Meltdown

She paces frantically in circles, reminding me of a caged bird. A primal look of fear crosses her red, sweat-streaked face. I’m trapped, I sense her trying to say. Words are not accessible to her right now. I sit in silence. I wait. She shrieks. “I can’t breathe!” She screams, “I’m going to hyperventilate!” My heart breaks. Subliminally, telepathically, I tell her, I get it. I know this panic. I know how terrifying it feels to not be in control of your own body. I know. Please believe me. I know. I’m here. She makes eye contact with me for a millisecond, and I send love from my eyes to hers, just before the meltdown seizes her again, and she throws her water bottle as hard as she can onto the ground, into the dirt. She stomps over, picks up the bottle, and upon seeing how dirty it is, she lets out a scream and bursts into sobbing tears. I stand up, and softly ask, “Want me to wipe it off?” “Yes!” she shrieks. Wordlessly I wipe it on my shirt and hand it to her. A few moments later, she catches my eye again. I’m here, I tell her with all the energy I can muster. I know you’re scared. You’re safe. This will pass. Time passes. The guttural moans quiet. The sobs turn to whimpers. Words emerge, here and there. She hears me again. Her vision clears. She holds my eye gaze for longer and longer. I quietly ask, “Do you want to go get a snack?” She says, “Yes” in a loud voice, but not a yell. We walk. I match her pace. She brings up a preferred conversation topic. We talk. Fifteen minutes later, after she finishes her snack, I feel her gaze on me. I look up. “Thank you,” she says. And what I want to say is, Thank you for trusting me to keep you safe. For being real and letting it out and letting me see your pain. You are 12 years old, but I admire you and your bravery. Thank you for trusting me in your most vulnerable moments. But instead, I look at her, smile, and simply say, “You’re welcome.”