Chapter Eight
Stone Child
(What happened in the following account evolved over a four year period of work/play with Neil, prior to and in the Therapeutic Nursery classroom, when I was Neil’s teacher.)
Neil’s birth mother was compelled to give him up
when he was born. Though Neil wasn't told he was adopted, he didn't feel
a sense of belonging to his parents, or to anyone. A vital core-connection
seemed to be missing between each family member.
People who knew both Neil and his parents often said things like, he looked
as though his father spit him out, so strong was Neil’s resemblance
to his adoptive father. Each stood very tall and straight. Each had penetrating
beautiful blue eyes too.
From knowing almost four year old Neil, it was clear he believed he had
to take care of both himself and his mother. His father wasn’t
home much during the week. He worked long hours, and was home once in a
while on Saturdays and Sundays. When he wasn’t working, he was often
involved in risky business ventures, which caused Neil’s mother to
feel angry, helpless, frightened, alone, and to frequently cry. Neil’s
parents argued, fought, screamed and worried about money. Neil’s mother,
who wasn’t well, felt compelled to seriously consider going to work.
She often referred to Neil as her “little man,” said things
like: “It’s nice to have a little man around the house,”
which Neil liked. Saying these words caused Neil to feel BIG, IMPORTANT.
Neil became upset when his mother wanted to exert her own authority. He
felt challenged, confused, his sense of importance undermined. A battle
would usually ensue. Neil would kick, scream and punch his mother.
Wanting desperately to gain control, his mother returned her son’s
screams and blows. Many times though, she appreciated her little man’s
help. At those times she’d giggle, smile and pat her son’s head. And so
they were often caught between these confusing emotional extremes, each
feeling trapped in futile, destructive interactions, each feeling
thwarted and misunderstood, the one significant difference being one
was parent, the other child.
Neil feared his father. When he yelled, he had a booming deep voice, he
reminded Neil of the story of Jack and the Beanstalk – and the scary,
bad Giant. His father would get his belt and threaten Neil with it. At these
times, Neil stood especially straight, hid inside, and stuck out his chin.
When he was hit, even though the blows hurt, he’d laugh. Eventually,
Neil was no longer aware of the pain. He was able to disown his real feelings.
He didn’t cry. Instead he hardened. Developed a protective covering
to shield himself from pain. He learned early that boys don’t cry.
Only babies cried. Neil believed he was never a baby. He disliked babies.
Neil felt compelled to do many things for his mother. So often she was sick.
He enjoyed being her little man and taking care of her. When they went shopping,
he put food in the cart for her. Once home, he helped her empty the packages.
When his mother began to put items away, he interfered insisting, “that’s
my job”. His mother protested, saying she would put the things away,
but often, laughing helplessly, she gave in. Neil believed she really wanted
him to do things for her most of the time. He even cleaned the house. Whatever
his mother did, he did too.
Sometimes when his parents took him for a walk, Neil would run. He ran away
from them as fast as he could. He’d run around the block and hide.
Once behind a garbage can. Once down a ramp of a building. When Neil was
only two, he ran away and boarded a bus. All by himself! He was like a balloon
lost in space, its string floating in air, unattached, ungrounded.
When Neil ran away, his parents became hysterical. They screamed helplessly
and ran after him. When they finally caught up with him, panting and angry,
they hit, begged, pleaded with Neil to be good. Neil eventually gave them
his promise. He meant to keep it when he gave it, until the behavior happened
all over again. They’d ask him, “Why, why, why are you doing
this?” Neil looked at his parents, unable to provide any insight.
Neil became interested in his mother’s make-up. He liked to watch
her color her face, to see the way it made her look like a different person.
When his parents were asleep, he’d get out of bed, take her make-up
and draw all over the walls and furniture in the apartment. He put his mark
everywhere. Was he trying to get closer to the mystery of who his mother
was to him? Or he to himself? Was he trying to become more visible to his
parents? But, of course, when his parents awoke, they were very angry. His
mother hid her makeup. Each time, Neil found it. To him, it was like a game.
