The Plan

*Pause for major life changes*

AAAAAAAAAAAaaand we’re back.

Hi there!  Thank you for joining me once more.  A lot has occurred in the time that I’ve spent away.  One day I’ll talk about it here.  It’s on my ever-growing list titled: “Things That Really Are Important to Me, and One Day I Swear I’m Going to Get to Them, but Not Today Because I am So Very Tired, and I’d Rather Eat Junk and Go to Bed Early. So, Tomorrow Probably, or Maybe Not.”  When I do, rest assured that it will be an eloquent summary of my innermost processing of topics that are highly relevant and connected to my purpose here both big and small. 

BUT!  Not today!  Today is for venting!  Today is shouting my pain into the internet.  (You know, the place it’s supposed to go). 

Today, like so many days in recent history, I find myself growing frustrated and impatient with adults.  This may seem easy to do, because there are so many adults that are truly garbage humans.  There are also so many adults that are trying their best, and they mean well, but are just tripping and falling all over this thing called life.  Let me be clear, my frustration and lack of patience is not for these obvious targets.  I have a surprising amount of compassion for those diverse classes of people. 

My frustration and intolerance grows evermore for the “educated” and “enlightened” adult.  The adult who doesn’t think they know better.  The adult who knows they know better because they are the grown-up, and they learned about things in school or from their healthy upbringing.  I am starting to believe that these people are more dangerous than those with obvious challenges and inadequacies.  We tell ourselves and our children that we can trust these idiots. Yet, they lead us so continually astray.

Where is this coming from?

Thanks for asking. 

So many many places. 

But, today, in particular, I found myself sitting with a 10-year-old Sad kid.  This is a child that has been through so much, and really needs the universe to give them a substantial hug.  This kid is sad.  This kid has every right to be sad.  This kid is not disruptive.  This kid is quiet, and hopeless.  This kid does not feel that they can ask questions or advocate for themselves.  Sad.  You get the picture. 

We are sitting together playing with slime (as you do) and this child spontaneously declares “my music teacher and I have a plan!”

“Oh yeah?” I respond with curiosity and naïve hope.

“Yep!” Kiddo pipes up. “If I have a good week, he has this plushy that has these squishy things in it, and he said I could have it.”

“Wow!” I join in kiddo’s excitement.  “What exactly is a good week though?”

I’m asking because I want this kid to realize that “good” is a value statement, and it has no specific expectations, or concrete information, for anyone.  “Good” is vague, and confusing, and means different things to different people.  What I consider to be “good,” can be very different from what the music teacher considers to be “good,” and it likely is very different form what the math teacher considers to be “good.”  This is confusing to kids (and me quite frankly) who are constantly looking around for some sign of what we want from them. 

“It means, if I don’t get upset, and don’t use the cool down space,” kiddo clarifies.

*Here’s where I go off the rails*

For a whole week?!  The expectation is that this child does not get upset for a whole week of music lessons, otherwise it’s not “a good week?”   Also, we’re rewarding a week in which this child does not use the identified “cool down space?” 

Step One: Don't get Upset

Step Two: if you happen to get upset (which you weren’t supposed to do), stifle it so that you can stay in class and not use the space we tell you is for going when you are upset.   

Maybe you think I’m over reacting, and admittedly I am exaggerating my response some.  I assume that this adult was well-intentioned. I assume that he meant to encourage the child to feel happy and participate in class.  I assume the best intentions.  It’s this assumption, however, that makes me angry. By attempting, in this way, to encourage happiness, this grown up is saying, uncomfortable feelings are to be discouraged, and doing something that tells me you are upset is not to be rewarded. 

This is the message we all say to kids. We are saying, we want you to feel happy.  We are saying, if you are unhappy, you are doing the undesirable.  You do not get a reward if you feel something other than happy. Ignoring for a moment that the upset feeling itself is a lack of reward. Ultimately, what this boils down to is a message that unpleasant emotions in other people make us feel uncomfortable, and therefore we must discourage their safe and appropriate expression at all costs.

Earlier this year I was talking to a 7-year-old who screamed at me and called me names.  He shouted, for all the world to hear, “you’re not making me feel better!”  He was angry, and I wasn’t taking that away from him.  How did I respond? 

