Struggling/For the Children
I haven’t written much here lately. In part because my general brain energy has been at a low ebb, and partly because it’s gotten harder. Looking back at my older posts, sometimes I feel sad at how they now feel naive and optimistic in some ways.
My job has gotten harder. Not because of the clients, but because of the rest of the world. Parents, therapists, siblings, barriers and obstacles, institutions of thought and culture and society… And it’s much harder to write about my work when I have things to say that aren’t as positive. Sharing the good times is easy. Sharing my mistakes feels useful to myself and others. Sharing my good ideas is gratifying. Talking about the hard parts is… hard.
I know the parents of my clients love them greatly. I know these situations aren’t easy for anyone involved. But I need to write the following letter. I’ve been needing to write it for a while now.
A quote comes to mind: “The names have been changed, but the stories are real.” The following was inspired by many situations, with many different children.
Once, while jumping, you accidentally head-butted me so hard that my jaw throbbed for a week. Hearing an adult call you “stupid” in a moment of anger hurt worse….
…You bit me, hard enough to bruise, and while the other adults clustered around asking if I was ok, I was worried about you, and what could have made you miserable enough to injure me…
…You frustrate me at times. You throw tantrums, throw objects, break things, hit and kick. I’ve lost my temper and yelled at you on more than one occasion. But nothing you’ve ever done has made me as angry as when your sibling wished– out loud, in front of you– to be an only child…
…You’re rougher than you mean to be, and your clumsy attempts at friendly interaction have made me wince all too often. What feels worse, though, is the fact that I wince or flinch against my will– I don’t want you to know that you hurt me, because I know you never mean to. I’d happily suffer more pain to see you smile…
…Once, after a therapy session, you punched me in the stomach for taking away the cookies. Your small fist didn’t hurt me. The pain and frustration in your eyes, however, left a wound that still hasn’t healed. I would rather be punched again than see you cry.
All of you: you have my sympathy, you have my unconditional love, and you have my complete forgiveness for any injury you have ever caused me. And you always will.