“Mom! Dad’s here!” my son, Ethan, exclaimed with a hint of panic in his voice. At 11 years old, he still feels anxious when heading to his father’s for the weekend. I hurriedly grabbed his bag and enveloped him in a tight embrace, kissing his freckled forehead. “Ethan, remember, I’ll call first thing in the morning, no later than 8:30, right? And then again between 3 and 4 for the afternoon check-in, and finally between 6 and 7 for the goodnight call? If I don’t answer, it just means we’re out, but I’ll call you right back,” I reassured him, as I did every time. Although I was ready for my weekend “off,” it never truly feels that way.
Ethan peered back several times as he headed toward the door. “Mom, my arm brushed against those bushes outside. What if they’re poisonous?” His father, waiting impatiently, only intensified Ethan’s anxiety.
“They’re not poisonous, sweetheart. I promise! We’ve lived here for years, and I’ve touched those bushes countless times.” I smiled and ruffled his hair. “Everything’s going to be just fine.” But deep down, I knew things weren’t fine for Ethan; he would scrub his arm as many times as his father would allow.
That’s when my anxiety kicks in. Once the door closes and I hear the car pull away, I can only hope he finds a way to relax. Ethan struggles with OCD and anxiety. The signs first appeared when he was just 3 years old; his preschool called to inform me that he was inconsolable after they accidentally threw away his sandwich. When he got home, he was so distraught that he wanted me to somehow retrieve it—from a dumpster or landfill. How do you explain to a 3-year-old that it’s impossible?
I could relate to his distress; I remember at his age preferring a loose barrette in my hair over having it fixed. My mom had put that barrette in, and it was going to stay that way no matter what. I had made Ethan’s sandwich, and in his mind, it was imbued with a magical motherly essence.
Over the years, Ethan’s OCD has varied in intensity. He once lived in fear of germs and toxins, turning off light switches with his elbow and washing his hands until they were raw. Later, he became anxious about sharing every single thought with me—talking in a nonstop stream of consciousness that left my heart aching and my head spinning. Realizing my reassurance wasn’t enough against the daunting grip of anxiety, I sought professional help. As much as I wanted to be his anchor, I felt overwhelmed by the weight of Mr. Worry.
Ethan is perceptive; he likens Mr. Worry to Pinocchio, which is fitting since Mr. Worry thrives on deception. Unfortunately, he cannot see just how tangled he is in the intricate web of anxiety. With therapy, progress has been made, but given his age, cognitive behavioral therapy has been a challenge. So I took on the role of his therapist. I drank expired salad dressing, licked a park bench (gross, I know), and even held bugs that made my skin crawl, pretending they were my little friends. That’s what we do as parents—wade through fears for our children, hoping we won’t get hurt in the process.
When my alarm went off, I called Ethan. He wanted to know if I had found the gravity hammer for his action figure. Of course, I had—last week it flew out the car window, and by some miracle, I located it a quarter-mile back, nestled among gravel. Thank you, universe, for sparing me from a night filled with “Mom, it’s going to get run over by cars! I need a new gravity hammer. We could drive cross-country if needed, right? Every store in the country!” eBay, Ethan, eBay.
I remind Ethan that his mind is as elaborate and intricate as the cosmos. If he weren’t so intelligent and resilient, he wouldn’t be able to navigate his way through these sticky webs while trying to lead a normal life. Mr. Worry is a thief who robs him of carefree moments; grass becomes toxic, insects turn poisonous, my car might explode, and a black hole could swallow us whole. I would do anything to see Ethan in a peaceful moment—free from webs, explosions, and disasters.
Yet, perhaps this complexity is necessary for him to reach a destination I can’t yet envision. His mind is a universe filled with constellations. While it’s hard to see through the fog, on clear nights, they illuminate a thousand stories. That is the beauty of my son’s mind.
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Summary
Anxiety is affecting Ethan’s ability to enjoy his childhood, as he navigates his struggles with OCD and fears. Despite my efforts to reassure him, I realize I can’t always shield him from his worries. Instead, I embrace the complexity of his mind, hoping that one day he will find peace amidst the chaos.