I sat down.  I sighed.  I said, “that’s not my job Friend.”

He persisted. He believed it was my job to make him feel better. I was there for him because he felt “bad.”  What was I doing if I wasn’t fixing it?

 I validated that belief and his anger, and I explained “you get to be mad. It is normal to be mad, and sad, and all other feelings you can think of.  That’s normal. My job is not to take that from you.  My job is to help you know what to do with it when your feelings are so big that you don’t know what to do.  My job is to help you learn what to do with big feelings that are uncomfortable feelings.”

That’s our job folks. It’s not just my job. I can’t do it alone. It's for everyone. We have to manage ourselves, and to ask for help when we can’t.  It’s our job to know our needs and to tend to them so that we don’t take them out in ways that are unhealthy and disruptive and make us feel worse.

We send these messages so early on that what we want from others is for them not to be anything other than “good” or “happy.” 

“No more crying.”

“Don’t get mad if it doesn’t work.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of.”

Your feelings matter less than mine.

We want you to feel an emotion that doesn’t make us uncomfortable. That’s what we will reward. When you don’t, we’ll shame you and wonder why you didn’t make the right choice.  We’ll wonder what happened in your life that made it, so you turned out to be one of those garbage people or those well-meaning adults who just can’t get it together.  “What’s wrong with them?” We’ll ask ourselves, blaming you for the problems you have or cause.

The “functional”, “successful,” “educated”, and “enlightened” members of society will scream into the void at the traumas of the world and blame these people for not knowing how to behave in the ways that we told them all along they needed to.  We will do anything we can to avoid looking inward and identifying how we contributed to it.

Time

Having come down with something, I took today off from work.  With no responsibilities other than to improve my well-being, I slept in until 11am. I then got up, and planted myself on the couch.  I laid there, watching tv, and falling in and out of consciousness all day.  (I'm pretty sure I took two naps). With all that rest in my body, all I can think about is time.

In the last year, it seems like something shifted, and there's no more time any longer.  My New Year's resolution was to finally begin reading for fun. Since grad school was over and I'd gotten into a routine at work, it seemed that there was finally time to read for pleasure.  Well, I've been slowly chipping away at the same piece of KidLit since then.  I have a to do list in my brain a mile long.  Every time I think I'm close to completing it, another life changing thing adds on to it.  It just seems that there's no time for it to ever be complete

Don't get me wrong, I love my life.  I'm pretty freaking happy with how things are evolving, but that's just the thing!  My world is constantly evolving and changing, and at some point in the last year it picked up the pace. Suddenly, I can't keep up with it.  As I try to, I'm reminded of all the time I've lost track of.

Growing up is a process that we so often forget to observe.  We get so easily drawn up into the drama of daily life.  Before we know it we are rushed down a stream of bill paying, dish washing disputes, un-laundered clothes, car payments, and broken headlights.  We get bogged down by the necessities of the holidays, and planning the traditional milestones of our lives that we don't even allow ourselves to notice the time passing by. 

Today was perhaps the first in months that I have allowed myself to lay in silence and savor the time.  Congested and achey, I provided myself with a long overdue stillness to appreciate the time.

The Only Constant

As a little girl, I enjoyed merry-go-rounds.  I would find quiet moments on playgrounds to sneak off to the spinning structure, swiftly run around it, jump aboard, and lay down.  As the world spun frantically and madly around me, I'd close my eyes and focus intently on the wind rushing through my hair, the air passing crossed my face, and the sense of movement all around me while I lay their motionless.  In the midst of my frenzied and ever-revolving surroundings, I was still.

Just as the younger me spent hours attempting to root myself in an moving and changing climate, the older me frequently attempts to find consistency amongst change.

This is a difficult task, and it's a task many of us take on.  Over and over again, we learn that the one thing we can invariably count on is that there will be change.  Like it or not, things will be as they are until they aren't.  Sometimes we know that change is coming. At times we fear it.  Other times we anticipate it.  Some of us hunker down.  We put our feet in the ground, and we refuse to move with the change.  We get stuck, and fall behind.  Then there are those of us who attempt to control the change.  We try to force it.  Knowing growth will come, we apply pressure to our circumstances in an attempt to coerce the change into something that is predictable and expected.

