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.

#ADDRESSINGchallenge

Everyone is impacted by power, privilege, and oppression to some degree. I believe that awareness of your areas of privilege helps you to realize ways in which you benefit from your various privileges as well as how you might help those who need a boost. In school, we had to complete the ADDRESSING Framework for ourselves. It's a helpful tool. I challenge you to complete it and share it to start a dialogue. At the bottom, feel free to add other ways in which you believe that your life is easier or harder when compared with those around you.  #ADDRESSINGchallenge

Age: I'm 31. I am privileged in that I am old enough to drink, vote, drive, and many other things. Though I lack the freedoms afforded to the youths due to the responsibilities of my age.
Development: (privilege) my intellectual and developmental are in line with my chronological age.
Disability: (privilege) I am able-bodied and in good health. I am able to enter buildings and use every day tools without requiring intervention. (Disadvantage) I am short and often need a stool or a helping hand. I also require prescriptive lenses and struggle with accurate depth perception. I take anti-depressants to combat anxiety.
Religion: (disadvantage) I am agnostic/atheist. I don't believe in a higher power or an after life. This is off-putting to many who would assume that I am a sinner or bad because of that.
Ethnicity: (privilege) I'm white. I had never been denied anything that I wanted because of my race. (Disadvantage) I have felt guilty or that people assumed the worst of me because of my appearance.
Socioeconomic status: (privilege) I'm middle class. I make a good wage and can always afford my bills plus the occasional splurge. I have almost no debt. (Disadvantage) I often worry about savings, and feel I need to save for the things I want.
Sexual orientation: (privileged) I a straight. I am attracted to the opposite gender, and have never worried that who I am attracted to will change how people see me or treat me.
Indigenous heritage: (disadvantage) I don't really know my heritage or the history of my family. I assume, because of my appearance and names that I am of European descent.
National Origin: (privilege) I live and am a legal citizen of the country in which I was born. I am afforded access to all the rights that go along with citizenship in the country I live.
Gender: I am a cisgender female. (Privilege) if you look at me my gender and pronouns are readily apparent. I do not get mistaken for a person of my gender. I am (relatively) comfortable in my body. I feel that it reflects who I believe myself to be. (Disadvantage) I have been denied access to things I want because I am a girl. I have had people call me hurtful names, cut me off, or treat me unfairly because I am a girl. I feel unsafe walking alone at night because of fear of attackers simply because of my appearance.
*I might add to this framework:
Political leanings: I am a democrat living in a liberal area of the country. I do not feel that my political leanings will be judged or disregarded. Though, I do have very closed loved ones who I interact with regularly who have starkly different political beliefs than I do.  I have to work hard to check my values and beliefs and balance them with my love for those peoples along with my honesty to myself.

ETA: I also carry privilege in that I feel safe enough to post something of this nature without overwhelming fear of backlash or detrimental judgement.

What Lies Beneath

"First thing is first," the over-eager young woman said to me. "I want to learn how to control my anger."

After listening to her explain how she no longer wanted to have explosions and get into fights with her loved ones, I indicated that I knew exactly how to help, but that the answer would likely confuse her. She assured me she was up for whatever I had to say.

"Well," I began. "You're not actually angry when you have an outburst."

Silence filled the room. "What do you mean?" She asked.

I followed with my patented schpeil about how anger is a secondary emotion. I explained that anger sits on the surface, and carries with it a variety of externalizations that are easy to act upon. We discussed how angry people often act without thinking, because anger doesn't require thought. She stayed with me, but insisted that her experiences were solely anger.  So, I did what any self-respecting adult does when kids decide they don't know what they're talking about. I bet her a candy bar that I was right.

"Tell me about the last time you got really angry," I invited.

She provided a detailed account of an argument that occurred the night before when her brother had teased her for being forgetful and disorganized.

"Do you like being forgetful?" I asked

"Not really."

"What about being disorganized, is that something you're proud of?"

"I don't mind really," she insisted.

"Does it seem like it gets in your way though?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do your organizational skills make you successful, or unsuccessful?" I asked. I suggested she consider her follow through on homework, her grades, how often she gets in trouble at home, and what for. 

