Sorry I haven't written in a while...I have not been working as much since our census is very low. The reason why is kind of sad.
We get about 3/4 of our kids from school referrals. Think about that for a moment. 3/4. That means that for every 4 kids, there are 3 whose parents are so out-of-tune with their children's lives that they don't realize that their child needs help. It's the schools that notice, the schools that send them our way. These parents (or foster parents) are so wrapped up in their own lives, maybe believing the lies their kids tell them, that they don't even notice that their child is trapped in their own minds until they get a phone call from the school. And we don't even have statistics on the parents who refuse to send their children to us.
Isn't that tragic?
I'm rather old-fashioned, for all that I have a blog, so part of me wants to blame technology. "Those smartphones and iPods and computers--they're making it so families never actually interact!" But that's not really it, is it? Not completely.
The reality is, we live in a society that praises busyness. We live in a world where the busier you are, the wealthier you are, and therefore the more accepted you are. Parents struggle to "Keep up with the Joneses," shuttling their children to soccer, dance, etc. while trying to keep up a perfect lawn, perfect house, perfect family. We become so concerned about the outward that we forget about the importance of the inward. We forget that our souls matter more than our stuff, and thus are shocked and horrified when we have a message saying that maybe not everything is as right as it should be.
I would rather be a poor woman with joy in my heart than wealthy and miserable. And I would much rather have an empty day of silence than a busy day of noise.
I want to teach my children that being alone isn't a bad thing; that taking time out of a busy schedule to be alone is a blessing, not an annoyance. I want to teach them the futility of facades.
And I want to be sure to thank their teachers personally, every year, for the unknown number of lives they have saved.
Education means more than you know.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Monday, July 21, 2014
Anxiety
The other day, I was assigned to watch one girl. Just one.
This happens sometimes. It happens when a patient is considered a threat to themselves or others, and as such has a staff assigned to them at all times. This includes using the bathrooms, showering, changing, sleeping etc. For privacy, usually we just put a foot in the door and look the other way. I hate to say it, but these kids were used to it.
This girl was midway into adolescence. She was cheerful, bright, glowing. Technically, when they're in the Quiet Room, we are not supposed to talk to them. It's considered "too stimulating." I don't really agree with this kind of "treatment;" a lot of us don't.
So I came in, sat down, and greeted her with a smile. She beamed back. And for more than six hours straight, we talked. I told her stories, she sang me songs, we played games and talked about books and movies and hopes and fears and dreams. I learned she had grown up thinking abuse was normal; so normal that, when the staff at the hospital asked what happened to her, she said "Oh, my aunt hit me." She was surprised when they called Child Protective Services.
Of course, the entire day was not blissful. Towards the end, she began to get restless. I could hardly blame her; she had been penned up in one room all day. She began to pace, punch mattresses, mutter under her breath. A few times, I got her to smile, but she quickly returned to punching the mattress hard enough that she made contact with the boards underneath.
I wasn't really sure what to do at first; she wasn't acting out bad enough to warrant a PRN (tranquilizer of sorts), but I didn't want her to get hurt. So when she threw herself onto the cot and began repetitively hitting the sides, I sat down, glanced away, and started humming a lullaby.
Sure enough, the impacts gradually slowed to match the beat of the song, then slowed more, and finally stopped. I didn't look at her until the song was over. She smiled sleepily back.
"That was pretty."
"Thank you...sometimes I think singing helps when I'm stressed," I answered.
"Were you stressed then?"
"No, but you were. I thought maybe it would help."
"It did. You're insightful," she told me.
And I smiled and began telling her more stories, softer ones, gentle ones. The rest of the day passed peacefully, and as I watched her sleep that night, I wished that all of us could forget our anxieties in favor of a song.
This happens sometimes. It happens when a patient is considered a threat to themselves or others, and as such has a staff assigned to them at all times. This includes using the bathrooms, showering, changing, sleeping etc. For privacy, usually we just put a foot in the door and look the other way. I hate to say it, but these kids were used to it.
This girl was midway into adolescence. She was cheerful, bright, glowing. Technically, when they're in the Quiet Room, we are not supposed to talk to them. It's considered "too stimulating." I don't really agree with this kind of "treatment;" a lot of us don't.
So I came in, sat down, and greeted her with a smile. She beamed back. And for more than six hours straight, we talked. I told her stories, she sang me songs, we played games and talked about books and movies and hopes and fears and dreams. I learned she had grown up thinking abuse was normal; so normal that, when the staff at the hospital asked what happened to her, she said "Oh, my aunt hit me." She was surprised when they called Child Protective Services.
Of course, the entire day was not blissful. Towards the end, she began to get restless. I could hardly blame her; she had been penned up in one room all day. She began to pace, punch mattresses, mutter under her breath. A few times, I got her to smile, but she quickly returned to punching the mattress hard enough that she made contact with the boards underneath.
I wasn't really sure what to do at first; she wasn't acting out bad enough to warrant a PRN (tranquilizer of sorts), but I didn't want her to get hurt. So when she threw herself onto the cot and began repetitively hitting the sides, I sat down, glanced away, and started humming a lullaby.