Our varied reactions are a result of discomfort. Change is hard. As a young professional first entering the world of mental health, this was my mantra.  I found myself labeling this for kids, parents, and colleagues frequently.  Change is hard, and we so rarely allow ourselves to acknowledge that.  We want to be okay with change.  We need to "be chill" and roll with the punches, but it sucks and we invalidate that all the time.

Change is a fact of life.  Our brains and bodies are constantly growing and stretching.  The seasons change, and bring a multitude of weather systems.  People come and go.  Buildings go up.  Trees fall down.  The ground moves.  The waves crash.  The world spins...endlessly.

All we can do is look for an opportunity to hop on the merry-go-round, be still, and experience the changes as they come.

Forcing the Fairy Tale

One of the more memorable children I have encountered was a young woman who had a strong affinity for cosmetics.  Much of our time together was spent discussing the pitfalls of my eyeliner, or the decorations on her nails.  She enjoyed experimenting, and was quite skilled with her materials.  This type of rapport building was necessary, as this adorable and likable child was incredibly insecure.  She had been raised in poverty and neglect.  Described as "the neighborhood child," she spent much of her childhood providing for herself as her ailing caregiver slowly perished in front of her.  As a young child, she tended for the one adult she had to love, and fed herself by journeying to the houses of unsuspecting neighbors who took pity on her.

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When this phase of her life regrettably came to a close, she was transported in the middle of the night to a family friend's house where she was told she had to stay with no explanation of why or what had happened.  She then lived in transition, without acceptance and space for her grief.  She was shuttled repeatedly between households of adults who believed her to be a burden and treated her as such.  Forgetting her lack of proper parenting, and refusing to acknowledge her own emotional reaction to loss, disruption, and distress, she was forced to abide by rigid and irrelevant rules.

While in my care, she lamented the world around her.  Expressing that adults, well intended and not, had instructed her to believe that the world was an awful place.  She'd been coached to radically accept that life sucks, and it never gets better.  She was in a pivotal place in her life in which she was attempting to construct her own independence within a framework of dismay and artificial hope.

She sought my guidance often about what to expect for the future.  I joined with her in frustration for the "supports" she'd been given, and attempted to convince her that it didn't have to be that way.  I spent hours being real with her, telling her that life gets better, while admitting that it always remains hard.  She listened attentively.  It was a nice story that she liked to hear.  She wanted me to tell it over and over again, but for her that's all it was. It was a fairy tale that I was desperately wanting her to buy into. 

We parted some time ago.  I sent her on her way, set up with as much as I could give her, but knowing it was not enough to fill the unhealed wound that was her childhood.  Though I would continue to think about her, I had to accept that it was likely the last time I'd see her.

Until I recently re-encountered her in a circumstance I cannot fully explain, except to say that there was a stage and an open mic.  I had seen her early on, sitting in the crowd by herself; her hair hanging in perfectly curled ringlets that covered her face.  Near the end of the event, she got up quietly and made her way to the stage.  While up there, she caught my eye and we exchanged amused expressions.  She seated herself cautiously, gripping the mic with a shaking hand, and sang a melancholic version of Payphone by Adam Levine.

I found myself misty eyed as I watched this young woman nervously sing. As she crooned the following words, I was transported to visions of that poor little girl extracted from a situation without explanation and given to people who would not allow her to process her loss.

"I know its hard to remember the people we used to be. Its even harder to picture, that your not here next to me.  You say its too late to make it, but is it too late to try, and in that time that you wasted all of our bridges burnt down. I've wasted my nights.  You turned out the lights.  Now, I'm paralyzed. Still stuck in that time when we called it love, but even the sun sets in paradise.  I'm at a payphone trying to call home.  All of my change,  I spent on you. Where have the times gone? Baby it's all wrong.  Where are the plans we made for two?  If happy ever after did exist, I would still be holding you like this.  All of those fairy tales are full of it."

When she finished, she smiled bashfully at the crowd and returned to her seat.  As she passed me by, I couldn't help but reach out and touch her shoulder.  She startled and turned toward me.

"That was beautiful," I whispered.

She widened her eyes, reached out both of her arms, and crashed into my shoulder.  For just a moment, I gave a tight squeeze back.  When she released, we exchanged bittersweet smiles before going our separate ways.