What was hidden, he could find. Had to find.
His parents worried about their stereo too, because of Neil’s interest
in it. He was drawn to it like flies to honey. He wanted to turn it on,
take the arm of the record player, move it, and turn it into music. Magic
music. They desperately tried to control Neil. But were unable to do
so, for long.
In bed at night, Neil listened intently to his parents talking, nearby,
in the kitchen. He knew this was the best time for hearing things, when
his parents believed he was asleep. They often talked about him. His heart
pounded as he listened. He tried so hard to hear them. Their talking usually
turned to arguing. About something wrong with him. About whose fault it
was. About something wrong with his genes.
Neil wondered what was wrong with him. He often heard his mother whispering
about his genes and crying. Heard her tell his father that she wanted
her life to be better when she got Neil. To fill the empty places. The holes
in her soul. With Neil!? She said bad things were happening. She was cursed.
Neil wondered, by me? By my genes? Inevitably, Neil made disturbing sounds
in bed causing his mother or father to try to get him to sleep, putting
an end to their conversation.
Neil wanted to be a good boy. He tried harder to do more things for his
mother. He wanted very much to please her. But then she’d try to
take charge again. Neil could not let that happen. That was his job. What
would happen if he was not in charge?
His parents decided to take Neil to see a doctor. Neil did not want to go.
Why do they think something's wrong with me, he wondered? Inside the doctor's
office, Neil ran in circles. His mother and father pleaded with him to stop
and sit with them. But Neil continued running. He needed to run. His mother
in desperation said to the doctor, " See, that's what I mean!"
Neil took a pen from the doctor’s desk and threw it. His parents stared
at the doctor, anxiety and concern written on their faces. He instructed
them to leave his office at once, to wait outside in the waiting room.
Neil was left alone with the doctor. Inwardly, he turned to stone. He showed
no emotion. He stood very tall and straight, like his father. The doctor
approached Neil, took him by the hand and led him to a nearby chair. Neil
tried to get up, to run, but the doctor put his arm around Neil, holding
him there.
“What’s your name?” “Neil.” “How old
are you?” “Four.” Neil tried to escape. But the doctor’s
hold was firm. “I want Mother. I want Father.” “Are you
afraid, Neil?” “Mother! Mother!” “All right Neil,
I’ll get them.” The doctor took Neil by the hand and opened
the door to the waiting room. He said, “Take his hand,” as he
gave Neil to his mother.
But Neil escaped. His parents chased, threatened, and pleaded for an unendurably
long time before they finally succeeded in getting him into the doctor’s
office. The doctor sat and watched. At one point Neil heard the doctor say
he was hyperactive and had emotional problems. Neil’s parents said
they weren’t ready to start therapy. The doctor suggested a nursery
school that worked well with children like Neil. He offered his help in
the future, if Neil’s parents decided they needed it.
Neil was enrolled at Beachbrook at a time when three children with serious
emotional needs were integrated into a mainstream nursery classroom of approximately
twenty-three children. (The Therapeutic Program was not yet in existence.)
Neil stood tall and straight as he observed the playing children. His handsome
face looked serious and intense, in sharp contrast to many of the other
children. He seemed lost in the life that moved around him, a fish out of
water. An alien from another world. He watched, stunned, trying to
make sense of his new environment.
Neil was as driven to do things for me, his teacher, as he was for his mother.
But it was not as easy to accomplish. Sometimes though, he did manage to
close our classroom door before I could get there. (He’d see me heading
in that direction and beat me to it.) There was nothing to do but laugh
and thank him. Instead of playing, Neil paid attention to what I needed
or what I was going to do. He’d say, “I’ll do it. I’ll
get it Joan.” I smiled at this serious, driven boy. I’d say,
“I see how important it is for you to do things for me, Neil. But
you know what? I’m here to take care of you!” It was evident
that Neil was bewildered by what I said. It made no sense to him at all.
