Dear Mom, today I shouted that I despise you and wished you weren’t my family anymore.
I feel frightened almost all the time. After years of moving from one place to another, I learned that people are not permanent fixtures in my life. Caring for someone feels like a risk because, in an instant, they could be taken away from me—no matter how much I cherish them. So, I think it’s safer to push you away first; if I don’t let myself love you, maybe I won’t have to face the pain of losing you again.
Mom, today I lashed out at my teacher.
I am anxious and overwhelmed every day. School feels like an obstacle course filled with unexpected noises, strange smells, and chaos. I try my hardest to maintain control so I don’t get into trouble, but the sensory overload is often too much. When I can’t bear it any longer, I explode. It’s as if my brain can’t handle another moment of stillness without a release.
Mom, today I hurt our dog with a stick.
I often feel powerless. Strangers have picked me up and taken me away without my consent, passing me from one unfamiliar face to another. I never had the chance to express my fear or resistance. I learned that I have no control over my life—everyone else pulls the strings. Hitting the dog, even though I actually like him, gives me a fleeting sense of power in a world where I feel completely helpless.
Mom, today I had a meltdown in the car with my adoptive brother and his friends.
I feel insignificant and unheard, especially in cars. I spent countless hours in vehicles with social workers, moving from one appointment to another, from one temporary home to the next. My feelings were often dismissed; nothing I said or did seemed to matter. The unpredictability of travel terrifies me. Being in a car with other kids amplifies my anxiety, making everything feel even more overwhelming.
Mom, today I scribbled on the kitchen floor and cut my pants with scissors at school.
I often feel consumed by anger. There are moments of calm, but they are fleeting. The chaos I’ve endured has left a lasting mark on my nervous system. Despite taking my medications and attending therapy, the effects of my past linger on. I find myself struggling against an internal rage that sometimes leads me to destroy what I truly care about. I wish I could explain why I act this way, but the reasons often elude me.
Mom, I don’t have any real friends.
I feel lonely in ways that are hard to articulate. I watch other kids navigate social interactions with ease, their carefree mannerisms highlighting my own struggles. I long for that sense of comfort and connection that seems so natural for them. My early relationships were shaped by the painful truth of not having a family, leaving me without the nurturing guidance that every child deserves.
Many people believe that because I can’t remember much of my early years, it doesn’t affect me. They couldn’t be more mistaken. My early experiences shaped my brain development; the absence of consistent love, care, and safety left a profound impact on my neurology. Stress and anxiety were my constant companions during formative years, and even if I can’t articulate it, the scars remain.
Now, I have to navigate the challenging path of recovery. I need all the support I can get.
With hope for both of us,
Your complex kid
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Summary
This article explores the emotional landscape of children with complex needs who are grappling with past traumas. Through heartfelt letters, these children express feelings of fear, anger, powerlessness, and loneliness, demonstrating the profound effects of their early experiences. They share their struggles with social interactions, anxiety, and the impact of inconsistent care, emphasizing the importance of support in their journey toward healing.