Beech Tree News Network

One very frustrating day last week, I told God I needed an answer.  The question to which I needed an answer was, “Why do I have so much trouble dealing with my family?”  I know what you’re thinking.  Why does anybody have so much trouble dealing with their family?  I wasn’t being simple-minded when I put the question to God.  He knew what I meant.  Why, when I’m in the presence of one or more family members, do I feel like my brain is going to explode?  Why do I have to fight the urge to run screaming out the door? 
    At this point, I need to offer a disclaimer: I am not a mental health professional, and I don’t pretend to be one, neither to myself or others.  That being said, I read through a list of behaviors that identify persons with ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder) and ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) that day, on the website, helpguide.org.  Yeah, I know, three-fourths of America displays symptoms of ADD, but I could be the poster child for the behavior.
According to the lists, it seems I am a highly functional, dysfunctional person, and thank God, my family loves me, because we really have a time of it, in spite of that love.  Natalie recently said to me, “Living in this family is maddening because we all react to everything in exactly the same way.” God reminded me she had said that on the day I told him I needed an answer.
Wait!  I forgot to tell you what inspired me to look up those lists—see what I mean about being the poster child?   It happened because Sabria and I were cleaning out the storage building.  I found an old saddle which I set out in the yard, so she could pretend it was a horse.  I went back into the building to organize some storage bins, and when I emerged, I discovered she had dumped a whole bottle of liquid bubbles onto the saddle then added potting soil from a nearby flower pot to the mix. 
As I stood there looking at the mess, I saw my niece, Naonna, in my mind’s eye.  “This is just like something Naonna would have done when she was a kid,” I said to myself.  I called her.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why, what?” she answered.
I described the scene before me. 
“She got bored playing horse,” she answered, “She had to push the envelope, add different variables to see what would happen.  It’s the impulsiveness that accompanies ADD or ADHD.  I’m in the process of working my way through cognitive behavioral therapy, because I wasn’t made to deal with the impulsiveness or helped to deal with it as a kid.”
“Okay,” I said, “It’s like when I got bored with just flattening wine bottles, and I put baby food jars on a flattened wine bottle in order to see if I could make a deviled egg plate, and the whole conglomeration broke, melted and ran down the shelves in the kiln.”   
“Yeah, like that,” she said.
Note to self: Be more understanding. 
I was given more insight that day in the form of a poem from a Louise Penny mystery.  The poem goes as follows (I’ve used a blank line in place of language that can’t be reprinted here):
        I’ll keep it all inside; festering, rotting;
        But I’m really a nice person, kind, loving.
        ‘Get out of my way, you ____________.’
        Oops, sorry, that just slipped out, escaped,
        I’ll try harder, just you watch, I will.
        You can’t make me say anything.
        I’ll just go further away, where you will never find me,
        Or hurt me, or make me speak.
That poem is about bottling things up, putting on a good face, and forging ahead, even though those around you are driving you crazy.  Occasionally, I have to say, as the poet does, “Oops, sorry, that just slipped out…,” but most of the time, I put on a good face and forge ahead.  I say, “I’ll help you, I’ll remind you, I’ll find it, I’ll fix it, I’ll save it, I’ll remember, I’ll put a note on your mirror/your steering wheel/your purse/your forehead, I’ll make everything work out for all of us.”  
“I’ll keep it all inside; festering, rotting…,” the poem says.  Sometimes, I am back there in my six-year-old mind, babysitting two younger sisters and a baby brother.  I am screaming, “Can someone please help me!”  Not out loud.  I live in a house where I am not allowed to ask for help.  I am expected to deal.  It doesn’t matter that I am just six years old and my baby brother won’t stop crying.
What is God trying to tell me with this answer—this poem?  Probably, that I am no longer six years old, that I live with people who are flawed and who love me, in spite of my flaws, that I don’t have to keep it all inside where it festers and rots.   It is safe to ask for help.  Maybe I can.