When Neil had trouble with his suspenders – he had to go to the bathroom
– he refused my help, insisting he could do it himself. He struggled
until he eventually accomplished the task. This boy was determined and had
perseverance! Neil urgently needed to put away a large assortment of wooden
blocks himself one day, (after a block building activity) – while
his classmates sat together enjoying Group Time. He said as I helped him,
“I’m getting bigger and stronger. I have muscles. I’m
a little man.” When children approached Neil, he’d aggressively
push them away.
Neil watched me taking care of children. He looked with intense interest,
disbelief and sometimes, disdain. He observed me helping them on with their
clothing and changing them when they were wet. Neil called them babies –
a real insult! If a child needed something, I tried to provide it, but Neil
competed with me. Sometimes he was faster than me. Then once again I’d
say that I saw how important it was for Neil to take care of people. He’d
nod his serious face in agreement.
Neil followed me wherever I went. He seemed driven to see and to grasp how
I took care of children. He stood near as I held a crying child. In a day,
I held several crying children, with Neil always standing close by, watchful.
He never cried. He was serious, the weight of existence upon his very young
shoulders. He persisted in expressing his contempt toward crying children
calling them babies. He watched as I said loving things, and as I sang to
children. He could not believe that I would provide band-aids to invisible
wounds.
Neil could become very explosive in school, attacking a child or me. At
these times I would become a safe container for Neil’s rage. I held
him to prevent injury to himself, to a child or to me. (Two assistant teachers
ran the classroom at these times.) Neil would turn red with rage and struggle
against me with all his formidable strength. I was often winded. Though
Neil was impressively strong, I somehow proved stronger, and he was eventually
able to surrender and become still. We’d sit in silence digesting
what had occurred.
Neil’s violence included knocking down children’s wooden buildings
and destroying their artwork. With Neil standing near, I conveyed my sadness
to the injured children. To Neil, I explained that I understood he felt
angry, but I couldn’t allow him to hurt children’s feelings
and destroy their work. He would have to wait until I decided he could build
with wooden blocks again.
Soon after, I arranged for Neil and me to be in the block area alone. I
stacked a tall column of red brick cardboard blocks. Without a word of instruction
from me, Neil kicked them hard and then jumped into them. Intuitively, he
understood that I was providing him with a sanctioned opportunity to release
repressed aggressive energy. Not speaking, I stacked the blocks again and
again. Each time Neil kicked them hard and dove into the blocks. By now
he was smiling, even laughing! Then we each stacked blocks, kicked them
and jumped into them. We fell together into the scattered heap, Neil into
my lap. Neil looked at me out of luminous blue eyes. He said, “I’m
going to give you a present of some of my stones tomorrow. They’re
my best treasure.” The next day as he entered our classroom, he rushed
to deposit his treasure into my accepting hands.
I permitted Neil to resume wooden block building when children were at Group
Time. I stayed close to him. A wooden block could become a serious weapon.
One day, Neil was hard at work constructing a bed large enough for him to
rest on. He stretched out on the blocks periodically, testing it for size,
making sure it was large enough to hold him. Completed at last, it was very
roomy. Neil rested comfortably on his wooden bed. I offered him a blanket
and the lullaby, “Hush Little Baby”. Eyes closed, covered, with
me sitting on the floor beside him, Neil listened as I sang to him.
As June approached, I informed Neil of an impending classroom change. He
was soon to become a member of Beachbrook’s Therapeutic Program. We
visited the Red Room to familiarize him with the new environment. The Red
Room consisted of two comfortably sized connected rooms, separated by a
door, which easily accommodated private work with one child. The front room
was (and remains) a classical nursery playroom. The ‘Other Room’
(what we called it then and still) was more like a living room, and contained a blue
rug, couch, comfortable soft chairs, a large wooden chair, books, record
player, many pillows, a blanket, and a full length mirror; also a sink,
which made water-play possible. The room was set-up to provide children
(and parents at weekly parent group meetings) with a warm, intimate, homey,
comfortable living, learning, being environment.
