Going Back

A few years ago I met a four year old with a peculiar habit of misplacing his possessions. At first he simply forgot them. He'd come to school, place all his belongings in their appropriate space, and then manage to leave without them. His guardians were aware of this. Rather than make a big fuss that he sometimes came home without his coat and/or backpack, they would send him in the next day with a spare. Some days that meant he'd leave with more than he could carry.


In order to help, I began reminding him to double check that he had all of his items before leaving. I'd call out as he ran off to play. He'd return; frustrated and growling. This is when the habit evolved.

Suddenly, this child's belongings were nowhere to be found. It was as if the end of the day had caused everything he owned to vanish. He'd leave for the day bewildered and empty handed, but seemingly pleased with himself. We'd go about our business of cleaning up after the kids, and eventually discover his coat in the corner behind the recycling bin, or his backpack stowed beneath a classmate's who hadn't left yet.

This kid was intentionally hiding his things from us. He wanted to leave them at school, but why? I couldn't understand it.

Until one day when I was playing with him. He and I were discussing an event that was obviously fantasy. However, for my friend it was experienced as a reality. It was after a long weekend, and I asked about what he had done since we'd last seen one another. He responded that he had run away from home.

"Where did you go?" I asked with elevated concern.
"To school," he replied matter-of-factly.

Realizing that this was a complete impossibility, I relaxed. Intrigued, I continued to ask follow up questions.  I listened, as he described how he had lived at the facility over the weekend. With excitement in his eyes, he explained that he played the entire time. He apparently slept upright in his cubby, and didn't eat anything because he wasn't hungry. He was at peace with his perceived experience. This was his safe place.

And then it clicked. In his brief lifetime, this child was only accustomed to trauma. He had witnessed and experienced nearly every type of abuse there is. This kid had seen more than I care to even think about. He had undergone almost constant change, rejection, and neglect. People said they cared about him, but no one paid attention to him, or endorsed his worth. Then, without much warning, he'd be moved to a new environment. He repeatedly had to adjust to different forms of neglect or rejection. Finally, he came to school, and the adults there actually listened to him. They took care of him, and worried about him when things went awry. He met other kids with similar experiences, and he was welcomed. Despite how hard he tried, he couldn't push these people away. It was unfamiliar, but so refreshing that he developed an insurance policy.

In his short life, everything had been taken from him. He was repeatedly uprooted, and removed from the people he thought were his. By leaving his possessions, he provided himself with the assurance that he would have to come back, at least one more time.

It seemed plausible, but I still felt I needed proof. So, at the end of that day, I caught him running off the playground toward his bus. I called him over, and pointed to his back pack and coat, which were curiously tucked underneath a shrub near the edge of the building.

After he retrieved them, I smiled and asked, "What happens when you get home and find out you don't have your things?"
He shot me the biggest I'm-healing-here smile, and exclaimed "I say: 'bus driver bring me back!'"