"It makes me unsuccessful, I guess."

"Do you like to be reminded of that?"

She shook her head.

"Hmm, so there's some shame there huh?"

"Yeah!" She responded passionately.

"And what happens when you feel ashamed?"

"It makes me mad," she said.

"Bingo."

I didn't make her buy me a candy bar. Instead, we talked about what would have happened if she had chosen to tell her brother about her hurt feelings rather than explode on him. How that might have impacted her reaction, and if he would have received the information in a way that felt emotionally safe for her. Then, we went on to another example of a time she felt angry, and another. Slowly, we pulled out that her anger outbursts really stemmed from feeling incapable, unsupported, and unheard.

In later meetings, she and I worked to define a wide range of emotions so that she could enhance her understanding of how discomfort and pain can vary more widely than black and white; angry or not. Then, I told her about times I felt angry, and had her guess what feeling I was hiding from her. She made a lot of progress.

Did she stop feeling anger all together? Of course not.

Anger, as I have told her repeatedly, is a normal human emotion. We all feel it, and that's okay. The problem is that we often forget to listen to anger. It makes us communicate in ways that we can't hear ourselves, and others don't want to listen to us. This causes more problems than it resolves. Before we know it, we are angry because we are angry, and the original pain is so deeply buried under a colossal pile of anger that we feel suffocated. The trick to resolving that is to reframe our understanding of anger. We need to learn that anger is a cue to listen harder, to ourselves, and to those around us.

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.

Turning Five

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 Recently I found myself seated across a distressed mother asking for my advice.  We were discussing her resilient daughter's most recent birthday.  She turned five earlier this year, and though she was a bit eccentric this girl was particularly normal.  Yet, because of my career path and educational background this mom, like many other parents in my social circle, felt the need to seek out my knowledge.  ̶ This is beginning to happen at increasing intervals.  It's as though my job reminds people that they could mess up their children, and they need to confirm whether or not they have as soon as they are aware it's a possibility.  Fortunately, this has come largely from the well-intended and, albeit neurotic, healthy members of my community.  So, I get to smile and listen to cute stories, and reassure people that their child is alright and any screw-ups made obvious are what I like to call "normal."


On this particular occasion, this nervous mother comes to me to ask my opinion of an apparently odd behavior her child had engaged in the night before her fifth birthday.  She explains that their family tradition mandated that she read each child a birthday story and tuck them in the night before their birthday. However, on this particular birthday, this woman's daughter struggled with her nightly routine.  She power struggled over tooth-brushing, and dawdled in picking out her jammies.  This was, evidently, atypical for this little girl.  She, unlike most children, had no issue with getting ready for bed, and in fact seemed to enjoy the daily routine.  So, my friend was understandably confused when this particularly special nightly routine took upwards of an hour.

But she muscled through it, as all good parents do.  She summoned the patience to apply and reapply toothpaste in just the right quantity.  She tolerated being targeted with whining words as she calmly brushed her daughter's hair, and she maintained composure as the young girl tried on every single set of pajamas in her dresser. After all, this was tradition.  It was the eve of her baby girl's fifth birthday, and she couldn't be more proud of this bossy little girl in front of her.

Eventually, they got everything all settled.  She tucked her daughter in, and read her the birthday story.  When she was all done, she closed the book and repositioned to look directly at her daughter.

"Tomorrow morning," she whispered lovingly, "you're going to wake up, and you'll be five years old."

She intended to go on further, explaining the excitement and pageantry planned for the day, but she didn't get to.  This tireless mother paused because something did not seem quite right.  She looked at her little girl, and saw that her widened eyes were full to the brim with tears.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

All at once, this soon-to-be kindergartener wailed out "I don't want to be five!"  Before she could even respond, the little girl threw herself in her mother's arms sobbing and heaving.  Streams poured out of her eyes, and she repeated in gasping breaths, "I- don't- want - to - be fi-ive!"

Just like any good mother does, she wrapped her arms around her daughter, perplexed by her reaction but modeling self-soothing through tacit and rhythmic shhhushh-ing.  After some time, the little girl began to calm.  Her tears slowed, and her breathing regulated.  The mother waited another minute or so, and then quietly asked "why don't you want to be five?"

