To Hear

It was her first time here, her third night, and she was scared to death. I found her hiding in the bathroom in her room, sobbing hysterically and scratching open the cuts on her legs. Calmly, far more calmly than I felt, I shepherded her into our dayroom and sat down across from her. She was hysterical, practically incoherent. All of a sudden, the story spilled out: her mother, a woman diagnosed with bipolar disorder, was rapidly deteriorating, yelling, screaming, and she was terrified that she would start becoming physically abusive soon. The details changed but that core stayed the same.

“I don't belong here—she does! She's crazy!” she sobbed over and over again. “I've told people but no one listens!”

As she talked, a nurse leaned against the doorway, listening. We exchanged glances and tried to comfort her, but she would not be settled until after the nurse left and another thirty minutes had passed. Finally, I was able to ask her to help me clean up the dayroom to distract her, and after a while, she finally went to bed.

As I went into the conference room, the nurse saw me and strolled over to touch base.

“She was very erratic, wasn't she?” the nurse said conspiratorially. “Her story kept changing.”

I nodded noncommittally and grabbed the report. Since I was the one she'd first opened up to, it was my job to write it down.

I left out the inconsistent manner of delivery, and wrote down what parts had remained consistent. I hoped her social worker would take her seriously.

Before I left for the night, I poked my head into the girl's room again. She was fast asleep, exhausted.

As I walked out to my car, I sent a prayer that we could help her.

And that I could show her that some adults, at least, will hear her.