By Lisa Coppola
In kindergarten, this adoptee ran around distracted, compulsively blew kisses at other kids, and then asked those same kids if they were mad at me—far too many times. In some distorted attempt to sooth my worries, I tied the tassels on my blanket into a million knots and licked my hands raw while other kids took their naps. Other times, I would just shut my brain off, and appear blank, absent, as if I was staring off into a daydream. One week, as the big test for numbers and colors approached, I couldn’t remember what color was what, so I broke a barrel of crayons apart in frustration trying to sort it all out. I didn’t understand at the time, but I was living with a constant fear of rejection and subsequent loss. Even my dreams were infected. I was a groggy kid in the early mornings, after having recurring nightmares in which President Ronald Reagan was giving me the color and number test, and that I kept failing over and over again, disappointing him, and in turn, the rest of the country.
This was the age that marked the beginning of being referred to as space cadet, clueless, and flighty. It’s when I became used to disappointed and stern looks from adults, when I grew accustomed to hearing sharp requests to pay attention! from—it seemed like—everyone. I was frustrated that I couldn’t learn like the other kids and grew to be ashamed of myself. In my little brain, I was distracted by a roaring sea of chronic worry: thoughts of my family members dying, my parents getting divorced, my brother getting sent away, my cat getting run over, or of me being abandoned or rejected in some other way—somehow. Instead of learning in class or at home, I was focused on how to make my mother laugh, or how I could help my dad quit smoking or how to fix my brother’s lying problem.
By the end of that year, in 1986, I took the first of many tests for learning disabilities. I was given a diagnosis of attention deficit disorder (ADD–inattentive type) and eventually placed in a special program in elementary school where I was given guidance on how to improve my executive functioning skills. I was allowed a quiet place to take tests, a teacher’s aide to read the test questions to me, and tips and tricks for time management and memorization. I was also put on stimulant medications that changed in dose and variety until my senior year of high school. I cannot remember the medication doing much of anything for me, and my grades did not improve. My attachment issues, chronic worry and hypervigilance, ruminating thoughts, and subsequent compulsive behavior was not touched upon by professionals and in turn was left to flourish. Throughout this article I will refer to this combination of symptoms as relational trauma, which is often referred to as CPTSD or complex post-traumatic stress disorder Today, as a seasoned attachment therapist, it’s clear to me that without attachment- and trauma-informed treatment, those executive functioning interventions didn’t stand a chance.
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