And the little girl responded with the answer that would make this mother later wonder what she had done wrong. "Because," she answered, "when you're five, you're a big girl, and I don't want to be a big girl.  I like being four.  I like all my toys, and I like being at home with you.  I don't want to be five."



"What do you make of that?  What does that mean?"  This mother asked me not too long ago, looking for my diagnostic impression of her child.

"It means you've got a smart kid," I said, and I really meant it.

Readiness to Change

I give my dad a lot of flack and some mild public flogging for the excessively rational manner in which he raised me.  My all time favorite thing to razz him about is the time he tried to coax a much younger me off the side of a mountain by telling me I could choose to stay there forever.  As an adult, I think back on this encounter and cannot believe someone would say something like that to a child.  However, it was so effective that I have since made it my goal to attempt this paradoxically supportive intervention.

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Several years ago I saw my first opportunity.  I was working with an oppositional 6 year old boy.  We had gone out to a special playground for the afternoon.  At some point in the day, he had managed to climb down into the middle of a cylindrical ladder and was pretending to be a caged prisoner.  When it was time to leave for the day, we cued all the children to line up.  After the chaos of transition, we counted all the little heads and determined we were one short. When I went to find him, he was claiming to be "stuck" inside the barred structure; citing fear to leave. I did what I could to support and encourage him, but it quickly became apparent that his "fear" was more related to a distaste for the end of play time.  So, I changed my tact.

"Look dude," I said. "The way I see it, you have two choices.  You could choose to stay out here forever, bu-"
"Fine," he cut me off.
Startled, I stammered "but, like, what if you have to go to the bathroom?"
"Okay," he said flatly. He was still fairly young and thus unconcerned with voiding outside a restroom.
"Um...who's going to feed you though?"
"I don't know," he said with a startling degree of ambivalence. The idea that someone might not was not a reality in his mind.

I attempted to persuade him into seeing that there were better choices available to him.  However, his developmental state did not allow for getting past the idea that he could choose to stay on the playground forever.  I had inadvertently given him permission to defy my expectations. We were screwed. Ultimately, I admitted defeat, and wound up calling my supervisor for back up. She came right out and began the slow but ominous count to three. Problem solved.

Lesson learned. The intervention is a particularly complex one that requires a significant degree of skill and the right kind of child to be able to hear the underlying message. So, I tucked it back into my memory and set it aside for refinement and later use.

Then the time came.

Not long ago, I found myself hanging out with a particularly anxious young woman who had recently learned of an upcoming transition. We sat together as she lamented the difficulty inherent in change.  I listened to her express fear of possible failure upon adjusting to something new.  I validated her feelings and praised her for past ability to manage herself; attempting to remind her this was not her first experience with change. She continued to evidence worries and concerns to the tune of "what if I can't do it?" "What if nobody likes me?" "What if it's hard?" "What if it's scary?" Allowing me to challenge her on all of these concerns but not yet feeling confidence in herself, she joking declared that she was going to wrap her arms around a nearby structural pillar and refuse to leave her present location.

"You could definitely try it," I smiled.
"Really?!" She looked at me with widened eyes, baffled by my response.
"In fact," I offered up. "let's do it together."  I stood up and started to walk towards the identified pillar.  My friend remained stationary; staring at me with a perplexed expression.
"But you know," I stopped and turned back toward her.  "What are we going to do when you get hungry?"
She shrugged.
"I mean, I guess we could probably arrange for someone to bring you food, but that's probably going to make you feel guilty.
No response, minus a slight smile.
"And, what about when you have to go to the bathroom?"
She knit her eyebrows and slumped her shoulders, an expression I had grown to recognize as irritation with a good point. So, I sat back down and continued in a playful manner.
"Even if we figure that out, eventually the paint on the building is going to chip. Then you're going to get paint chips in your hair, and the maintenance team is probably going to need to fix it, which will result in them trying to physically pry you off, and that sounds awkward."

