It Would be Harder if She Weren't Sorry
I have a giant, visible bruise on my arm from S, who bit me, hard, on Monday.
It all happened so fast. I went back to work full time last week, but S doesn't start until after Labor Day. Her college buddies were busy with...well, college. So she was spending a lot of time surfing the internet in my office--more time, by far, than she should have been. It's not like I didn't try. Her college buddies came by whenever they could. The Saddle Club invited her to help with the horses during the day. She brought books every day, and sometimes even read them for two or three hours, but it's not really realistic that a girl with PTSD and ADHD would be able to spend more than three hours on...well, anything.
Except, apparently, U-Tube videos of random pre-teen girls who are showing off their newly acquired ability to stand on their toes in pointe shoes.
But, let me backtrack: Wednesday, my first day back full-time, went well. Thursday, also, until we went to school for the open house. That, too, was going well, until Mrs. M, S's old case manager, waylaid us for almost 15 minutes, finding a way to subtly mention every single issue we'd had last year, openly defying all of the boundaries I tried to lay out. Just typing this much is making me angry all over again, but suffice to say that when we left the building, S was shaking, and no longer wanted to go back to school in the fall. We processed. She came around. We talked about how she could protect herself from being stalked by Mrs. M. She agreed to do this. I talked to S's college buddy J about it, who said, "Well, the worst that could happen is S could get mad and hit her." Yikes. There's nothing I can do about it except keep communicating openly with S about what is happening at school and getting involved when boundaries are broken again.
Of course, during that conversation, S announced to Mrs. M (later, she explained, in an attempt to keep her from talking about anything else), that she would be going on pointe in January. Mrs. M (to be fair, she had no idea that we'd now linked ballet to S's abuse) said she was delighted to hear that, and how proud she was of S.
S had also managed, between Wednesday and Monday, to get a similar compliment from everyone we know in our small town.
And so, inevitably, it happened: after four days of this, on our way home, I told S I needed a break from pointe talk again, that she was regressing. "It's all Mrs. M's fault," she said, but it wasn't; the pointe talk had begun before we saw her at the open house.
We began the dog walk, as usual, and, as often happens lately, S didn't want to take the hour-long walk we usually take. I was frustrated; I wanted fresh air after so many hours meeting with people I don't know well, trying to get the new office I'm coordinating up and running. But, we also needed to return some library books, so we gave the dog a short walk, then walked to the library--where she proceeded to spend 40 minutes trying to find books about ballet. She'd read all the ones in the library, and many offered through interlibrary loan. Frustrated by her inability to find any new books, she got more and more resistant to the idea of going home.
Finally, I got her out of the building. I talked to her on the way home about how frustrated I was that every time she was thinking about ballet, she managed to not follow the agreements we had made--most recently, that we would be at the library no longer than 10 minutes because I wanted to get started on supper. "If you spent even half the time actually practicing ballet that you spend online--or even just getting any kind of exercise whatsover--you would be so much closer to your goal of getting on pointe. You do realize, don't you, that getting into the pre-pointe class is a gift, but that you didn't learn even half of what you really need to learn for that class? And that you are flat out lying when you tell people you'll be on pointe in January--nobody's ever told you that?"
They were harsh words, but they weren't knew; I'd said them in our family therapy earlier in the week, and she had been resistant then to really hearing them, saying I was trying to destroy her dreams. "It's not about your dreams," I said then, and repeated again. "It's about the fact that you refuse to be realistic, or honest, and that you are lazy in class and also lazy at home. It's like you want to get praised for getting on pointe but don't want to actually do the work it's going to take to get there."
At which point, she bit my arm, hard. It's the first time there's been a visible bruise that lasted more than a day or two. It isn't pretty. And, unlike the only other mark she ever put on me, on my stomach, it's also something I see and feel every day, every time I type or look down at my arm absentmindedly or...well, it's just there, to remind me...
Of what? Of the cost of being honest with her? That I shouldn't have said what I said in the way I said it, or at the time I said it? That she hasn't come as far as I'd like to believe--that she is, in fact, regressing quite substantially in these days just before the start of school?
I think that's what's bothering me, is that I don't know what the bruise is supposed to tell me.