Sure enough, the impacts gradually slowed to match the beat of the song, then slowed more, and finally stopped. I didn't look at her until the song was over. She smiled sleepily back.
"That was pretty."
"Thank you...sometimes I think singing helps when I'm stressed," I answered.
"Were you stressed then?"
"No, but you were. I thought maybe it would help."
"It did. You're insightful," she told me.
And I smiled and began telling her more stories, softer ones, gentle ones. The rest of the day passed peacefully, and as I watched her sleep that night, I wished that all of us could forget our anxieties in favor of a song.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Love
Today was the 5th anniversary of the death of the Beloved of one of my good friends.
I never had the chance to meet her; she was killed before I knew him. We met about three or four years ago (has it been so long?), when I was barely out of high school and he was working steadily through his Master's program. It was on this day, actually; I saw him sitting under a tree, head tilted toward the sky, and he just looked so sad, I asked him what was wrong. And he told me.
He loved this woman so much. They had tragically similar pasts; abuse, trauma, death. She grew up cold and hard and strong; he became shy, afraid, quiet, but with a depth and understanding few people could even hope to comprehend. He realized everyone, even those we perceive to be our enemies, have their own fears, loves, dreams. She thought he was crazy.
"She saved me," he says with a soft smile. "And she probably regretted it after."
I don't feel comfortable sharing the details of their first meeting, but after the lease ran out on his apartment about six months after they had met, she offhandedly suggested he move in with her while looking for a new place. And he woke up to her screams.
Trauma is a funny thing; for some, it locks them up, traps them and corners them and never lets them see how much they are loved. That night, love trumped trauma as he ran to her side, and she let him stay.
They never made love, never even voiced their feelings, but they had some sort of understanding beyond words. They slept curled up in her bed, keeping each other's nightmares at bay. He cooked, she worked, and together they were their own brand of happiness.
"The only feminine hobby she had was sewing," he tells me as we walk among the trees. "Some nights, we would sit with the windows open, and she would sew, and I would read stories out loud. Those were the best nights."
I asked him once if he didn't feel taken advantage of, and he stared at me, taken aback.
"No! She loved me, in her own way. We made compromises for each other. We were happy."
And then she was killed, suddenly and tragically. He didn't go to the funeral. He watched the sky, her diary on his lap, the forest just within eyeshot of their small apartment. She loved that forest. And, in her diary, in her crabbed writing, he finally got a peek at her thoughts, was able to see just how much she loved him too. Only after reading it through did he go to her grave.
"She wasn't there--still isn't. She's here; I feel her all around me," he tells me as we walk through the trees. "Sometimes, I swear I hear her laugh. She's happy. But I kind of hope she misses me."
And a light breeze picked up, and I swear to you a thought flittered through my head, in a voice I had never heard before.
"Of course I do."
I didn't ask, but I think he heard it too.
I never had the chance to meet her; she was killed before I knew him. We met about three or four years ago (has it been so long?), when I was barely out of high school and he was working steadily through his Master's program. It was on this day, actually; I saw him sitting under a tree, head tilted toward the sky, and he just looked so sad, I asked him what was wrong. And he told me.
He loved this woman so much. They had tragically similar pasts; abuse, trauma, death. She grew up cold and hard and strong; he became shy, afraid, quiet, but with a depth and understanding few people could even hope to comprehend. He realized everyone, even those we perceive to be our enemies, have their own fears, loves, dreams. She thought he was crazy.
"She saved me," he says with a soft smile. "And she probably regretted it after."
I don't feel comfortable sharing the details of their first meeting, but after the lease ran out on his apartment about six months after they had met, she offhandedly suggested he move in with her while looking for a new place. And he woke up to her screams.
Trauma is a funny thing; for some, it locks them up, traps them and corners them and never lets them see how much they are loved. That night, love trumped trauma as he ran to her side, and she let him stay.
They never made love, never even voiced their feelings, but they had some sort of understanding beyond words. They slept curled up in her bed, keeping each other's nightmares at bay. He cooked, she worked, and together they were their own brand of happiness.
"The only feminine hobby she had was sewing," he tells me as we walk among the trees. "Some nights, we would sit with the windows open, and she would sew, and I would read stories out loud. Those were the best nights."
I asked him once if he didn't feel taken advantage of, and he stared at me, taken aback.
"No! She loved me, in her own way. We made compromises for each other. We were happy."
And then she was killed, suddenly and tragically. He didn't go to the funeral. He watched the sky, her diary on his lap, the forest just within eyeshot of their small apartment. She loved that forest. And, in her diary, in her crabbed writing, he finally got a peek at her thoughts, was able to see just how much she loved him too. Only after reading it through did he go to her grave.
"She wasn't there--still isn't. She's here; I feel her all around me," he tells me as we walk through the trees. "Sometimes, I swear I hear her laugh. She's happy. But I kind of hope she misses me."
