The mauve and
teal-striped wallpaper, leftover from the 90’s and budget cuts from government
programs, pealed from the corner of the bathroom stall as I sat on the toilet
trying desperately to pull myself together.
My therapist, who rents an office space in a government-run building,
needed to be out of her office by 8:00 p.m. It was 8:05, but the tears wouldn’t stop.
When they
started running down my face, I had assumed it had everything to do with the
fight my husband and I were having in her office during our session. But once I made my way to the bathroom stall,
I began thinking about my clients: the
children with whom I do therapy each day.
And I began to see their faces as babies and then as toddlers. Preschoolers.
First graders. I thought of the
neglect some of them had experienced.
The beatings. The sexual
abuse. And just as I cannot stop the
tears from running now, I couldn’t make them stop in that moment. I kept thinking about my babies. How I would literally do anything for them;
but that these teenagers have often not been afforded that opportunity.
And then I
heard his words.
The same kid who had sworn off meeting with me
and who had cursed at me during our first session, had become comfortable with
meeting me and in fact, has frequented my office daily, calling me “pretty
lady” and begging me to go a day without makeup so that I won’t look like a
clown.
I heard the
words he said the other day, as he opened a bag of Cheetos and played an Uno
card.
“Are you
going to drop me?”
“What do you
mean?” I asked, still confused about the context.
“Like, if I’m
bad…will you drop me…like not meet with me anymore?”
“Of course
not,” I assured him, “If I didn’t get upset the day you told me to leave your
house and not the the door ‘hit ya where the good lord split ya’ then why do
you think I would stop meeting with you now?”
“I don’t
know,” he said. “What if I hit you or
said something really mean?” At this
point, all I could think about were the many books I had laid in bed and read
to my kids where the baby animal asks the mom “Will you stop loving me
if…” to which the mother animal always
replies, “Even if…I will never stop loving you.” I wondered if his mom had ever read to
him. If she had ever whispered the words
“I love you,” before pulling the covers up over him.
“Well, if you
hit me, I probably couldn’t meet with you alone for awhile, just to make sure
I’m safe. And if you say mean things to
me, well, I can probably handle it. You
do remember our first meeting, right?”
He laughed and reached across my desk, barely touching my shoulder. “I hit ya, see?” We laughed together and I looked him in the
eyes and said, “I’m your therapist for the whole year. I’m not going to drop you. Okay?”
“I know. I was just playin’,” he said, tucking away
the neglected little boy who lives inside.
“It’s your turn.” I laid my card
and followed his lead in changing the subject.
But his question let me in to a deep part of his heart and mind.
His question
left me in a bathroom stall feeling like I could cry for days for all of these
kids whose stories were in some way similar to this one.
When I was in
grad school, the phrase “self-care” became a buzzword that every professor
drilled into us. I remember thinking how
ridiculous it would be to stop taking care of myself when having such an
emotionally draining job.
But as
suddenly as my life flipped upside down when I got a full-time job, my
friendship circles have decreased, I have been terrible about working out, I
don’t belong to a religious community, and my interest in making any of those
things happen is null.
I don’t have
the energy to initiate with people. I
don’t want to fabricate community. And I
don’t feel like drive-thru Sunday church is going to make my life any better,
though I am willing to partake.
But I do know
that I have three little people who count on my love; who deserve my attention
and my time. Little people who have
dance parties and rap sessions and who love inline skating and playing
basketball with their mommy. I have a
husband who does the dishes and the laundry and who cooks like nobody’s
business, (especially when he pisses me off).
And I have extended family I know I can count on whenever I need
them.
While I know
my deficits are many right now, maybe I just needed to cry in that bathroom as
a way of caring for myself in order to get real and honest with God, letting
him know that I know I need Him in order to effectively care for all the people
in my life, both personally and vocationally.
I have cursed
at God. And I’m 99% sure I’ve thrown
some punches. But this I know: God will
never drop me.
