I was shown to the communal visiting room and waited as other children came, but not Elizabeth. After a few minutes, the visitor supervisor asked me to come with her. As we walked down the hall, I heard animal-like screaming in the distance. "Is that Elizabeth?" I asked. She nodded as she showed me in the small room.
Soon Mr. J came to meet with me to explain what was happening. He explained that Elizabeth had a new roommate, and this child's father had a terminal illness. Elizabeth started taunting the child, saying she hoped her father died. Not surprisingly, a fight broke out and she had to be restrained. I can see it so clearly: I suspect a favorite staff paid attention to this new child—even a friendly word would have sufficed—and Elizabeth tore into her.
As Mr. J started telling me this, I could see him struggling for control. He got out the part about the terminal illness and gulped. He stopped and tried again, but couldn't. He broke down sobbing. "I'm sorry," he said. "This is so unprofessional. I'm sorry." He took a deep breath and started again. "But that other child . . . I know it's Elizabeth's illness talking . . . I'm sorry I'm being so unprofessional." He looked down at the desk and took deep, shaking breaths as he futilely tried to regain composure. I finally reached out to take his hand and we sat, hands clasped, without talking. I thanked him for being more human than professional and told him not to put himself through trying to tell me about this.
I feel so conflicted at times like this. Yes, it's her illness speaking. There are giant holes inside her soul that need filling so badly that she will hurt in a vain attempt to fill them. She has no impulse control that could help keep inside the mean thoughts we all have at times. She thinks it, she says it. She has an uncanny sense of every person's weak points and thin places and goes unerringly for those when she wants to hurt.
I also feel judged, even when I'm not being judged. Sometimes my feelings are accurate; the director of a school she once attended indignantly told me about something mean Elizabeth had done. "I find that the apple generally doesn't fall far from the tree," she said accusingly. Wait, I thought. Surely she's not saying that I taught her that? My other kid doesn't do that! Last night I wanted to stand and shout, "You DO know she wasn't reared like that, don't you?" even though I felt no judgment from anyone but me. My heart breaks for the bullied child and I feel fury towards Elizabeth, anger it's not productive for her to see. And then my heart breaks for her as well.
The mentally ill are most often not cute or appealing. In spite of that, there are good folks who take them on and care for mine when I can't. I have such gratitude for those who work with the mean ones, the smelly ones, those that wound and spit and bite, the ones only a mother can love. When we have a particularly unpleasant child at school, I tell my staff, "Remember his mama loves him. Let's start with that." Mr. J's tears give me more confidence in the place she is in. It's what I hope for in any placement—that there are staff with the capacity to care, ones whose humanity is more important than professionalism. It's the only way I can leave her there.
God bless the ones who work even while their hearts are breaking.
photo by Lindsay Williams
