Solitary

While looking for school supplies in my old bedroom at my parents house, I stumbled upon a notebook of poems I wrote in middle-school. Most of them are stupid. Some are copied down from books of poems I liked. Others are surprisingly good. This one seems particularly poignant:

Solitary

Hide me in the corner
Where no one can see.
Let me cry my eyes out
Where no one can hear
And if you see a tear,
Just turn your head and glace away
But always remember
That never have I been as brave as I have today.

Check back later for more excerpts from my adolescent period.

Steve the Housefly

One of the boys in my classroom is a guarded 5 year old who, among his many other issues, has suddenly developed a pervasive phobia of flying arthropods. This normally excessively tough little boy is suddenly unable to play outside. He talks about bees all day long, and makes up inane excuses to avoid going outside to play. (For example: "I've never seen a movie before"). Once outside, he is uncharacteristically timid. He stands right next to adults, and twitches erratically in an attempt to avoid proximity to bugs, flies, moths, and butterflies.  He has difficulty walking in the grass on his own, and when outside will make up reasons to go back inside.

A few days ago, it was about 85°, and the bugs were in full force. We were outside together. He was standing near the monkey bars. I was trying to encourage him to play. Then he began to dance around and announced that he had to use the restroom. As I escorted him into the building, his bus arrived and I silently rejoiced that the stressful part of my day was almost over. 

When we arrived in the bathroom, he froze like a spooked horse.  There was a fly, buzzing around in there. I rolled my eyes, irritated that this was going to needlessly prolong the day, then turned on all of my therapeutic skills.  I got down on his level, reflected his anxiety, and explained "that's just a housefly.  Houseflies are nice.  It's not going to bother you.  You can go potty."  I then walked out of the restroom to give him some privacy.

From inside the door I hear a little voice whine "Bulinda!" (Yes, he calls me Bulinda.  No, I don't want to talk about it). So, I took a cleansing breath, and walked back in.

"What's up buddy?" I asked.
He pointed spastically at the fly, "what's it's name?"
"That's a house fly, friend. It's nice.  You don't need to worry about it."
He twitched as the fly spun circles a foot above our heads, and said, "but, what's it's name?"
Confused, I responded "it's called a house fly."

Now sounding annoyed and still jerking his arms and head randomly, the boy asked a third time.  I repeated my answer. We went around like this a few more times. Eventually, knowing that he was stalling and attempting to avoid the restroom, I replied:

"Friend, I just told you his name. He's a house fly.  He's nice, and he's not going to bother you.  Now, your bus is here. It's time to go potty.  I'll be out here." But, before I could leave he asked me one final time.

Now, I'm not really sure what was going through my head when I responded.  Possibly I was exhausted, maybe I was done being therapeutic for the day, or maybe I'm just nuts.

Clearly exasperated, I threw up my hands and sighed "dude! I don't know his name. He doesn't have one. I guess we could make one up for him. What do you want to call him? Steve? Okay. That's Steve. He's Steve The Housefly. He's a friend. He's just visiting. Steve is not going to bother you. Now go potty." I then strolled out of the bathroom looking bewildered.

Because of the elevated tendency for trauma reenactment and high need for supervision, the door to the bathroom is always left open for adults to monitor. This means you can hear everything going on inside.  On this particular day, I stood in the hallway and listened as an anxious 5 year old argued with a house fly named Steve. "What have I done?" I thought to myself, as I heard the following:

"Steeeeeeve! Steve! Stop it Steve! Quit looking at me! Bulinda! Steve's staring at me!"

At this point, two of my colleagues walked by and, upon hearing the one-sided conversation inside the lavatory, shot me quizzical looks.  I shrugged and explained, "he's in there with Steve The Housefly." Then I called out to my phobic friend, "Steve will stop staring at you if you go potty."

"That's an interesting intervention," my coworker said as she walked away.

At last, the little boy came out of the bathroom. He stood in the doorway with a complacent expression, as he gestured back inside. "Steve's crazy," he stuttered.  He then joined me in the hallway, but not before yelling "YOU CRAZY BABY STEVE!" over his shoulder.

The Usher in my Mind

I've always been somewhat of an enigma. I'm overly rational and incredibly emotional at the same time. It's common for me to find myself torn between two completely opposing psychological responses. I've always been aware of this.

I recall a conversation, when I was about 12 years old, in which I described how my mind works. I likened it to an old fashion movie theater in town. This theater only has one auditorium, and it is huge. It has an upper section of seats (the size of a small modern theater), and a larger lower section that would rival the size of most theaters. I went on to explain that being inside my mind was like being an employee at this theater when there are only two patrons. 

One of the patrons sits in the very front row and is completely run by her emotions. She's exuberant and garrulous. This young woman is irrational, and doesn't seem to realize she's in a movie theater. She honestly believes that, if she cares enough, she can change what happens on that screen. For this reason, she's screaming at the bad guys, jumping out of her seat when the good guys do well, and she cannot contain her anxiety when the music becomes ominous. This young woman has all kinds of ideas of what needs to be done, and she's sharing them all at the top of her lungs. She seems to think she's the only one in the room, and that she has control over whether or not the heroine goes up those stairs.

The other patron sits in the very back of this theater, and cannot stand that twit in the front row. The person at the back knows it's just a movie, no one can hear the cheering and advice from the audience. She can't understand why anyone would even think this was possible, there's no evidence supporting that theory. She just wants to sit back and watch the show. She knows that it's not necessary to get all worked up, because in the end that's all it is: a show. Emotional responses aren't going to change anything, and there is ultimately no control over the final result. This movie will end how it's going to end no matter what she does about it. She's logical to a fault.

Working this shift can be rather difficult. The customers are completely different, and it's damn near impossible to please them both at the same time. It's a complicated job, but that's what I've been tasked with.