Somehow, the monster had fallen asleep in the overlooked shadows of the cave.
And the cave, in it's way, had forgotten the echoes of it's clawing and shrieking; forgotten even the heavy thuds of the desperate turning as it tore deeper at the gashes of its matted flesh.
The cave fast forgot and its rock surface smoothed soft.
In the Friday floodlight, the cave prayed for dimmer light as the monster stirred.
"You're censoring a lot", said The Woman - (not a question, you'll notice).
Despite offering a full English breakfast, Christmas film, popcorn and a Christmas Quiz, we never get a huge amount of kids in on the last day of term. In fact, at particular times of the year our attendance often becomes a real issue.
The kids we DO get in are often either those who might be classed as our more 'phobic' kids, who are too anxious to attend a mainstream secondary school, and those kids for whom home life is just so chaotic that they prefer the safety and security offered by the unit.
(Our very disaffected ones tend to be off mugging people at the first possible opportunity).
I'm digressing.
Over the last 18 months, one of my girls has faced particularly horrendous traumas. As her form tutor, I have had regular sessions with her just to offer support, listening and as much care as is possible within obvious boundaries.
As the last day of term wore on, this student grew increasingly impatient.
Unable to watch the film, she wandered from teacher to teacher, talking about anything and everything. I watched as I sat drawing "Christmassy" things with some of the young people.
I remembered how I had been struck by her reluctance to leave us for the summer... and also how badly her behaviour, her health and her attitude had deteriorated after that 6 week break.
Having a place of safety in the midst of utter turmoil is not just important, it's essential.
It's somewhere familiar, when so often, the world is overwhelming and frightening. It's somewhere predictable, where it's not necessary to walk on egg shells in case something or someone explodes. It's somewhere that nurtures rather than competes with or abuses.
And, perhaps most importantly for a small number, it is a place which will stay safe, stay familiar, stay concerned and stay THERE despite all the railing and kicking and yelling.
(The parallels are obvious...)
For some, coping when the place which holds them together suddenly isn't there for a fortnight (or much longer), is a painful and terrifying concept, which can result in a sense of hopelessness and self destruction.
Before she left, on impulse I ran to fetch the tiny doodle I had been doing.
It was of a small, silver angel.
Pressing it into her hand, I told her that the angel was going to stay with her over the Christmas holiday and that it would bring her back safe and sound.
"Does it matter if t
he angel comes back with me or not?"
(Instinctive reaction = Fear. Will I have to look after it?)
No, I told her. Even if it disappeared, it would still be watching over her and looking after her, but it was a secret. Not everyone had an angel. (And to be fair, a number of the kids would have used it as a roach for a spliff as soon as they got past the front door!!!)
You may well be asking where on earth all this is going... and you'd be right, because I haven't thought it out very well and as a result, it's a very convoluted way of saying something probably quite simple.
In a recent comment, JSS picked up that I had made some progress in being comforted by The Woman's concern before the therapy break.
It occurred to me as I typed the last post, that in some strange way, her insistence that she wrote down her email address (which I did point out was on the Internet) was an angel that she put in my palm. It wasn't about using it, it was about knowing that somehow, although my one place of safety was disappearing from my view, it was still there. It IS still there.
For a person caught in a trap, the knowledge that someone is coming back for them, may offer them enough courage to hang onto life for an extra minute.
For the teenage girl forced to live with someone who ruined her childhood, maybe the thought that an angel hears her cries, is enough to make her feel heard until we can.
And for me, maybe merely having the option of communicating, is enough to remind me that she would still hear me.
Maslow is kind of the King of Needs and so it seems only right that he should get a mention.
In the interests of keeping this post fairly brief, I'm going to assume that anyone reading is already familiar with his concept of a hierarchy of needs possessed by each human being, and if not, then there are a million websites given to explaining this diagram.
As a teacher,we have this framework drilled into us fairly early on in our training. (And yes, I know, it seems unbelievable that I am capable of being both the illogical mess you hear in this place, and the reliable, "together", professional, who somehow manages to gain the respect of pretty tough *problem* teenagers).
Anyway, I have always considered it to be a fairly accurate representation of our needs, but that's not my issue.
The real reason that I refer to Maslow here is that when I was writing my last post, I realised that I was generalising to a considerable extent when I wrote that I am repulsed by the notion of 'having needs'.
In fact, I don't mind admitting to some of the physiological needs on the bottom 'rung'.
Even the second arena doesn't pose too much of a threat to me.
It's the Love / Belonging part that presents problems.
I don't want to NEED any of the things in that part. In fact, "I don't want" is far too passive a way of putting it.
Ideally I would destroy anything in me that pertains to the NEED of those things.
I don't mind having them. I certainly don't mind giving them. But NEEDING them?
That I can't take.
And...
... intimacy?
Another word outside my vocabulary.
There seem to be quite a few, given that English is supposed to be my specialism.
In the instant that I reached for the unreachable branch, my arms shuddered and muscles tore down the blades. Knives seared through my neck and my shoulders and I let go and fell to the black sea. The unbending branch, stark against the whitened cliff edge, continued to point spindle fingers West, as if reaching for the orange sun favouring the far horizon.
Generally people seem to be upset when therapy breaks appear and I can understand that. I can understand the feeling of isolation. The dread at having to face things alone. The thought that, even if you do talk, you won't be heard for the duration of the break. I understand all those things though I haven't really felt them over the past fortnight. Neither have I experienced the profound sense of relief that a minority of people express at the idea of having a break. In fact, I didn't really think about it too much. Not very much.
I suppose it is in keeping with most things in my life. I feel the aftermath more than the event. As I sat outside her house this afternoon, I didn't want to go in.
Fifty minutes. What do you say after two weeks? There's nothing at all there. It felt... pointless. Empty, but ironically because it felt so full of nothingness. Inexplicably angry.
I wanted to kick out as I left.
"Yes... an OK holiday" "No, I didn't feel much about my sister". "Yes I spent a lot of time at the gym". "No people at work didn't make any more comments about my weight today". "Yes New Year's Eve was positive"
I lost my voice today. More, there just didn't seem any point in using it.
All wires and no plug.
She was positive about a part of the holiday I'd managed well. It felt as though she only wanted to hear good things. I only gave her good things.
It's a waste of time. I can't even be honest with myself here, let alone with her there. I feel like giving up. I am unreasonably angry that she couldn't see what I couldn't show. I'm too scared to even begin to think what it is that i couldn't show.
In that room, there was nothing in me today that could be expressed with words.
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