Automatic Answer Syndrome

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When I was little(r), I was somewhat of a know it all.  If I was comfortable, I could be quite the chatter box.  Any question pointed in my direction likely got a lengthy monologue in response. Sure, I was pretty cute, but even the cutest of little ones can exhaust the attention of those that love them.

After seemingly endless periods of squeaking my every thought and observation, I eventually encountered the much too advanced wisdom of my father.  I recall conversations in which he spoke at my wee tow-head about the concept of noise pollution.  Believing himself to be helpful, he explained that my excessive verbalization was just adding needless sound to the world.  He guided me through picturing what the air would look like if we could see sound, and insinuated that I was soiling breathable space with my desire to talk without purpose.

This was not as awful as it sounds.  Though my not yet fully formed brain was momentarily stifled by the all too scientific advice of my apparently heroic father, I didn't actually stop talking.  It's possible that I may have slowed down some in response, but historic reports of my family members would indicate the inaccuracy of this assumption. On and on and on I prattled; selfishly soaking up the sound space around my loved ones.

In particular, I loved to prove my intelligence to my father.  As you may have discerned from the above story, my dad was pretty clever himself.  I'm pretty sure that was always obvious to me.  I even imagine myself as an infant, craning in his arms, thinking "whoa! this dude is smart!" So, naturally I had to rise to the genetic occasion. As a bumbling tot trying to form my own understanding of the world, I assumed I had to prove my worth by immediately answering every question that even seemed meant for me.

Obviously, I got a lot of questions wrong.  That's what happens when you increase the frequency of your attempts at anything, you increase the chances for error.  Eventually, as it always did in my family, my behavior led to another paternal teaching moment.  I recall a family dinner, with us all seated at the table discussing our days, and likely answering trivia questions to the key of "for an extra two points!"  I must have exhausted the patience of others with my interrupting and attempting to guess at things I didn't truly know, because my father finally spoke out against it.

"You don't always have to know the answer," he calmly stated.  "There's nothing wrong with saying you don't know."  He then guided us through acknowledging our ignorance, and confidently stating "I don't know."  From then on, both my parents would pause us when we demonstrated notable sensitivity to the unknown, and guide us through calling ourselves out.  We were repeatedly coached to practice alerting others to our dearth of knowledge.

I found this activity irritating for the vast majority of my childhood.  I hated telling people I didn't understand them.  I abhorred acknowledgement of my inadequacies in a public forum, and I resisted encouragement to lay it all out on the table.  Only recently have I realized that this ongoing tutelage actually took.

In my adulthood, my academic and professional careers have been marked by my insistent confession of inadequacies.  It is possible that I call out my lack of wisdom all too often.  However, I'm frequently praised by superiors for indicating that I have yet to glean what I need to.  Personally, I often attribute it to my sense of innocence and inexperience with all things "real world."  Though, I have started to notice my own frustration with colleagues and superiors who lack the strength required to assert their ignorance. I find myself often grunting vexation with "knowledgeable others" who automatically throw out suggestions unrelated to the questions I have asked.  My head spins with annoyance when I turn to seasoned professionals who attempt to guide me through basic responses to situations I am comfortable with, and ignore my pointed questions about how to deal with advanced complexities.

My initial assumption was that this played on my own inadequacies.  My primary response was to think "they must really think I'm stupid if think I've forgotten the basics," but then I realized it wasn't this at all.  Due to my own prior experience with automatic answer syndrome, I quickly understood that the truth was they don't have the answers either.  It is they who lacks the knowledge to further themselves. Because they never had support to build comfort with their own lack of understanding, they have habituated time-wasting discussions of things that don't matter.  They don't understand the utility of recognizing a deficit in order to build upon it.

Braggart Reform

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When I was younger I could be quite the know-it-all.  Teachers liked me, because I sat quietly in class, raised my hand, and answered the questions I  was asked. At home, I would jabber on and on about all the things I learned in school.  I would talk my parents' ears off as I described every accolade and academic triumph of the day.  I'd chatter away bragging about all of my skills and scholastic strengths until my dad would sigh with exasperation and declare,

"If you're really smart, you won't have to tell anyone."

As a small child this advice baffled me.  Of course I have to tell people, I thought to myself, how else will they know?  I truly believed that I had to prove my worth to others.  Because of this, I took my father's advice how I always did.  I ignored it.

