A child cloaked in anger

You can see the anger in his face. His brow is furrowed and arched in a way that makes his eyes narrow and seem very frightening. When he opens his mouth to scream, words don’t escape from his open lips, but they emit a sort of guttural groaning sound. It is loud, and it disturbs me. I want to help him to calm down, but he will not listen to me. The walls are up, and it will take a lot to bring them back down again.

I look into his eyes again and see the hatred and anger. I have seen this expression before, but rarely could those looks cut through me and expose me to the core. I open my mouth to speak and, like him, words simply do not come out. I close my mouth and contemplate what I can do next to reach him.

He is seven, and he should not feel this way. The pictures that he draws are frightening, and the stories that he tells can scare anyone. They are afraid of him. I am afraid FOR him. Something happened to create the monster before me. He wasn’t born believing these things. He wasn’t born with the need to see how people react in terror to the things that he says or the actions that he takes. This game that he plays, his desire to find your core fear and to expose it just does not seem normal.

I pause for that thought. Again, someone said to me that he is not normal. It begs the question; please tell me what “normal” looks like? As a society, help me to figure this one out! Is it normal to watch televisions shows that depict the worst parts of the human condition? But those are the highest rated shows. Is it normal to feel such a strong sense of religious belief that you are willing to strap on an explosive garment and blow yourself up along with hundreds of strangers to demonstrate that commitment? It happens each and every day around the globe.

I have decided that each person in the world has their own normal. It is their history and their sense of who they are. It is their character and their DNA. There is no one normal and we need to stop trying to force others to fit into our own definition of normal.

Then there are those who experience a normal that conflicts with our sense of right and wrong, of safety and fear. There are these entities like the child that hides under the table before me. His experience was so very different; he can’t talk about what created his normal. He is not yet willing to open the curtains and show us the room that he has lived his life within. It hurts him. He sees the others and he wants them to play with him, he wants them to accept him so that he can feel accepted. He doesn’t know how to pretend that whatever he has seen, heard or even worse felt, did not exist.

And so the words just do not come. His frustration just explodes from his body, every movement, and every sound is a display of his feeling that he cannot control his world. He wants to control it; I know he does. He wants to be calm as the others. I know that too. It is the bridge that I must find to connect him with the person that he wishes to be. This is what escapes me. I don’t know how to help him. I sit and simply look at him. Like a paramedic sitting with his bag of bandages and medicine next to the patient yet not being able to show us where they are bleeding. We want to bandage them and find a way to make them smile. We need to do that but I cannot even begin to try to help your wounds heal if you do not meet me on the journey to show me where you are hurt and where I can put the bandage.

His father comes and forces him out from under the table. The boy is still angry then frightened. He fears whatever punishment may come after the calls from the school. The calls that took his father from his work and yet again brought him to us here. I hate these calls for the parent’s sake. The call where the person from the school tried to dress up the issue with a pretty bow and wrapping paper, but each parent knows what the call means. Something is not right with your child and we don’t know how to manage it.

After a ten-minute struggle, I watch the boy go limp in his father’s arms, surrendered to whatever will happen now. His will to fight is gone, he knows that he will not win and that he cannot control whatever happens now. He gives up. His father asks him if he is ready to go home. He looks up and simply nods his head.

Then it happens. It happens so quickly that I cannot find a way to relate what happens next with what I have seen for the past two hours. This child reaches up to hold his father’s hand. His father reaches down and gently takes his son’s hand, and they walk out together. No more struggle. No more tears.

I watch as they walk the sidewalk outside and I am struck by how much this poor tortured soul, for this one minute, gets to feel the way he wants to feel. He is a child who is loved by his parent. Watching out the window just now erases the painful words and jolts of pain when the kicks and fists came. There was the child I was trying to reach. He found what he wanted. He wanted to be loved. I don’t know what happened when they left. I haven’t seen him since.
For right now, I am hopeful that this child will find some peace. That the view outside of my window at this very moment will replay itself a few more times for his sake. That somehow if he is loved a little more and if he is allowed to be the child that he wants to be, that he can grow up and be “normal.”