Pandora

Image found here

Those who truly know me, know that I'm not afraid of crying. Yet, I don't do it much. I may be a sensitive person, but I'm pretty tough emotionally. I can handle seeing and hearing about most things. In fact, I've been a direct witness to a lot of the really tough shit in this world. So, imagine my dismay when I found myself crying...in a session.

I was sitting on the floor with a  fragile-looking little girl suffering from a deep chest cold. She didn't feel well, and I too was suffering from my own physiological malady. I had brought some magazine clippings and a shoebox into the room. Calmly and with frequent interruptions to sympathize with her productive cough, I explained that our purpose for the day was to cover this box in happy thoughts. She nodded in understanding, and we quietly set out to find her happy thoughts. It was a low-key moment. Neither of us said much. Side-by-side we combed through images; silently passing them back and forth. Fatigue was high, and words were sparse.

Several minutes into the activity I realized my attempt to help was impeding the process. After all, the images were supposed to make her feel good, not me. So, I sat back and watched this tiny thing rake through piles of glossy paper. The only sounds were sniffles and shuffling. Her kind yet guarded eyes remained turned down except to seek out clean tissues. Despite her clearly ailing body, she was completely engaged in this activity.

For all intents and purposes, this was a breakthrough. It was the most open this overly regulated and compliant child had ever been in my presence. I should have been ecstatic. The pride I should have felt at having finally gotten through to this child should have been overwhelming. Instead, I remembered why we were doing this.

I was helping this child create a vessel for her abundance of private worries. I was assisting in the construction of a safe place to release her very serious and realistic fears.

For a moment, I tried to imagine myself making a similar box for my worries. I saw a towheaded Little Min sit in front of me. I thought of the things she might put in her box. Only, I couldn't think of what would have been serious enough to require such an action. What is this girl going to put in her worry box? I wondered innocently.

That's when the triggering thought sauntered through my mind: Someone hit this child.

I welled up. My eyes filled to the brims with fluid, and I quietly swallowed a lump. This would have been fine, but my brain continued thinking.

I had no idea what it was like to be this girl. I had never in my life experienced anything like she had. My own childhood was safe and secure. My worries were sweet, chaste, and age-appropriate. I knew what to do with them. My family was reliable, and trustworthy. I could turn to my parents whenever I needed. When I did, I always found support, and I frequently got answers that explained every perplexing struggle. I was so lucky.

Juxtaposing my free and secure Little Min with the girl earnestly seeking to suppress the evils in world before me, I lost my composure. My eyes overfilled, and tears silently rolled down my cheeks.

Fortunately, she was so engrossed in her activity, that my sorrow for her went unnoticed. I turned my head and wiped my tears so as not to burden her with my own trivial sense of guilt for having a wonderful family.

This very uncharacteristic moment of emotionality passed rather quickly. However, I suspect this is not my last confrontation with guilt-ridden sorrow for others.