My biggest asset and my biggest fault in this delightful field of in-home counseling is my seemingly endless ability to love my kids. Even my grown kids I call my babies. Mine range in age from 3 to 17. Some are girls. Most are boys. They have supremely dysfunctional families if they have families at all and are entrenched in poverty. I see it all, because I'm working with them in their homes, with their families. And the most amazing thing is that all of my babies are wonderful.
They're not your traditional sort of wonderful. They're not the straight-A-earning-star-athletes wearing polos and khakis. But sometimes they make a B. Or a C. I usually squeal, get up and dance, and get them to give me a high five. I feel so proud I could burst. They laugh. Or try to hide a smile. Few of them play sports or are involved with after-school activities. They wouldn't be able to get home without the bus after school. And they rarely own clothing that fits, let alone polos and khakis. Usually they have cigarette burns through their shirts, and their frayed, too-short jeans have stains. A lot of them take pristine care of their shoes, and I wonder if this is because they so infrequently get a new pair.
My babies have deep scars on their insides that they learn to hide. They accumulated their wounds over years of abuse, neglect, loss, and heart-heardening. Sometimes I walk into their lives, see those scars, and wonder how the hell I'm supposed to help them deal. What do I know of being raped or beaten or allowed to starve? Or being forced to steal? Or growing up surrounded by drugs and violence? I don't know what it's like to grow up in extreme poverty or lose a parent. I'll never know what it feels like to be black or hispanic surrounded by white people. Or to have a white woman come walk into my house thinking she can get to know me and be there for me. It seems impossible for me most days, even though I feel their pain physically and emotionally. I want to understand. It's the closest I can come.
Then there's the knowledge that I have to tell them goodbye. My kids...they're never going to find stability. Or know what it is to be truly loved and taken care of. To be surrounded by psychologically healthy people. They're never going to have easy lives without suffering and abandonment. And here I am, stepping in and getting to know them, then leaving just like all the rest.
We can't stay in touch with our kids after they discharge. We're told in the business of counseling that this is unethical and crosses boundaries that would wind up hurting our kids. Myself, I can't decide what would hurt them worse - telling them that it's against the rules for us to stay in touch or staying in touch but not being able to be actively in their lives so that they feel let down. The former seems cold. The latter seems selfish on my part - hanging on to make sure I know they're okay. That they're not cold or hungry or sad or lonely. After all, after they discharge, I can't stay in their lives the same way. I can't see them every week or even every month like they're used to seeing me. I can't see my own family that much. I wouldn't want them to feel like I could, because they would only be disappointed.
The best I can do, I tell myself, is listen. Offer them my time and my empathy. And my love, even though I can't tell them that. For ethical reasons, of course. I can tell them that it's okay to move on, to forgive, to accept themselves for who they are and see that they're worth success. I can champion them. And I do all these things as best I possibly can.
Some of my kids let me know that I'm not on the wrong track. I can see improvement in many of them. Some tell me I'm the best counselor they've ever had. Some tell me they know I care, that they know because I show it in my own way without saying it. Some contact me later and tell me thank you for listening and caring. One foster parent recently told me that in all his years of fostering and having counselors to his home, I'm the only one he's ever seen have an affect. He said my kid sees me as a confidant. Two have stayed completely clean of drugs since they started working with me. Two parents who made mistakes have worked with me and gotten their kids back - to the advantage of all. Not that I want to be a central figure in my clients' lives. I don't. I wish I could fade into obscurity, leaving behind a trail that leads to healthier, happier relationships and behavior. Then I wouldn't have to worry or want to stay in touch. But I know in my heart that this is a pipe dream, mainly because of the population I'm working with. I can hope though, right? What's the harm in that?
I struggle sometimes to cope with these thoughts, these images in my mind of the things my babies tell me that have happened to them. So, for myself, in this message that you, my babies, will never read - I love you. I love you more than you will ever know. I want more than anything to see you happy and healthy. You don't have to go to college or have thriving careers or be wealthy to be successful. Just earn enough to help you live and make you happy, however much that is for you. I wish for you to know in your hearts what it feels like to be loved unconditionally. Even if you mess up beyond all belief, you still will be loved and forgiven. If you can find people in your life who will love you this way, you will have found success. And if nothing else, I hope I have helped you realize that you are worth this. Every bit. If I've somehow, miraculously, been able to do this, then that's the best thing I can imagine giving you.
*According to company policy, I have to let you know that these are all my opinions and do not reflect on my company of employment.
