I gently opened the door, and there he was: Benjamin was inside the pantry. His arms were laden with tinned food – tuna fish, and spaghetti in cheese sauce, and Chicken of the Sea – and you name it, he had it.
I spoke very gently. ‘Hey, buddy,’ I said, ‘do you want me to make you something to eat?’
Benjamin did not look up. He stood for a few seconds, and then slowly dropped the cans on the floor, where they bounced and rolled. I had to dance my feet around to make sure that they didn’t get hit.
I was ready to grab Benjamin if he tried to run, but he didn’t try to run. He just stood there.
‘It’s okay to eat, you know,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you let me make you a tuna-fish sandwich?’ I tried to take him by the arm, but he twisted free and ran up the stairs, back to his room.
A week or so later, I found a stash of food in his room. He was hoarding tuna fish in one of his toy boxes, under his crib. And, okay, stock-piling food was one of the things that everyone said is possible. It makes sense. Children who have been denied food in an orphanage might want to store food. The main thing is not to make a fuss. Apparently your child will eventually learn that there is plenty of food and they don’t need to hoard.
As it happened, we had an appointment with one of Benjamin’s three counsellors the following day. I picked him up from the corner of the living room, where he was huddled, and I said, ‘Okay, why don’t we go and talk about this cans-of-food business with somebody who can help us?’
He made no attempt to assist me. My hands were on either side of his torso. He had his back to me. His head was hanging down, with his chin resting on his chest as if they were attached. There’s actually a permanent rash there now, like a mark, from where he drives his chin into his chest.
I turned him towards me and tried to get a look at his face. His eyes were closed. I’m used to that. I don’t mind that. It’s better than the kicking and the thrashing and the screaming and the crying. This huge wave of compassion washed over me: he was being so quiet and stressed, like he was hurting on the inside and couldn’t say so.
I held him close to me – it was one of the first times he’d let me do it – and I could hear his heart beating, and I could feel his breath against my skin. I was thinking, ‘Oh, you poor kid, you’re so mixed up and afraid,’ and – like an idiot – I kissed the top of his head.
I say ‘like an idiot’ because if there is one thing that sends Benjamin absolutely off his trolley, it’s if anyone tries to kiss him. But I put my lips there on his head, and for a moment he didn’t resist me. I could smell his scalp – it wasn’t pretty, since he’s impossible to get in the bath – and then I noticed that Benjamin had his hands balled up in fists, and they were flexing and releasing by his sides.
I put one arm under his bottom. Of course it was wet. It’s always wet with urine. Every pair of pants he owns is ruined. He’s red raw around his genitals because he never gets dry. I lifted him up, so I was standing and we were basically face-to-face, and that’s when he bit me. Literally, he bit me. He sank sharp little teeth into my cheek. I cried out, and tried to wrench him loose, but he had turned into a terrier.
I gasped and pulled and tried to get away but it was too late. He’d really got his teeth into me. Of course I’d dropped him by this point, but it was too late: I had a really big cheek bruise. And I couldn’t help myself: I just grabbed him, and spun him around and really whacked his bottom.
And do you know what? It was like he didn’t care. In fact, for maybe the first time ever, he actually grinned at me.
Comment (1):
OMG, Caitlin, this is not good. It sounds to me like Benjamin has very serious problems. I know you keep hoping that things will get better but I can’t help thinking that they’ll get worse. These kids, the ones who come out of orphanages badly damaged by their experiences, they start out being very strange but they can end up dangerous! I don’t want to panic you but I think that Benjamin is showing signs of mental illness. I know that you’ve said that you’ve seen three therapists already but my advice is: don’t stop there!! You need to get help for him!!
Comment (2):
Hi, Caitlin, it’s Sandi. I thought I’d write to say I’m sorry we didn’t see you at our last meeting. I know you’re having a really tough time but remember it can help to get together with others in the same situation and not just online! Don’t forget that we are here for you.
Chapter 30
The (Alternative) Book of Benjamin
The title of this post is ‘I Am Slowly Going Out Of My Mind’ – and I think that’s self-explanatory! I realise things never seem to get better – despite people telling me that they will – and I’m feeling ragged, and I’m wondering what our next step is going to have to be.
I’ve already explained how Benjamin gets out of his crib and wanders through the house at night. At first it was because he was looking for bottles of Sustagen and taking food to hoard, but now it seems like something else.
Most nights, he gets up around midnight. He makes an effort to do it quietly, but because I’m sleeping on a bed of nails, I can hear him. He comes down the stairs. He goes into the kitchen. Then he’ll reach up to flick the faucet, to get a drink. He doesn’t use a glass or a mug or a cup. He drinks directly from the faucet. I’ve seen him do it. He dips his head down and drinks from the stream. I’ve tried to stop him. I’ve said, ‘Can I get you a glass, Benjamin?’ It doesn’t work. He stops what he’s doing and freezes, like a statue. He can stand stock still in the dark in the kitchen, not moving for I don’t know how long. I’ve never tested it.
