Hunting for Caterpillars
When I came to introduce myself you weren’t interested in learning my name. You were in the process of clearing out a hole in the prickle bush: “Do you want to help me hunt for caterpillars?” Sure, I said, nervous as hell. While I was so excited to “work with children with mental illness and gain first hand experience in the field of mental health!” I had no clue what I was doing. We spent the next half hour on our hands and knees on opposite sides of the bush, with you popping your head out every minute or so to yell “find any?!” and lay eyes on me to make sure I hadn’t left you digging in the dirt by yourself. The soundtrack of our search consisted of the crying, yelling, and punching of your peers from which you were probably trying to escape, so I was thankful that you, a calm and easy-to-please little guy, invited me into your quiet world.
But I learned quickly—later that night, in fact— that your world was considered to be “too quiet”. We needed to increase your social skills, they said, and to teach you to verbally express your feelings instead of resorting to physical aggression when you were angry or confused or, frankly, fed up with the cards you were dealt in life.
That night, and countless nights afterwards, after finishing dinner and hygiene and eating a snack during the pre-bedtime movie, you’d ask for more popcorn, to which the answer had to be no. If it had been up to me, bud, you could have had all the popcorn you wanted. But the same government that couldn’t quite find a way to keep you safe during your seven years of life also regulated the food you received while in our care. Our hands, we were told by our superiors, were tied. You did this after every single meal, and distinctly had a preoccupation with food that seemed to confirm the reported years of abuse and neglect we read about in your file. While we reasoned with you to “use your words” and the slightly firmer “you know this isn’t how you get the things you’d like,” you’d be on the ground silently trying to push past yet another group of adults who took your control away with all of the force and energy your small frame could muster.
In the beginning, we knew once you’d dissociated we were headed towards using the physical restraint techniques we were so reluctant to use. We’d try so many different tactics to get you to come back, but the only thing that worked was literally grounding you back into reality. Two of us would grab your arms, as firmly as possible to limit the chance of you fighting your way into dislocating your shoulder but lightly enough for our own peace of mind. We’d move you into the somewhat soundproof seclusion room and lay you down in the supine position when a third person would come and hold your legs.
You would yell: “OK I’M DONE I PROMISE” which we couldn’t be foolish enough to accept. We forced ourselves to wait in thick silence while you calmed yourself down with deep breaths. You’d beg us to let you go—“YOU’RE BREAKING MY LEGS”—, breaking my heart in the process. After about ten minutes I’d start taking theatrically deep breaths, realizing that you’d likely forgotten that was what had worked in the past. Almost immediately you’d catch on to my breathing pattern and eventually be able to name your favorite superheroes and agree to a plan about how I would help you get to bed and fall asleep that night. I would shakily lift my hands off your thin wrists and stare at the red marks I had left wondering what trauma I’d undoubtedly caused in the name of guiding you through the trauma you’ve faced in the past.
The restraint accomplished what it was said to do. Every night your voice would eventually come back. But so would the pit in my stomach.
Your bedtime was supposed to be 8pm, but if you were in bed by nine on any given night it was considered a success. This all too familiar scene of crisis was just as predictably followed by you asking me to read you the “shark book”. The familiarity of those same thirty-seven shark facts we learned together every night worked like a charm, but your easy ability to sleep at night didn’t keep me from losing some of my own. You’d fall asleep happy to have been read to. I’d lay awake questioning how a bedtime story could possibly outweigh the effects of institutionalization.
The unfortunate catch-22 of childhood trauma became very clear, very quickly. Didn’t the way we denied you your favorite snacks in excess resemble the way you were denied before? And we held you to the highest of expectations to help you learn to appropriately express yourself, when, hell, there are days when I think throwing yogurt cups against the wall might be therapeutic. Yet you shocked me each subsequent afternoon, when despite a night like that, you’d still ask if I’d fish off the playset with our makeshift tree branch poles and grass lines, or search for frogs or caterpillars or ninja-turtle giant slugs. And when I got confused about the ninja-turtle slugs (…were they turtles or were they slugs?), it amazed me that you harbored no residual distrust that would lead you to fire me as your wing-woman.
The questions remain unanswered, but in such a controlled and safe environment, the catch-22 played in our favor. We helped you clean up the yogurt/Legos/mud. We took you to get a haircut and eventually came around to that Mohawk cut you couldn’t live without. And, over time, when you consistently avoided the need for physical restraints by demonstrating some kick-ass (!) restraint of your own, we showered you with the praise you deserved. Before long it was time for you to go home with your grandma, which you knew to mean one thing, for sure: a goodbye party.
I came in late to the party to find the place in crisis. As I start to clean up the leftover party treats, I watched you come out of your room and seize the opportunity of the surrounding mayhem to take a chocolate-chip cookie out of the bag. In one of the countless moments when I understood my mother just a bit more, I gave you “the look”, told you I had come specifically to celebrate all the progress you’d made, and knew you could make the right decision. The words had barely left my mouth when you popped half of the cookie into your mouth and chomped down. My turn for speechlessness: I could do nothing but look at you, quick to call this behavior evidence of regression, swift to once again denounce the efficacy of any of our efforts.
And yet, just like a caterpillar on a branch of that prickle bush outside, if I hadn’t been looking closely enough I would have missed the smile that crept up at the corners of your crumby lips and the apologetic turn of your brows as you placed the half-eaten cookie right into the palm of my hand.
Sure, as I found out while cleaning up the rest of the party, the cookies may have been dreadfully stale. But a cookie is a cookie, no matter how unpalatable; progress is progress, no matter how slight.
Ashley Adams is an MS1 with an interest in mental health who prefers studying to the soundtrack of Pixar movies.
