on the floor or walls. He will kick the walls until there are many holes he can make bigger with his fists. He screams, cries, and yells. He hits his own chest until he is bruised. He bites his hands hard enough to make them bleed. He pokes his eyes and slaps his face. Teo’s meltdowns are nothing short of scary. I get scared he will hurt himself and I get scared he will hurt others. I don’t care, really, about the things he destroys, they are just things. I try an remove the things that could hurt him or us but typically his rage is directed towards himself like there is internal pain he is trying to beat out of him. We offer hi his communication device, we ask him questions, but it seems to make it worse. We’ve learned, over the years, that to get him to a safe space is the best thing to do, then we ride it out. Similar to a hurricane, we take cover and let it past until the next one. It can take hours. Once he is calm I offer him squeezes, a weighted blanket, his favorite penguin stuffy, and some fidgets to play with. It can take up to another hour for him to completely relax and start smiling and laughing again. I am left feeling beaten up and bruised on the inside. I am left feeling like I walked right through the hurricane and still have to prepare for the next one still drenched and bruised. It’s not even PTSD anymore, it’s a constant state of being. I am always preparing physically, mentally, and emotionally for the next hurricane.
A tantrum is not a meltdown. A tantrum is a a light rain in Spring, comparatively. A tantrum is a gust of wind. It rolls through without causing much damage.
I walk the path after the meltdown. There is debris, things are not where they were before, things have been destroyed, and there is beauty. It’s taken me many years to see the beauty. My boys are trying to communicate something that lives inside of them that they are unable to. There are storms inside of them that have to happen in order for them to adjust to the world outside of them. That’s how I’ve learned to see it, anyways. I clean up the physical mess and hope that the emotional mess can be healed.
I have come to be grateful for these outbursts, because if they don’t get them out now and if we don’t help them regulate their own internal storms now, can you imagine how explosive and damaging they can be later? Well that’s the hope anyways, to help them self regulate during times of internal distress. All of us are forever changed after each one. We have all learned to: breathe a little deeper, walk a little lighter, and appreciate the beauty that exists in the breaks in between. We’ve learned that the calm after the storm is the place where connection is deeper, light is brighter, and sounds are more delightful. The calm after the storm is the time to learn from nature and examine the wreckage. It’s in the stillness that I find some of the answers that my boys aren’t able to give. The storms are traumatic, yes, but also necessary.
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