Neil soon craved being alone with me in the Other Room. Each day, while
entering the classroom, he announced his intention or request to go there.
Sometimes he would have to wait until I was able to arrange coverage for
my other children. We relied heavily on student teacher and intern help
in those days. But sometimes we were able to go in soon after Neil arrived.
Neil was drawn to the two part adult-sized sink, which stood high off the
floor. He needed the large wooden chair to reach it, and once standing on
it, filled the sink to the brink of overflowing. Having gone that far, he
decided to go further. Turning the faucets on full force, and eyeing me
as I stood near him, he kept the water pouring onto the floor.
What to do? An on the spot decision was required. I opted to dismiss what
others might think, and my own concerns about possible damage to the room
– in favor of Neil, his need to unleash the water, and what this release
might mean to him. This little boy was emotionally strung tight. In a flash
I decided to trust the force in Neil that needed to overflow. At a certain
point though I always took charge by turning the faucets off, and when necessary
overcoming Neil’s physical resistance. Neil needed to know the flood
could happen because I felt empathic to his need to make it, but that I
was totally in control of this or any situation. When it was time to stop,
he would have to stop. In other words, that I was providing safe boundaries
to this otherwise overflowing, seemingly boundary-less experience.
Each day Neil thought of new things to do at the sink with water. While
the sink was filling, he stuck his fingers up into the faucet spraying water
wildly all over the floor. Laughing, he aimed some of it at me. Fortunately,
it was summer and I was able to accept the playfulness (and hostility) of
Neil’s behavior. I wanted to enable Neil to experience my genuine
acceptance and warmth toward him, my trust in his goodness, and to be able
to evolve similar feelings in Neil. For his emotional well-being Neil needed
to be able to develop feelings of trust, of caring, of surrender toward
a significant care-taker. In this case, me. He needed to be able to let
his defense of inner hardness go, and to find more useful ways of responding
to difficulties when confronted by them.
When Neil looked at me to see how I’d respond, I smiled at him. (He
was looking to see how I would respond!) I said, “I see what you’re
doing. Wetting the floor, and me too. That’s okay, Neil. It’s
only water.”
I saw the surprised response on Neil’s face. I could see he expected
me to get mad. But surprise was what I wanted. I wanted to dislodge his
expectations, his rigid and tight way of being. Let the water flow and with
it Neil’s spontaneity... and hopefully, good feelings about himself!
The flood-making continued and escalated. More and more water poured onto
the floor. More water was directed at me. In the spirit of splashing water
on hot summer days, laughing I told Neil I was going to bring something
to protect my clothes, and a change of clothing too. As the water-play took
wilder forms, (more spraying, increased flooding) I exerted more control.
Neil struggled against me with all his strength – but I managed to
prevail and to turn the water off. Neil needed to be sure that I was really
able to take care of him, that I could stand up to whatever he presented.
And stand up for myself too! That awareness energized the moment –
and my resolve!
When our time together ended, Neil changed into dry clothes when necessary
– and returned to the front room, while I remained to clean up the
water logged room. (The blue rug was picked up when the flooding first began.
The linoleum-tiled floor never looked so clean!)
On one of these flood soaked days, Neil and I jumped barefooted and splashed
together in the water on the floor. Then he went out front while I remained
to clean up the water logged room. When I joined Neil, he said, “Joan,
there’s a fat lady – she has a big belly – and she sits
on my wall at home.” "I hear what you’re telling me Neil,”
I said, moved by the implication of Neil’s fantasy.
Though I said nothing more to Neil, I immediately thought that Neil’s
“fat lady with a big belly who sits on his wall at home”
was a fantasy of his yearning for
a mothering presence he could now begin to put into words. His fantasy
was pregnant with the life force of hope.
When we returned to the Other Room, Neil asked for soap suds. He filled
the sink almost to overflowing with white glistening mounds of suds. He
took huge handfuls and hurled them. He threw them and shouted, “I’m
making shit!” (Making it and getting rid of it at the same time! I
thought.) The soapy water spilled onto the floor. Taking handfuls, he walked
about the room throwing it on chairs, on the couch. On walls. On me. The
whole room was soaked in white, glistening suds, suds Neil repeatedly called
“shit”.
