“Mom! Dad’s here!” my son shouted, panic evident in his voice. Lucas is 11, and even after all this time, he still feels anxious about spending weekends at his dad’s house. I grabbed his backpack and pulled him into a tight embrace, planting a kiss on his freckled forehead. “Remember, I’ll call you first thing in the morning, but no later than 8:30, right? Then I’ll call again between 3 and 4, and one last time for goodnight between 6 and 7. If I don’t answer, it just means we’re out for a bit, but I promise I’ll call you back right away.”
I reassured him, as I always do, that I wouldn’t forget to call and that my alarms were set. My “weekend off” was about to start, but it never really feels that way.
As Lucas walked out the door, he turned back several times, and just moments later, he returned. “Mom, my arm brushed against those bushes, and I’m scared they’re poisonous.” His dad was waiting impatiently, which only ramped up Lucas’s anxiety.
“They’re not poisonous, sweetheart, I promise. We’ve lived here for years, and I’ve touched those bushes a hundred times.” I smiled and tousled his hair. “You’re going to be just fine.”
But deep down, I know it’s not okay for Lucas. He’ll scrub his arm as many times as his father will allow him to.
That’s where my own anxiety kicks in. Once the door shuts and I hear the car pull away, I pray he can find some peace. Lucas struggles with OCD and anxiety. The signs first appeared when he was just three years old; his preschool called me because he was heartbroken over a sandwich that had been thrown away, desperate to get it back. When he came home, he was so upset that he wanted me to somehow retrieve it from a dumpster. How do you explain to a three-year-old that it’s impossible?
I understood his distress, as I too had my quirks at his age—much like how I preferred a loose barrette in my hair over having it fixed. I had put that barrette in, and it was going to stay that way. I made Lucas’s sandwich, and in his eyes, it was infused with magical motherly love.
Over the years, Lucas’s OCD has fluctuated. There was a time when he was terrified of germs and potential poisons, turning off light switches with his arm and washing his hands until they were raw. Later, he became preoccupied with the idea that if he didn’t share every little detail with me, it wouldn’t be real. He would talk incessantly, like an unending stream of thoughts, and I would listen, my heart heavy and my mind racing. I eventually realized that I needed help to combat Mr. Worry, so I sought out professional guidance. Despite my reassurances, my love alone couldn’t conquer the anxiety that loomed large.
Lucas is incredibly insightful. He likens Mr. Worry to Pinocchio, which makes sense; Mr. Worry is a liar. The issue is that Lucas can’t see when his worries grow and multiply. He becomes ensnared in a complex web of fears, feeling lost and unable to escape. Therapy has helped over the years, but since Lucas is still young, cognitive behavioral therapy has been a challenge. So, I took it upon myself to face his fears. I sipped expired salad dressing, licked a park bench (I know, gross), and held insects that made me tremble in fear—pretending they were my new friends. This is just what we do as parents; we confront the terrifying things for our children, hoping to shield them from harm.
When my alarm went off, I called Lucas. He asked if I knew where the gravity hammer for his action figure was. Of course, I did! Just last week, it had flown out of the car, but thanks to a stroke of luck, I found it a quarter-mile back, nestled among gravel. Thank goodness, because I wasn’t looking forward to a night of “Mom, it’s going to get run over! I need a new gravity hammer! We’ll drive across the country if we have to, right?” eBay is your friend, buddy.
I tell Lucas that his mind is as intricate and beautiful as the stars in the night sky. If he weren’t so resilient and intelligent, he wouldn’t be able to navigate those sticky webs of worry while trying to live his life. Mr. Worry is a thief, stealing away the carefree moments of childhood. Grass turns toxic, bugs become poisonous, and he’s convinced that disaster is just around the corner. I would give anything to witness Lucas in a moment of pure peace—free from webs, explosions, and catastrophes.
Yet, perhaps this is a necessary part of his journey toward a future I can’t yet envision. His mind is a galaxy of constellations, and while the fog may obscure the view, on clear nights, they tell a multitude of stories. That’s the beauty of my son’s mind.
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In summary, Lucas’s journey with anxiety and OCD has been challenging, deeply affecting his childhood. As a parent, I strive to support him while navigating my own feelings of worry, hoping that with time and love, he will find peace and joy.