THEN, SHE NAMED IT

I’ve written about the Tuesday evening when my thirteen-year-old client Shona shared that she had cut with mortal intent, and a little about how I myself was feeling at the time.

This morning the sun is pouring strong through my easterly window, and a prism hanging there is scattering rainbows hither and yon. It’s more than a week into spring and still below freezing, but the sun promises warmth to come. In climatological pockets, pussy-willows have been tricked into fuzzy bloom and perhaps even the friendly spears of crocuses are pushing up from below, where the snow has cleared. It’s a good time to say a few words more about Shona.

The Wednesday morning following the Tuesday in question, I called Shona’s mom to ask how the night had gone. She sounded tired, from waking several times to check on Shona, but also calm. It had not always been so. Anger had dominated this mom’s emotions in the early days of our meeting, along with a feeling of being held hostage to her daughter’s emotional state. What her anger meant to me was that her own feelings were in need of validation as much as her daughter’s, before she could be more empathetic, and that is how we worked.

I asked how Shona was doing, and her mom said she was sleeping, that she hadn’t woken herself early for school as she usually did, and her mom was just letting her stay home to rest. We agreed that I would call Shona later to check in, and when I did, she sounded rested and happy, on her way with her mom to buy ingredients for cupcakes. They would spend the afternoon baking, an activity she enjoys. I encouraged her to call the Center if she felt the need, and hung up feeling hopeful.

The next week Shona came in smiling. She was having a good day. What’s more, she told me that in the past week, “I didn’t cut, and I didn’t feel like cutting.” I was over the moon. That she hadn’t cut and hadn’t even wanted to, and that she said so.

At that point, we were into the fifth month of our counseling relationship, and the whole time she had avoided using any words for her self-harming. As she narrated her thoughts or actions, she would let her voice trail off as she gestured toward her wrists and arms. I didn’t push, but I let her know at one point that I noticed, and at another point I suggested that it’s helpful to speak neutrally and factually about highly charged things, including self-harm. I tried to model such an approach by making unflinching reference to her painful practice. If she said, “This week I felt like…” I would reflect back, without judgment, “You felt like cutting.”

In that follow-up, post-cupcake meeting, I refrained from immediate comment on Shona’s radical use of language. We continued to talk about this and that thing having gone well in her week, and we looked forward together to her upcoming birthday and the start of high school the next year. Only toward the end of our hour did I ask, casually, “So, I noticed that you used the word ‘cutting’ today. I think that’s the first time. Can you tell me about that?” She said, “I used to try to avoid talking about it. But I remember you telling me that I should call it what it is. I caught myself about to not say it, so I said it.”

Now, I hadn’t said “should.” That’s not a word for counseling, and especially not a word to say to someone vulnerable. But it sounded like she may have added her own emphasis to the suggestion, which was fine by me. I was over the moon all over again. The strength of speaking truth! The power of relationship! I’ll have to say goodbye to Shona soon, as my internship at the Center ends, and I’m grateful beyond measure to have first heard her name her challenge. I have every faith that she, especially with her mom’s support, can conquer it.

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