I went on striving for perfection and asserting my value to all who mattered to me.  All the while, my father repeated his advice  every time he was subjected to my self-aggrandizing daily reports.  I'd roll my eyes, stomp my feet, and complain that I was merely trying to describe my day.

I never thought this advice effected me much, except to confirm that my dad could be rather insensitive.  However, as with all mild irritations that are set on repeat, I slowly internalized his words.  Without realizing it, I took on his meaning.  Before I realized it, I grew into a strong young woman who speaks to others in simple words while resisting the need to prove my intelligence.  I now equate my wisdom and skill with that of most people.  I recognize my competencies, but I see myself as no better or worse than any other person just with a different set of privileges.

Error-genic

"Parenting," as my father says, "is a job you can only do wrong."

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 It may seem overly cynical to say so, but I've had a variety of encounters throughout my life that would confirm this very belief. I have worked with and known parents who could be described with adjectives such as good, bad, perfect, mediocre, wonderful, awful, intense, amazing, and even crazy. No matter how I've come to know these parents, they all had one major thing in common. All of their children have had "issues."

In fact, that might just be the prevailing theme in life. Everyone has issues. We all have something we struggle with, some weakness that needs bolstering, and some sensitivities that need considering.  Babies are born into our world ripe for learning behaviors from their predecessors. Their brains are literally programmed to observe and mimic what they see. These learned behaviors impact thought development, which creates internalized responses, and before you know it there's a whole new generation of neuroses walking the earth.

It's an endless cycle that can only be circumvented with acceptance. This is our fate. Whether guarded, defensive, fearful, or reactive, we all have our vulnerabilities. Often times these issues have been selected from a preordained set of environmental, hereditary, and social dynamics. There's little anyone could do to avoid creating issues. It's possible that special focus and attention may have prevented development of a specific sensitivity.  However, it's more than likely that hyper-attentiveness in one identified area would actually create neglect in an another unrealized realm; causing a whole different set of difficulties.

This is not to say that we should all just throw up our hands and surrender to our flaws and shortcomings.  Truly what I point to is the opposite. I bring up our inevitably flawed experiences, in an attempt to point out that we're all striving for improvement.  This experience is not unique to any particularly sick set of people.  We're all working on change and betterment of ourselves, because the future depends on us.

(Not) Helping

I work a 9-5 now. I got home at 6:45pm today. I could have stayed later. I should have stayed later.

This is the nature of my work. I'm currently operating at a half a caseload, and the amount of action items and steps to take on is overwhelming.  It's never ending. There's always someone to talk to, and something to do. There's always someone who wants something and someone else who needs something from me. I'm quickly learning that my job involves a massive amount of identifying who and what does not get my attention.

I took this job because I like spending time with children.  I'm energized by working with kids in need, and I have a knack for intervening in a crisis.  I took this job because I want to help, but what I'm quickly learning is sometimes not doing something is the only help I can provide.

What I Am

I spend a lot of time thinking about what I represent to others, and I recognize that it's a lot of things.

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For some people I represent The Answer. I am the authority that holds the knowledge that gives insight.  For other people I am The Power. I hold the keys to the doors that get you toward what you need and away from what you hate. They do not see me. Their thoughts tell them all they need to know.

Some people believe I am The Innocent.  I am a youthful representation of freedom and ignorance. When some see my size, stature, and appearance, they assume I am without wisdom, skills, or know-how. They don't hear me. Their perception tells them who I am.

There are those who see me as The Maternal. I am The Savior. I am The Nurturer. I am the person who holds people when they cry. I am the one who makes everything all better. Then I am the one who flees when there's a need. I am The Abandoner. I am The Perfect Bitch. I am the Spoiled Child. I am The Privileged One. There are those who believe I represent everything they are not or cannot have. I am a reminder of pain and misfortune. They have no sense of me. Their history and experience forms their impression of me.

There are also those in my life who clearly see me as The Hope. I have been inexplicably called The Favorite in a variety of realms. I represent Something That Could Be. I have the skills or the prowess to turn things around, to enact change, to make things better. These people hear me selectively. I cannot ask them for help, because they do not perceive me to need it.

