October 26th 2024.
My heart aches as I watch my 11-year-old daughter, Poppy, pacing anxiously from window to window. Her hands are pressed tightly over her ears, her fingernails breaking the skin. It's a scene I've sadly become all too familiar with – the panic, the screams, and the vomiting that accompany her severe phobias. And it breaks my heart because I feel helpless, unable to ease her distress.
I've tried everything to comfort her, but she wriggles free from my embrace. We've even drawn the curtains to block out the rain, but Poppy insists on watching. So I hold her hair back when the fear becomes too much and she vomits. It's been a ten-year-long battle against ombrophobia, astraphobia, ancraophobia, and emetophobia – fears that most people wouldn't even give a second thought to.
This is not a typical reaction to rain. While others may simply pull up their hoods or seek shelter, Poppy goes into full fight or flight mode. But it wasn't always like this. As a toddler, she was carefree and adventurous, always happy and full of life. She loved exploring the woods and hunting for fairies. But everything changed when she was two years old and a hailstorm struck.
I remember the day vividly – it had been scorching hot, and I was wearing flip flops while Poppy had bare legs and feet. Suddenly, the sky turned dark, and the air became still. Then, the hailstones started to fall – large, heavy, and relentless. I shielded Poppy with my body, possibly screaming in shock, but I knew the storm would pass. And when it was over, the sun returned, and it was as if nothing had happened.
But that moment changed everything for Poppy. It's the event that started her intense fear of rain, which has only grown stronger over the years. By the age of six, she could tell you about a jet stream, her constant need to know and understand the weather educating her beyond her years. Life has become increasingly difficult for our family – earlier this month, Poppy started secondary school, and on just the third day, we had a heavy downpour. While her classmates were making new friends and navigating the halls, Poppy was at home, curled up under a duvet, with her head in my lap and fingers in her ears. It was a struggle to get her back to school, and the only thing that worked was assuring her that it wouldn't happen again, even though I couldn't be certain.
The school staff tried to help by offering umbrellas and ear defenders, but when Poppy's fears take over, nothing seems to ease her anxiety. What made matters worse was when a teacher casually mentioned that the weather wouldn't get any better the day before another hailstorm hit. It may have been an innocent comment, but it only belittled Poppy's fear and made her feel like her feelings were invalid. It's been a constant battle to find a way to help her, and we've tried everything – private counselling, hypnotherapy, herbalists, exposure therapy, and EMDR. I've even written to celebrity therapists, hoping for a solution. But despite all our efforts, my heart is still heavy, and I feel like I haven't done enough to help my daughter.
I wish I had tackled her fears earlier, pushed for medical help sooner, and gotten her on the waiting list for Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services (CAMHS) sooner. Now, she's only been back to school twice in the last three weeks, and I believe she may have developed PTSD from a recent hailstorm at school. She was trapped there, without me to comfort her, and it's something that haunts her every time she sees a grey sky. She constantly asks me if it's the same grey sky as that day or if I would have sent her to school if we knew a storm was coming. It's heartbreaking to see her go through this, and I feel guilty for not being able to protect her.
We've sought help from our GP, who assured us that she would grow out of it, but as her fears intensified, we knew we needed more support. While we wait for a diagnosis for possible autism and for the CAMHS waiting list, we continue with our weekly counselling sessions. We've become experts in weather-watching, missing chunks of school, and turning down invitations. I worry that her friends will stop reaching out, that they'll give up on her. And I miss hearing about her day – we are rarely apart, so there's nothing for her to tell me.
We've even considered homeschooling Poppy, something we never thought we would have to do. We believe that school is more than just lessons and learning – it's a place for social interaction and personal growth. But when it's a daily battle to get her out of the house, when her fears consume her, we have to consider what's best for her. As her mother, I will do anything to protect her and make her feel safe.
It's a constant struggle, and I worry even more now that scientists have found that storms are becoming more intense and severe. For families like ours, it's a frightening thought. We've had to prepare our house for a disaster – drawn curtains, loud TV, and buckets at the ready. It's a constant state of anxiety for us, and I worry about the toll it's taking on my daughter.
While we try to understand and manage Poppy's condition, we need others to recognize that for her, the weather isn't just an inconvenience – it's a source of genuine terror. Don't dismiss her fears as a "fuss" or tell us she'll grow out of it. Please understand that her fear is real and debilitating, and listen to her. There's nothing more frustrating than feeling terrified and not being taken seriously.
We may not have all the answers or a perfect solution, but we're doing everything we can to help our daughter. And I hope that others will show her the compassion and understanding she deserves, instead of brushing off her fears as something she will eventually outgrow.
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