I can remember my father putting marks on me. I felt like they meant I was somehow his in a way I didn't want to be. I felt like they were some kind of proof, also, of what an awful father he was, something I would be able, for the rest of my life, to hold over his head.
But I can't feel any of those things about S. She is mine, and I want her to be mine. She's not my parent, she's my kid. And she's not a terrible kid, either, just a...well, damaged one.
I hate the word damaged, and even if I liked it, it doesn't excuse her, anymore than the reasons for my dad's violence--the sexist culture we come from, his mental illness, his lack of coping skills, the myriad of losses in his life, his inability to live in two cultures at once--can excuse him.
A few days later, all I really want is a day off to let myself heal--not to get rid of the bruise, but just to cry it out, to feel the fear and rage and pain I felt right before the bite. After, I felt nothing--eerily, this is how I also felt during and after my father's meltdowns. And, even more eerily, I have seen S, when she's not attacking me, disengage in the same way when I'm out of control.
But this time, I wasn't, not really. That's the thing: when I'm really out of control, raising my voice, or, as has happened a couple times, slamming things around in the kitchen, she is either gentle and nice and wanting to make things better, or she's totally disengaged, not present.
When she is hurting me, I know, at least, that she's here with me, present, feeling something, that the words have sunk in, and maybe, as scary as it is to think this, that she's heard them in a way she doesn't hear me when I'm yelling or slamming things around. Which, to my credit, I've been doing much, much less frequently recently.
Today my friend touched my arm and said, "Did that happen the way I think it did?" When I nodded, she just said, "Come over for supper on Saturday. Bring S. Let's start early, so she can play with H (her little boy)."
I got tears in my eyes. My friend T is so good at reminding me that nothing S does is ever going to shock her, that nothing she does is ever going to make her afraid to have us over, or to be my friend.
That should be enough, and now that I've written it down, actually, it is enough. That, and J, S's college buddy, doing everything she can to have S as much as possible this week. And her relatively new tutor, who has only known us for a couple months, who today brought over her puppy to meet our dog and spent two hours with S, not asking to be paid.
I think sometimes I am lonely because the people who are there for me right now, really there, are not the people I expected. I think it's also because my work right now is so personal to me; I have wanted for a long time to build an office that can really make a difference in the community; I have wanted for a long time to teach courses on disability studies and social justice. I'm doing all of these things this semester, but they are draining, even at times painful.
It is impossible, for instance, to sit in a meeting with a student I know has been abused and talk to her about her desire to do a project on the inadequacies of the mental health system for people of color, to hear her say, after I've agreed to let her do this project and given her suggestions, "No matter what I do, it won't make a difference. This isn't something that's going to change, ever."
It is impossible to talk about the idea of normalcy and not to think about how the special education department at my daughter's school is totally centered around the idea of norming the kids in the program rather than empowering them. I'm teaching the class with my friend T, who is herself disabled, and we have both promised to avoid rants and to tell no more than one personal story per class. But I am not yet telling stories; they are too new, and make me feel too vulnerable--and even when I am ready, not ranting will be too difficult.
When S went to bed tonight, I tried to fall asleep, but I couldn't. I was in bed at nine, exhausted, and, by 11, I was up again, downstairs, sitting on my back porch with a glass of wine, trying to decide if I should call anyone. I just wanted to say out loud that I felt like a terrible parent--we have eaten out three nights in a row, which I can't afford; we have talked through some aspects of the night she bit me, but we are far from sorting it out, mainly because I am having trouble staying present when I'm with her--I am either at that moment or else I'm somewhere else entirely, worrying about the student from last semester who is fighting for a higher grade or the pressure of starting a new office or a student who keeps challenging me or...you get the idea; S is having frequent flashbacks still, two days later. But, strangely, all it took to make me feel better was to write this down--and to remember T's hand on my bruise, and J's text message, "I hope you're OK," on the day it happened.
"Is she sorry after she does something like this?" T asked me today.
"Yes."
"And I'll bet that's even harder, that she's sorry for it."
I thought about that. "It would be harder if she weren't sorry, really," I said after awhile. "But I guess I'm not in a place yet where I can really feel the full effect of what she's done, and until I can, I'm afraid I can't really be present. Which means I can't help her, or myself, to deal with what happened."
T just nodded.
Maybe now, after writing this, I will be able to feel it all, and to be present again, and, most importantly for this moment, the one right here, right now, to be able to rest.