There are others who perceive me as The Needy. The Distant. The Reactive. The Disengaged. The Nosey; Over-involved.

I am a variety of things to a wider variety of people. I am The Projected. The Absent. The Superimposed.  I spend the vast majority of my day, my week, and my life filling the role I am assumed to have given the situation, relationship, and context. I represent what I am to individuals, groups, and systems. I try my best to work with this, but it is so moment to moment, that much of my life I find myself assessing what I am in each specific scenario, and I forget to ask myself what I truly represent.

Representing so much to so many, leaves me forgetting who I actually am. What is my role to me? What do I want to be? Who am I to me? Who even knows?

Identity Solutions

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Writing has been hard for me lately.  Sitting in front of my computer on Monday nights has turned in to pulling teeth.  I essentially have to isolate myself, and limit distractions in order to get anything out.  Even then, it's difficult to focus.  About every 1.5 sentences I stop to check my phone, pick at my split ends, or play with my cat. It's become a slow going, painstaking, process, and I've been quite distressed about it.

See, I conceptualize myself as a writer.  Clicking keys to make meaningful materials has nearly always come easily to me.  Writer's block freaks me out.  It screws with my identity, and makes me question my understanding of myself and who I am.  Writing is how I process my world.  Without writing, I feel confused and unfocused.  So, naturally I've been concerned about my most recent bout of writer's block.

Last week I began to ponder my three month long impediment.  Rather than fixate on my overwhelming sense of curiosity about why I wasn't writing, I started to think about my most prolific periods, and I discovered something peculiar.  My best writing is often regarding a topic that has given me a degree of mental anguish.  Bursts of frequent essays on a variety of topics often spring up during periods of my life characterized by transition, identity crisis, and general lifetime turmoil.  I knitted my eyebrows as I processed this information; not quite sure what to do with it.  Until it occurred to me that maybe I'm not writing because I'm happy.

Generation Adrift

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Not long ago, I found myself seated across from a loved one listening to
him lament the current state of his life.  He explained that his employment and educational prospects were not unfolding as he had wanted.  I listened attentively as he expressed anguish over feeling midway into a life that had gone awry.  Insistent that he had previously had a life agenda, he described feeling a failure at having not seen those plans come to fruition.  I hugged, validated, and soothed, as he repeated his distress without apparent purpose or intent.

At first, I didn't know how to respond.  I wanted to swoop-in with some miracle solution.  I wanted to assure him to keep his chin up.  I wanted to throw my hands up in the air and yell "you're right! This sucks! Screw it all!" Not knowing what to say, I tried to sort through my myriad of emotional responses, and I was struck with a sense of déjà vu.

It seemed as though I had heard this story before.  I recalled a call with a close friend from several weeks prior.  It was a routine check-in call, and by all outside accounts this woman's life was going very well.  Only, when you asked her she disagreed.  To her, she'd missed opportunities to follow her dreams.  She felt stuck between wanting to make her dreams happen and feeling like it was too late.  This wasn't the first time. When I considered the tone of our chats over the last few years, this was a prevalent theme. She wasn’t the only one either.

In fact, when I thought harder, I could cite a plethora of conversations in a similar vein.  I remembered tears over coffee, commiserating with cocktails, and throwing hands in the air during hikes.  It seemed that every 20-something I know carried a degree of angst regarding the apparently off-track direction their life had taken. Actually, my own life didn't stray too far from this pattern.

I continued to listen, pulling the pieces of a generation together, as he took a more dire "where did I go wrong?" tone.  Then, finally, I spoke.

"I think this is normal," I said.

Honestly, it appears that people in their mid-late 20s all experience some degree of unhappiness with their diverse range of circumstances.  For some of us, its feeling we've neglected the urge to begin relationships and create families. For others, it's dissatisfaction with having lost focus on our career goals.  There are those of us who wanted to travel more by this point, and others who expected to securely establish themselves in a community. Whatever the flavor, we all seem to identify a portion of our lives that changed course or didn't quite follow the path we intended.  As a result, we've got this built up anxiety about feeling adrift in a society that has it all figured out.