Once he’s had his drink, he goes to the pantry. He takes the food that he wants, and then he starts opening the drawers. The first time I heard him do it, my heart started racing. I said to Colby, ‘He’s looking for knives.’ Colby said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ but he was looking for knives. I heard him rattling through the knife drawer. And we still have the monitor in his bedroom. So, I can sit up in bed and watch him when he returns to his crib. And one night, he did go up the stairs with a knife. It wasn’t a carving knife. I’m not being melodramatic. I don’t think he’s going to stab us to death in our beds. But he was holding a butter knife, and once he got back to his room he was running it across the bars of his crib, presumably for the sound it made.
I couldn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night. I was actually terrified.
I suppose it goes without saying that my heart is breaking. This adventure that we went on was supposed to be so much fun. Like everyone, I had a vision of being that family – that all-American family! – where the dad goes off to work while the mum stays home in the beautiful house taking care of the lovely kids.
I’d do some online study. I’d get a degree in massage, or nutrition, or interior design. We’d visit friends on weekends. We’d take vacations. Benjamin would learn to ski. We’d go to Disneyland!
What have we got instead?
I’m trapped in my house with a disturbed child and nobody seems able to help. We can’t put Benjamin into a school. Not after the disaster with St Paul’s, and he’s really got no better. I can’t imagine what kind of school would take him. He has days where he does nothing but thrash around on the floor. He kicks his legs in circles around the floor, like some kind of break dancer. Of course he conks out eventually. He falls asleep. But the way he falls asleep is strange. He will just stop. And then he’ll snore that awful snore that we heard on the first day.
But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is that Benjamin has now found a way of getting out of the house. He got out just the other day, went out of the house, wandered down the hill and around the corner, through somebody’s garden, right up to their house, and looked in through the window.
The poor lady who lives there, she almost had a heart attack. Luckily she saw that Benjamin was only a child, not a stalker or a peeping Tom. She was startled, but she went outside and collected Benjamin from the bushes outside the window. She asked h
im what he wanted. He didn’t answer. She asked him where he lived. He didn’t answer, but pointed up the hill to our house.
Thank God he did.
I would hate the police to come into our house and see the fortress it’s become. I’ve had to put child locks on everything.
Anyway, the lady took Benjamin by the hand and walked back to our home with him. She knocked on our front door and she had that expression that women get when they want to have a serious conversation with you about your children. I was so horrified to see her standing there with Benjamin that I didn’t know what to say.
She gave me a lecture. I kept my mouth shut. I don’t expect anyone to understand about Benjamin. I don’t expect them to understand what he’s like. I thanked our neighbour. I closed the door. I told Colby when he got home and he scolded me. He said, ‘Why didn’t you say, “He’s a Russian orphan. He hasn’t been with us all that long. We’re still trying to figure him out”?’
Well, didn’t we have a fight! I was so upset. I said, ‘He’s not a Russian orphan! He’s your son. I have the paperwork to prove it. All that paperwork! Paperwork that took six months to put together!’
I reminded him how we had taken turns, placing kisses on the envelope before we’d sent it off.
All my dreams were in that envelope. All my hopes for a beautiful family. And what did I get? A boy who rocks backward and forward on his knees in his bedroom, who refuses to eat, who won’t make eye contact, who is now playing peeping Tom with the lady down the road. I know it’s nothing I’ve done that has made him this way. Benjamin was like this the day we picked him up. But I always thought that if I just loved him enough, we’d be able to fix him.
We’d love him, and keep on loving him, and eventually he’d crack, and we’d cry and bond, and on we’d go as a family. It hasn’t happened, and more and more I can’t help thinking, ‘What have we done? What have I done? Who is this monster that I’ve moved into our house, and did I really invite him? And can it really be true that I can’t now ask him to leave? Not now? Not ever?’
Comment (1):
Oh, Caitlin, I can hear your anguish in your post. We all go through these moments when we wonder what on earth we’ve done, but you are strong and you will get through this and the rewards will be immense. You have been given an opportunity to really change a child’s life and that is not an opportunity that can or should be wasted. I know you probably don’t feel like company right now, but please, please remember that we are here, and I am happy to talk to you anytime. Hang in there! Sandi Miller, Ho-Ho-Kus, USA
Comment (2):
I have no idea what you are trying to achieve with these whining posts. You obviously regret your decision, but telling everyone about it is really bad form. Have you ever considered that your son is growing up and he can feel your negativity. Worse, he will soon be able to read these posts? Maybe you think you’ve disguised yourself and by using only your first name people won’t be able to find out who you are, but believe me it’s not hard to work out your real identity, but then maybe you don’t care. Maybe all this is you showing off and seeking sympathy because really every post seems to be about YOU.
Chapter 31
The (Alternative) Book of Benjamin
The title of this post is ‘Our House is Haunted’ – and no, I’m not referring to Halloween. I’m Australian, as some of you know, and we didn’t celebrate Halloween in Australia when I was growing up. It was seen as a very American thing. My first experience of it was in Manhattan after 9/11. We had been banished from our apartment and were living at the Hilton. I was struggling with my fear of flying and wondering what would become of me, how I would ever get home. There were quite a few children staying in the hotel and some of them came and knocked on our door and I gave out some candy, but it was all fairly low key.