It all happened so fast. I went back to work full time last week, but S doesn't start until after Labor Day. Her college buddies were busy with...well, college. So she was spending a lot of time surfing the internet in my office--more time, by far, than she should have been. It's not like I didn't try. Her college buddies came by whenever they could. The Saddle Club invited her to help with the horses during the day. She brought books every day, and sometimes even read them for two or three hours, but it's not really realistic that a girl with PTSD and ADHD would be able to spend more than three hours on...well, anything.
Except, apparently, U-Tube videos of random pre-teen girls who are showing off their newly acquired ability to stand on their toes in pointe shoes.
But, let me backtrack: Wednesday, my first day back full-time, went well. Thursday, also, until we went to school for the open house. That, too, was going well, until Mrs. M, S's old case manager, waylaid us for almost 15 minutes, finding a way to subtly mention every single issue we'd had last year, openly defying all of the boundaries I tried to lay out. Just typing this much is making me angry all over again, but suffice to say that when we left the building, S was shaking, and no longer wanted to go back to school in the fall. We processed. She came around. We talked about how she could protect herself from being stalked by Mrs. M. She agreed to do this. I talked to S's college buddy J about it, who said, "Well, the worst that could happen is S could get mad and hit her." Yikes. There's nothing I can do about it except keep communicating openly with S about what is happening at school and getting involved when boundaries are broken again.
Of course, during that conversation, S announced to Mrs. M (later, she explained, in an attempt to keep her from talking about anything else), that she would be going on pointe in January. Mrs. M (to be fair, she had no idea that we'd now linked ballet to S's abuse) said she was delighted to hear that, and how proud she was of S.
S had also managed, between Wednesday and Monday, to get a similar compliment from everyone we know in our small town.
And so, inevitably, it happened: after four days of this, on our way home, I told S I needed a break from pointe talk again, that she was regressing. "It's all Mrs. M's fault," she said, but it wasn't; the pointe talk had begun before we saw her at the open house.
We began the dog walk, as usual, and, as often happens lately, S didn't want to take the hour-long walk we usually take. I was frustrated; I wanted fresh air after so many hours meeting with people I don't know well, trying to get the new office I'm coordinating up and running. But, we also needed to return some library books, so we gave the dog a short walk, then walked to the library--where she proceeded to spend 40 minutes trying to find books about ballet. She'd read all the ones in the library, and many offered through interlibrary loan. Frustrated by her inability to find any new books, she got more and more resistant to the idea of going home.
Finally, I got her out of the building. I talked to her on the way home about how frustrated I was that every time she was thinking about ballet, she managed to not follow the agreements we had made--most recently, that we would be at the library no longer than 10 minutes because I wanted to get started on supper. "If you spent even half the time actually practicing ballet that you spend online--or even just getting any kind of exercise whatsover--you would be so much closer to your goal of getting on pointe. You do realize, don't you, that getting into the pre-pointe class is a gift, but that you didn't learn even half of what you really need to learn for that class? And that you are flat out lying when you tell people you'll be on pointe in January--nobody's ever told you that?"
They were harsh words, but they weren't knew; I'd said them in our family therapy earlier in the week, and she had been resistant then to really hearing them, saying I was trying to destroy her dreams. "It's not about your dreams," I said then, and repeated again. "It's about the fact that you refuse to be realistic, or honest, and that you are lazy in class and also lazy at home. It's like you want to get praised for getting on pointe but don't want to actually do the work it's going to take to get there."
At which point, she bit my arm, hard. It's the first time there's been a visible bruise that lasted more than a day or two. It isn't pretty. And, unlike the only other mark she ever put on me, on my stomach, it's also something I see and feel every day, every time I type or look down at my arm absentmindedly or...well, it's just there, to remind me...
Of what? Of the cost of being honest with her? That I shouldn't have said what I said in the way I said it, or at the time I said it? That she hasn't come as far as I'd like to believe--that she is, in fact, regressing quite substantially in these days just before the start of school?
I think that's what's bothering me, is that I don't know what the bruise is supposed to tell me.
I can remember my father putting marks on me. I felt like they meant I was somehow his in a way I didn't want to be. I felt like they were some kind of proof, also, of what an awful father he was, something I would be able, for the rest of my life, to hold over his head.