Neil looked at me to see my expression. (I had turned the faucet off.) “Do
you see Joan? Do you see the shit I’m making?” I assured Neil
that I saw what he was making; that I saw how important it was for him to
put it on everything. Not only the room was soaked with it, but Neil too.
I brought a change of clothes and two child sized chairs for Neil. I handed
Neil garments as he needed them. He had difficulty fastening his pants.
“Help me Joan,” he said. “I like to help this boy,”
I answered as I buttoned his pants, my own heart melting. He asked if he
could watch while I cleaned up. I agreed. While I was mopping the floor
and putting newspapers down Neil said, “You know Joan, there’s
a fat lady who sits on my wall at home. She has a big belly.” “Yes,
Neil, you told me. Do you want to tell me about her?” “Just
that she’s very fat.”
Neil’s urgent need to be alone with me in the Other Room persisted.
Each day, it was what he wanted most to do. I continued to try to arrange
our time together as early in the school day as possible. In the course
of time, Neil’s interest in water and flood making waned, and then
came to an end. I believe because it successfully served its purpose, Neil
had no further need of this exploration.
What attracted his attention next was our record player. Neil and I listened
to children’s songs. Then Neil wanted to take the arm of the record
player, move it, and turn it into music himself. I felt an inward gasp,
a hesitation, as I considered the risk of losing the record player, a valued
Red Room object. Up until now children were not permitted to touch it. But
I decided to take the risk, to trust the promptings of Neil’s being
– and my own. Whatever happened, I knew I could guarantee Neil’s
safety and my own.
While the music was playing, Neil took me by the hand and led me to the
large, straight backed, wooden chair, the one he stood on for water play. He gently moved me into it. He covered
me with the large blanket, arranging it so that it covered me to the floor.
Then he took one cushion after another and piled them up on my lap. All
the way up to my chin. I didn’t say a word. I knew I looked very fat.
Neil turned the music to the fastest frequency. The sound was very high,
screechy, and penetratingly loud. Its assault upon my ears was unbearable
- Another one of those moments requiring an instant decision - I put my
fingers in my ears. I told Neil, " the sound is hurting my ears."
The sound danced Neil’s body wildly.
As though possessed, his legs went high in the air, wide apart, jumping
from foot to foot and side to side in front of me. His head moved with a
life force of its own, gyrating wildly. His hands and arms moved expressively
in every direction. I watched in awed silence, fingers in my ears.
Driven, his dance escalated in speed, intensity and wildness until he collapsed
on the floor near my covered legs. He moved them wide apart and crawled
behind the chair, while I sat quietly. Slowly, he crawled under the blanket
on the floor, laboriously pushing his way through my parted legs. He panted
as he moved, exerting great effort. When he emerged, he breathed deeply,
giving way on the floor, near my covered feet. There he rested. Nothing
was said.
How long we remained this way I do not know.
Neil removed the pillows one by one and the blanket from my body. Exhausted
he sank into a soft chair. Then I turned the unbearable screeching sounds off and sank
into the couch. We sat in silence. Out of the silence Neil said, “Joan,
I’m a hurt boy.” “You’re feeling hurt, Neil?”
I said softly.
Neil came to me. He curled up in my lap. He buried his head in my breasts.
I could feel him melting into me. His eyes and face were wet. Newly born.
He looked into my eyes. For the first time, I know he found himself there.
Throughout our work together, Neil used my nurturing, healing presence to
give birth to himself, to become more authentically whole. Knowing Neil,
was for me an unforgettable self-exploration. Our work together taught me
to trust my deepest, most intuitive knowing.
Neil came to visit me at Beachbrook some years ago. He was grown-up at the
time. I had just left for the day. I have hoped for a return visit ever
since... though in some important way, he’ll always be with me.
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