"Sorry, Mikey.* You have to wait until the end of group to wash your hands."
This line of dialogue continued throughout my entire session in 5 minute increments.
And no, we weren't using anything messy.
He didn't even have anything ON his hands to wash off. That's just one of his things.
I work with several kids on the autism spectrum. And if you don't know what that's like, let's just say it's always interesting!
My biggest pet peeve? Getting smacked.
Not too hard... There have been less than 5 times where I was really whacked. And only once across the face.
Obviously this is no fun.
It seems the opposite of what my work is intended to do.
I'm trying to help these kids after all!
Why the hell should I have to brace myself for a smack when I come back from vacation!?
Anyway- It's always a toss up as to whether I should get ready to be attacked or relax and give in for a hug.
Cause most of the time he's just coming in for a hug and gently taps my head with his head...
then...
With the other kids it's totally different.
"If you saw me on the street, would I be someone you would want to talk to?"
He's digging for something, I know it...
"What do you mean? What are you trying to ask?"
"Do you like me as a person."
Heart convulses... Can't... give... in... It's the same thing... must do what is most helpful... Convulse
"What do you think?"
"I don't know."
Splat...
Meanwhile, I have done everything short of crossing the line OVER investing in him.
But... it's never enough because he believes himself to be unlovable.
I just want to shake him! Then hug him... and then shake him again!!
But, this is the work.
Day after day.
And with each kid its completely different.
Each one has their own storyline... their own battles to fight and many times it seems like I'm always on the losing side because what's being fought against are years and years of genetic and environmental programming, often of the worst kind.
So I usually daydream...
Daydream that one day I'll meet up with them on the street after they've grown up and are no longer pumped full of ridiculous hormones, or I'll get a random email, and they'll say, "What you did... that really meant a lot. Thank you."
And I'll try not to cry because what they mentioned was something I don't remember. Or even if I do remember what it was, it would have been the millionth time I had... but I'll know all the bullshit had been worth it.
And then...
No comments:
Post a Comment