Her affect started to brighten. Together we began to laugh and joke about the various different factors that would make her release her grip on the building.  As the conversation dwindled, I looked her in the eye and delivered the moment of insight I had come to after that cold day on the mountain so many years ago:

"My point is, no matter how bad you want to hang on, eventually something will happen and you will feel ready to let go. It may not be because you want to, and it may not be until after it happens, but eventually you're going to realize that you were ready for a change."

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.

(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?

Feeling It Out

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I express myself more than most.  I talk about how I feel.  I get it out there.  This makes others uncomfortable.

In general, people dislike negative emotions. We see them as bad feelings that must be fixed.  When confronted with unpleasant emotions, we go to great lengths to get rid of them.  Mothers shush their babies, begging them not to cry. Teachers offer incentive plans, pleading with children to be good.  Over and over again we urge one another to turn our frowns upside down or to grin and bear it.  We rush to put band-aids on owies and wipe tears off cheeks. With the best intent, we try to replace pain with pleasantries.  In doing so, we push away bad feelings thinking they will stay where we put them.  Only they don't.

Life is full of stress.  Unfortunately, negative emotions are all around us.  We do ourselves a great disservice by avoiding upsetting feelings.  Setting aside distress momentarily alleviates anguish.  However, avoidance is negatively reinforcing.  It relieves us of stress, and deprives us of frustration tolerance skills.  The irony is that ignoring pain enhances our sensitivity to it.

In recognizing this phenomenon, I do the only thing I can do.  I acknowledge my feelings.  Initially I make no effort to fix them.  I allow myself to cry, yell, pout, or feel lost.  I recognize the sensation, and I identify the source.  Where appropriate, I express the feeling.  Often, this manifests as honest responses to inquiries about my mental state which results in bewildered expressions as others try to avoid that which I have not.

Puppy Dogs and Cupcakes

"My last therapist told me it never gets any better," a depressed and deserted child once told me.

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Partly amused and mostly horrified, I swallowed bile.  "Why do you think she would say that?" I implored; seeking context.

She went on to tell the typical tale of teenage angst and misery shrouded in a deep seeded desire to be independent and grown.  This nearly hopeless adolescent girl explained her forward-thinking desire for utopia being met with the harsh reality of a jaded professional telling her it would never be. Then she looked at me, wide-eyed and concerned, with an expression best explained by the question she clearly couldn't ask.  Her eyes pleaded with mine, is it true?

I sighed deeply and wrung my hands; trying to determine if I was fully equipped to provide this youth with an answer I have yet to discern for myself.  In that moment, my protective mode kicked in.  I wanted to puff up and track down that dream dashing clinician for stealing a young girl's nearly lost hope.  I wanted to tell her it was all a lie, and everything was just on the brink of perfection.  I wanted to insist that, if she persevered a little longer, everything was going to get a lot easier.  But, I couldn't hang my hat on a lie.

Yet, I think we all do this.  As adults, we want so badly to convince our children that the world is this glorious place.  With the best intentions, we tell them that all of their dreams are attainable.  We make it sound so simple.  Pay attention.  Do your homework.  Listen to your parents.  Follow the rules.  Be good for god's sake!  We say this like it's the only obstacle in their paths.  Then we find these children who, despite their best efforts, can't meet our expectations, and what's the message to them?  Try harder.  You must not be doing it right.  No wonder they struggle.

The saddest part of this whole interaction is that I think the therapist she referenced was trying to help.  I think that person was trying to be real with her.  Recognizing the false promises inherent in a follow your dreams world, this woman must have tried to counteract the overwhelming expectations set-forth by inconsistent and unsupportive adults.  She probably wasn't wrong for doing so either.  However, she definitely missed her mark, leaving me with a hurt/confused teenager struggling to rationalize her own survival.  With no other adequate explanation, I told this child what I knew to be true.

"I think what she was trying to say," I said "is that it's always going to be hard.  Growing up isn't easy.  It's not all puppy dogs and cupcakes.  Often it's difficult, but that doesn't mean it's not worth it.  It absolutely gets better, if you want it to.  But there is always going to be stressful things, and what matters is how you cope.  You can build the skills to manage your stress. It's possible to truly enjoy your life, but the stress never goes away it just changes."

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.