What's baffling is the finality of the concern.  Somehow, we've gotten it in our heads that it's too late.  We look to one another for support.  We ask for advice about how to right our course, and yet we expect nothing.  We compare ourselves to one another, assuming we are alone in this. We guess that other young adults have it all figured out.  Then we are surprised to learn it’s not uncommon, and we lose hope for the future as we bemoan our past.

In Reality

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Recently, I found myself sitting with a teenage girl after she had requested to speak with me about her failed attempt to communicate her needs. With an agitated affect, and a irritated tone, she explained her situation to me. She had, on top of all her significant life and environmental stressors, experienced a normal and typical adolescent setback.

Under most circumstances, this setback would have been manageable. Any other typically developing child would have addressed their concerns and had their needs met in a relatively short period of time. For this child it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Although, when you consider her trauma history, this young girl actually handled it quite well. She reported her concerns to an adult, and developed a reasonable plan to address them. Unfortunately, the adults did not communicate the plan with one another, and this girl, whose hopelessness and despair frequently results in depressive mood and self-harm behaviors, did not get her needs met. She instead got stuck defending herself to one adult, when the first had left without explaining the circumstances. The subsequent dispute, spiraled into an argument that evolved into a power struggle, and ended in undesired consequences. Then, she cried out for a therapist, and that is when I entered, as one adult was trying to explain a convoluted miscommunication to a teenager who'd lost all hope.

I stepped in, pulled her out of the stressful environment, and into a quiet room. We sat on the backs of chairs and looked out the window as she explained the entire scenario to me. I nodded along and reflected to the best of my recently conferred master's level ability. Then she finished her story. The room went silent. She hung her head, picked at her finger nails, and waited for my little bit of wisdom. After what felt like an eternity, I said the only thing I could think of.

"This sucks."

At first, I felt horrible. Here I am: the newly anointed therapist with fresh education. I had been coaching this kid on using her assertive communication skills for weeks. I come into a confusing situation, and all I can say to her is "this sucks." What the hell did I think I was doing? She needed answers, and I was giving her nothing.

So, I combed my mind, trying to come up with something, anything, that solved or explained the situation. We sat in silence again. She shifted on the back of her chair, tracing the crease of the material with her finger as she moved. Clearly she was done talking. It was my turn now.

I watched her tilt her head as she peered out the window; avoiding my eye contact. Think of something, I thought to myself, anything. Don't let her give up, not now. But, every intervention I devised felt like a lie. The truth was this was a real life issue. No matter what level of care you require, or how out of control your emotions are, there's always going to be the potential for others to let you down and that sucks. So, I told her that.

I said, "I can tell how hard you tried to communicate your concerns, and it's really frustrating to hear that the adults involved let you down. That's not fair." I went on to tell her how proud I was of her attempts to solve the problem. I reflected that the resulting scenario probably felt like a failure that brought about consequences she didn't want. Ultimately, my final message to her was probably more for me than anyone else. Though, I think it helped us both.

I told her that we can't control what other people do with the information we give them. All we can do is try our best to control what comes off on our end, and that's why it's important to keep at it. You've got to practice the skills to get better at them, but no one can promise that you'll always be successful. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, things don't work out. That's when it sucks the most. When we tried really hard, did everything we could, and it still didn't turn out right. But, if we keep on trying, one day we will limit those interactions as much as possible, and our successes will outweigh the setbacks.

Acceptance

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For more reasons than I can describe one of the children I have previously known sticks in my mind as remarkably significant. He was a darling, yet slightly awkward, 5 year old boy. Because of the profound neglect and exposure to violence he had experienced, this child struggled to relate to others. His subsequent home disruptions, and rejection by caregivers left him feeling isolated and at fault for all of the troubles he faced. As a result, he often sabotaged relationships just to control the inevitable.  About four years ago, I walked into the quiet area of our classroom, and sat down to ask if I could play with him.

"No thank you," he sighed.  "I want to play with a human."

Understandably, I balked at this response. I tried to explain to him that even though I was, in his eyes, a teacher, I was a member of the homosapien species with which he identified.

He didn't believe me.  A nearby colleague, having heard the conversation, attempted to assist by explaining that despite his beliefs "teachers are humans too," but the tow-headed child just looked at us sympathetically and shook his head.  His expression was clear: these creatures don't understand what I'm saying. So, we agreed to disagree, and I sat quietly by as I watched this perpetually lonely boy wait for another (human) child to ask him to play.