The following year we moved to this house in Larchmont, but that was the year we lost our baby and I suppose I didn’t notice much of what was going on around me. I do remember that Colby went to a Halloween party as one of the Living Dead, with a white face and torn clothes, like a ghoul. I hadn’t felt up to it and, gee, didn’t Summer – that’s my husband’s colleague who he’s a bit too close to for my liking – take advantage of that! I saw the photographs afterwards, and she’d gone as some kind of sexy witch with a miniskirt and fishnet stockings and a broomstick between her legs (sorry!) and she was really playing up to Colby in some of the shots I saw.
I’ve seen quite a few Halloweens since then, and I have grown to love the celebration. All those little children coming up the hill to our house, dressed like fairies and goblins, all so shy, and amazed by the wonder of it all. I coax them up to our front door with a bucket of candy corn and some of those hideous jelly body parts for the older teens. I have cobwebs spread over the front hedge and a plastic skeleton set up on the porch in the rocking chair. It’s marvellous, and of course I’ve thought about the day when I’d have a little one of my own to take around the neighbourhood.
I have a clear memory of thinking, ‘That’s one thing I’m going to love doing. I’m going to love watching my child get dressed up for Halloween, and I’m going to love taking him trick-or-treating around our neighbourhood.’ I also remember how much I loved getting dressed up as a child. I was pretty much barefoot every day of my life, but I had some kind of angel costume – a tulle skirt, with wings on the back – that I loved to wear when I was running on the beach, or scrambling over rocks, or even in the water.
I really wanted Benjamin to enjoy his first Halloween, dressing up and going trick or treating, but I guess I also knew in my heart that it wouldn’t be the experience I’d dreamed about. I was very careful to take things slowly. I didn’t want to overwhelm him with a lot of choices. I didn’t want to say, ‘Would you like to go as a Power Ranger or would you prefer to go as a vampire?’ Too much choice can set him off, so I got him a Superman suit. There wasn’t much to it. It was just a body suit, with the big S on the chest, and a cape, and I thought, ‘Okay, this is going to be a first for us, and this is going to be fun. I’ll put Benjamin into the suit and I’ll take him by the hand, and we’ll be out in the street with all the other kids, trick or treating, and we’ll be just like any other American family.’
But who am I kidding? We’re not just like any other American family. We have a very strange child. First up, Benjamin wouldn’t wear the Superman suit. How did I guess that would happen? I tried my best to coax him into it, but he wanted nothing to do with it. He doesn’t want to do anything that other kids do. He won’t go to school. He won’t go to the playground. He doesn’t want to talk. He won’t let me hold him. He won’t let me kiss him. He never calls me Mom. He never says Dad. He never says anything! He is maddening.
I know I’ve said this before, but I can hardly believe I tried for all those years to have a baby and now I have a child who hates me.
Some of you will say, ‘I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. Hate’s a big word.’ But what else would you call it? What else can you say about a child who refuses to get into his Halloween costume, refuses to help put the candy in the bowl, refuses to be led out of the house to do the trick or treating, refuses to enjoy any of the many decorations that the neighbours have put out, refuses to come with me to the door when other children knock?
We may as well not have bothered.
I switched all our lovely novelty toys off – the skulls with the flashing eyes – and blew out the candle in the jack-o’-lantern and ran the bath for him. He’d been crying so hard his face was stained. I had him under the armpits, trying to get his feet into the water, and he was thrashing around, and when his feet touched the water it was like he was blistered. I’d tested the temperature. I knew the water wasn’t hot. The water was just right. You’d think I’d tried to scald him.
Then he started throwing up. He’s become expert at that. I can’t remember when it started. All I know is that he can now projectile vomit across the room. So, there was that to clean up, too.
> I know, I know: all he needs is love. Well, I’m trying to love him, but I can’t get rid of the feeling that he really, really hates me in return. I know that I sound bitter and that’s because I AM bitter. It was my big idea to take an older child. I dragged Colby screaming to the adoption table. Now I’m in a situation where we have a child who cannot stand to be around us – and I’m going to be honest, I am exhausted.
I am exhausted not only from the endless demands that Benjamin makes on our home – the screaming, the hitting – but I am also exhausted from all that I’m being asked to give, and because I get nothing back in return.
Not a word, not a smile, not a look of gratitude, nothing.
I know, I know, believe me, I know, I have heard from mothers of autistic children, and from children who have all kinds of diseases and syndromes and conditions, who tell me that their child has never looked at them, and never acknowledged them, and will never say ‘thank you’ or ‘I love you’.
But we didn’t sign up for this!
There was none of this on the paperwork we got from the agency. Where did it say: your child will destroy your house? Where did it say: your child will tear at your face and try to poke your eyes out? Where did it say: your child will smash every nice thing you have, not in rage, but in pure indifference to how you might feel about it?
And also – when will anyone other than me be allowed to admit that my child is different? That all of these adopted children are different? That they aren’t like other kids?
Don’t get me wrong, I want to connect with Benjamin. I have tried so hard to reach him. I am reading everything I can find about children who come from orphanages and they can’t connect. You have to repair the attachment. All the therapists say we need to show more patience.
Can You Keep a Secret? Page 22