But I can't feel any of those things about S. She is mine, and I want her to be mine. She's not my parent, she's my kid. And she's not a terrible kid, either, just a...well, damaged one.
I hate the word damaged, and even if I liked it, it doesn't excuse her, anymore than the reasons for my dad's violence--the sexist culture we come from, his mental illness, his lack of coping skills, the myriad of losses in his life, his inability to live in two cultures at once--can excuse him.
A few days later, all I really want is a day off to let myself heal--not to get rid of the bruise, but just to cry it out, to feel the fear and rage and pain I felt right before the bite. After, I felt nothing--eerily, this is how I also felt during and after my father's meltdowns. And, even more eerily, I have seen S, when she's not attacking me, disengage in the same way when I'm out of control.
But this time, I wasn't, not really. That's the thing: when I'm really out of control, raising my voice, or, as has happened a couple times, slamming things around in the kitchen, she is either gentle and nice and wanting to make things better, or she's totally disengaged, not present.
When she is hurting me, I know, at least, that she's here with me, present, feeling something, that the words have sunk in, and maybe, as scary as it is to think this, that she's heard them in a way she doesn't hear me when I'm yelling or slamming things around. Which, to my credit, I've been doing much, much less frequently recently.
Today my friend touched my arm and said, "Did that happen the way I think it did?" When I nodded, she just said, "Come over for supper on Saturday. Bring S. Let's start early, so she can play with H (her little boy)."
I got tears in my eyes. My friend T is so good at reminding me that nothing S does is ever going to shock her, that nothing she does is ever going to make her afraid to have us over, or to be my friend.
That should be enough, and now that I've written it down, actually, it is enough. That, and J, S's college buddy, doing everything she can to have S as much as possible this week. And her relatively new tutor, who has only known us for a couple months, who today brought over her puppy to meet our dog and spent two hours with S, not asking to be paid.
I think sometimes I am lonely because the people who are there for me right now, really there, are not the people I expected. I think it's also because my work right now is so personal to me; I have wanted for a long time to build an office that can really make a difference in the community; I have wanted for a long time to teach courses on disability studies and social justice. I'm doing all of these things this semester, but they are draining, even at times painful.
It is impossible, for instance, to sit in a meeting with a student I know has been abused and talk to her about her desire to do a project on the inadequacies of the mental health system for people of color, to hear her say, after I've agreed to let her do this project and given her suggestions, "No matter what I do, it won't make a difference. This isn't something that's going to change, ever."
It is impossible to talk about the idea of normalcy and not to think about how the special education department at my daughter's school is totally centered around the idea of norming the kids in the program rather than empowering them. I'm teaching the class with my friend T, who is herself disabled, and we have both promised to avoid rants and to tell no more than one personal story per class. But I am not yet telling stories; they are too new, and make me feel too vulnerable--and even when I am ready, not ranting will be too difficult.
When S went to bed tonight, I tried to fall asleep, but I couldn't. I was in bed at nine, exhausted, and, by 11, I was up again, downstairs, sitting on my back porch with a glass of wine, trying to decide if I should call anyone. I just wanted to say out loud that I felt like a terrible parent--we have eaten out three nights in a row, which I can't afford; we have talked through some aspects of the night she bit me, but we are far from sorting it out, mainly because I am having trouble staying present when I'm with her--I am either at that moment or else I'm somewhere else entirely, worrying about the student from last semester who is fighting for a higher grade or the pressure of starting a new office or a student who keeps challenging me or...you get the idea; S is having frequent flashbacks still, two days later. But, strangely, all it took to make me feel better was to write this down--and to remember T's hand on my bruise, and J's text message, "I hope you're OK," on the day it happened.
"Is she sorry after she does something like this?" T asked me today.
"Yes."
"And I'll bet that's even harder, that she's sorry for it."
I thought about that. "It would be harder if she weren't sorry, really," I said after awhile. "But I guess I'm not in a place yet where I can really feel the full effect of what she's done, and until I can, I'm afraid I can't really be present. Which means I can't help her, or myself, to deal with what happened."
T just nodded.
Maybe now, after writing this, I will be able to feel it all, and to be present again, and, most importantly for this moment, the one right here, right now, to be able to rest.
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