And a light breeze picked up, and I swear to you a thought flittered through my head, in a voice I had never heard before.
"Of course I do."
I didn't ask, but I think he heard it too.
Monday, July 7, 2014
Beauty
"My goal is to lose weight and be skinny and beautiful."
This poor girl. She wasn't even all that overweight, and she was already beautiful.
"What is beauty?" a fellow staff asked.
And thus began a conversation about a very common topic, but with teenagers who had an unfortunate amount of experience. Specifically speaking, from young women who struggled with eating disorders.
Listening them talk candidly about their past and current struggles, I wondered if the perspectives of society would shift if it had a chance to listen in. These girls were beautiful, smart, and honest. They talked about how society demanded so much of them, how they knew it was wrong but it was easier to follow along than stand out. For nearly an hour, we talked.
We talked about gender-specific stereotypes ("like a girl," "Make me a sandwich," etc.), about Victoria's Secret models, tv shows, movies, magazines. We talked about objectification, anxiety, and healthy ways to lose weight. I told them that according to the scale, I am obese. They stared at me; at a dress size 8, I do not in any way look it. I became a living example of how much muscle weighs more than fat.
After our discussion, we watched the Disney movie "Brave." As some of you may know, "Brave" is the only Disney princess movie where the princess (Merida) does not fall in love. So we talked about that too. They all agreed it was really nice to have that difference, and then we talked about why.
I don't know if these girls' perspectives on beauty and expectations are changed due to those conversations. I do know that, for a little while at least, I got them thinking.
And I got them asking "Why?"
This poor girl. She wasn't even all that overweight, and she was already beautiful.
"What is beauty?" a fellow staff asked.
And thus began a conversation about a very common topic, but with teenagers who had an unfortunate amount of experience. Specifically speaking, from young women who struggled with eating disorders.
Listening them talk candidly about their past and current struggles, I wondered if the perspectives of society would shift if it had a chance to listen in. These girls were beautiful, smart, and honest. They talked about how society demanded so much of them, how they knew it was wrong but it was easier to follow along than stand out. For nearly an hour, we talked.
We talked about gender-specific stereotypes ("like a girl," "Make me a sandwich," etc.), about Victoria's Secret models, tv shows, movies, magazines. We talked about objectification, anxiety, and healthy ways to lose weight. I told them that according to the scale, I am obese. They stared at me; at a dress size 8, I do not in any way look it. I became a living example of how much muscle weighs more than fat.
After our discussion, we watched the Disney movie "Brave." As some of you may know, "Brave" is the only Disney princess movie where the princess (Merida) does not fall in love. So we talked about that too. They all agreed it was really nice to have that difference, and then we talked about why.
I don't know if these girls' perspectives on beauty and expectations are changed due to those conversations. I do know that, for a little while at least, I got them thinking.
And I got them asking "Why?"
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Success
Last night, I dreamed that I ran into one of the boys I used to work with. He was very happy to see me; heck, he was happy, period. Living a good life, excited to be out and exploring the world. He had a friend with him, and we talked for a bit. It was a really good dream.
Everybody deserves a happy ending. Everybody. But the unfortunate reality is that we live in a world where most people have forgotten what it even means to be happy. I walk past a park and see mothers, fathers, babysitters all texting or reading on their smartphones while their kids try desperately to get their attention. I drive and am surrounded by people going to fast they never think to look back and see what they left behind. We have abandoned happiness in favor of success.
According to Dictionary.com, success means "the attainment of wealth, position, honors, or the like." There is nothing there about happiness. It explains the rampant diagnoses of depression and anxiety in our society; to be so consumed by monetary gain that all else is forgotten leaves us feeling hopeless, forgotten, and unloved.
Don't get me wrong, I do not harbor hatred toward success itself. But I certainly disagree with today's definition. To me, to be successful is to be happy where you are. I would consider myself successful, even though I am half broke, constantly on the move, and sleep deprived. I love my life. I love the goals I have for the future, of course, but I also love this moment. I am happy.
And because of that, I'm pretty sure I'm richer than Bill Gates.
Everybody deserves a happy ending. Everybody. But the unfortunate reality is that we live in a world where most people have forgotten what it even means to be happy. I walk past a park and see mothers, fathers, babysitters all texting or reading on their smartphones while their kids try desperately to get their attention. I drive and am surrounded by people going to fast they never think to look back and see what they left behind. We have abandoned happiness in favor of success.
According to Dictionary.com, success means "the attainment of wealth, position, honors, or the like." There is nothing there about happiness. It explains the rampant diagnoses of depression and anxiety in our society; to be so consumed by monetary gain that all else is forgotten leaves us feeling hopeless, forgotten, and unloved.
Don't get me wrong, I do not harbor hatred toward success itself. But I certainly disagree with today's definition. To me, to be successful is to be happy where you are. I would consider myself successful, even though I am half broke, constantly on the move, and sleep deprived. I love my life. I love the goals I have for the future, of course, but I also love this moment. I am happy.
And because of that, I'm pretty sure I'm richer than Bill Gates.
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