I initially struggled to understand this interaction, and I ultimately wrote it off as a "kids will be kids" expression. When I pause to reflect upon this amusing memory now, I am struck with how incongruent that interpretation is with my own beliefs.

I wholeheartedly believe that children are amazingly intelligent. Children hold a special kind of intelligence that is remarkably self-aware and intuitive when you are able to interpret it.  It seems to me that, often, children struggle emotionally because they do not have the words to communicate what they know and what they feel.  Many times we, as adults, do not understand what they are saying to us, and we respond with patronizing laughs that disregard their experiences.

When I remember this outlook, and think about my role in this boy's life.  His meaning was actually quite clear. He may as well have said:

"You're not the same as me."  

"You don't know what it's like."

"I want to belong."

Now that this message is clear, I think it's an important one to remember.  The truth is, no matter how my rapport with this boy was, no matter how much he felt supported by me, and no matter how much he claimed to like me, I could never truly understand where he was coming from.  The sense of belonging and relief that comes from being understood on that level is a support that cannot be manufactured or taught in school.

Dorothy

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I don't remember much about my first day of kindergarten. Mostly, I have information that has been given to me enough times over the years that my brain can now formulate what it thinks is a memory. For instance, I know I walked the 0.4 miles to school with my older brother. I know that he took me to my classroom, and that my teacher was a friendly woman named Mrs. Savage. She played a kanun during story time. I know those things as if they are memories. What I remember, is a frail little girl named Dorothy.

I was nervous, but I came from a family that valued education. So, I acted eager. Learning was always a priority in my house. I have early memories of books at bedtime, word games at dinner, educational toys, and math challenges. So, when it was my turn to go to school I understood that I was supposed to be excited. Learning had always been fun. Therefore, I was supposed to be happy about leaving home to do it full time, and I generally was. However, change is hard. For a petite, securely-attached, and introverted 5 year old girl, leaving home for school can be the most difficult kind of change. Grappling with the emotions associated with this lifestyle upheaval was very confusing. Internally, I was scared, but I was externally happy because I knew I needed to be.

This is where Dorothy comes in. When my brother and I arrived at the door to the classroom that crisp September day, she stood outside, a fragile-looking girl clinging to a worn-down plush bunny, sobbing uncontrollably. Like me, Dorothy was small for her age. She also had a pale complexion. Her eyes were a similar shade of blue, and her tear-streaked cheeks were spattered with freckles like mine. Naturally, I identified with her as she clung to her grandmother's leg and hid her face from the affable school teacher crouched before her.

Though I admired him greatly, a quick comparison to the caring adults surrounding this girl had my own escort seeming emotionally inefficient for the intensity of this transition. Eventually, the teacher managed to coax Dorothy across the threshold with the understanding that her ragged bunny could remain by her side as a reminder of home, and kept it she did. Throughout the day, she grasped that thing so tightly I occasionally worried it would lose its second eye. She never stopped crying either. She clutched her transitional bunny with all her might, and sniffled her way through the entire day. For weeks, she isolated herself, and remained always near the teacher wearing a fearful expression.

On some level, I sympathized with Dorothy. I remember feeling bad for her as I watched her cry quietly on the curb at recess. I watched her with that bunny. I understood that, without it, she would never have been able to leave her family behind each day. I pitied Dorothy and her bunny for their inability to attend school the way the rest of us could.

But, if I’m being entirely honest, Dorothy irritated me. Not because she stood out, or because her incessant crying interfered with my learning. Dorothy annoyed me because she got to be what I couldn't. She got to be scared. For reasons I would not understand for many years, she was permitted to act as nervous and frightened as I felt. She didn't have to justify herself to anyone, and she didn't need to act strong for a family who was excited for her burgeoning education. She was scared of change, and it was accepted. Her feelings were allowed, and her behavior was justified.

At age 5 the differences between Dorothy and I were subtle, but worth noting. Though we experienced a similar transition and faced similar emotional challenges related to this developmental experience, I had an implicit understanding of a very important aspect of life. Even as children, we sometimes have to choose between what we want and how we feel. Unfortunately, doing so often means suppressing an honest reaction in favor of a productive one. It’s uncomfortable. It’s hard, and it’s done almost every day.