Now That He's Safe, The Healing Can Begin... Right?

We sit down on the mat, colored pencils and an unopened folder between us. He excitedly picks out his favorite colors as we chatter back and forth about his day. I open the folder to reveal a picture of a little boy wearing underpants and say casually, “ooh, look, this coloring book is about our bodies!”

And so begins the most challenging fifteen minutes of my day. He looks at me, unsure. I take an orange pencil and, unaffected, begin to color the boys toes. “I think I will color his toes and his feet orange. Do you want to color his knees with your red pencil?” He relaxes and nods and starts to sing a song about feet. He makes big, dark lines with his red pencil. 

I begin to color the boys hands and say, “I think I will color his hands orange, too. Orange is a happy color!” My mind is spinning as I try to remember all of the psychologist’s recommendations for him and the information I’ve learned in the past five years about talking to children who have been abused.

As he colors the arms red, I color the boy’s head orange and say, “Juan, there are some places that are okay for our friends to touch us. There are some places that are only for us to touch. Some parts of our body are just for ourselves.” He stops coloring and looks up at me attentively. I point to the boy’s underpants. “What is this part of his body called?” He smiles and uses a slang term for his genitals. 

As the psychologist instructed me, I correct him. “Those are his ‘pene’ and ‘testiculos.‘ Those are only for you to touch. Other children and other grown-ups should not touch you there.” He is still staring intently, listening. I continue. “If a grown-up touches those parts, you can tell them NO. Your body is for you to touch. And you can tell another grown-up. It’s okay to tell grown-ups if someone touches you.”

I color the little boy’s underpants black. 

He continues to color the other pictures in the book... The nose, the ear, the leg, the arm. We talk about anything and everything else. A few minutes later, our photographer Ray comes up to the playroom. Shortly after, Juan goes to the stairs and begins trying to unlock the gate. I tell him he needs to wait for me; to help me clean up if he wants to go downstairs. I simply don’t want him climbing down the concrete steps alone, but he becomes combative. 

He clings to the gate and tries to unlock it, hitting my hand away as I hold it shut. “Juan, please, listen: we will go downstairs in one minute. I cannot let you use the stairs alone.” He begins to cry and hit at me. The social worker, on her way upstairs, opens the gate and picks him up. He clings to her, arms around her neck, legs around her waist, and turns to glare at me. 

I want to tell her ‘No, don’t hold him like that, the psychologist said...‘ Instead I stammer that he was upset with me for not allowing him down the stairs alone. She nods and brings him downstairs. I clean up the colored pencils myself, feeling like a failure. His rejection concerns me; did I push him too far? Did I say too much? Where is the line? And how have I become the person responsible for this confusing re-education?

An hour later, we are in the playroom with two other volunteers and two other children. Juan has established an iron grip on the handlebars of the scooter Alberto is riding. The volunteer behind Alberto is gently asking Juan to let go. He doesn’t loosen his grip.

I kneel down in front of him. “Juan, Alberto is riding the bike right now. We can play on the slide, or with the big ball, or the other toys. After Alberto has a turn, you may ride it. We need to share and take turns with our friends.” He glares at me again and tightens his fists around the plastic handlebars. I calmly and firmly repeat my treatise. No response.

“Juan, I am going to move your hands off of the bike now. You may have a turn when Alberto is done.” I pry his fingers off of the bike, holding back one hand until the other one can be pried free. He lashes out at me for the second time today. I gently push his hand down and say, “We use gentle hands with our friends.” I pick him up under the arms and place him down, standing, a few feet away.

He stares at the ground. He looks so, so very sad.

I sit in front of him and put my arms around his waist as I talk to him.

“Juan, I am not angry with you. It’s okay if you are angry with me. I understand that you want to ride the bike. In a few minutes, it will be your turn.”

He looks over my shoulder, staring at the wall with hollow eyes. His eyes begin to fill with tears as he stands in front of me. 

I rub his back and say quietly, “It’s okay to cry, Juan. You can cry if you need to. I know you are sad It’s okay to be sad. I still Iove you. Would you like a hug?” He nods and climbs onto my lap. I rub his back for a few minutes as silent tears fall down his cheeks. He says nothing. I say nothing. 

Alberto gets off of the scooter. I tell Juan excitedly, “It’s your turn to ride the bike now! If you are ready to play, you can ride it. If you want to sit for a few more minutes, that’s okay too.” 

Wordlessly, he nods, climbs off of my lap, and begins riding the bike. After a few minutes, he his back to his ‘usual’ self- laughing, smiling, chattering away. 

It is significantly longer before I feel like I can breathe again.

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Working with a child who has been recently abandoned and has a past history of sexual abuse is an indescribable challenge. Working with that child in a consistently inconsistent environment, where I can be present only a few hours each day, is an insurmountable challenge. 

Children who suffer the loss of a caregiver, whether it be through abandonment, death, or any other horrible circumstance, are absolutely devastated by that loss. Regardless of how attentive or loving that person was, they were an important pillar of that child’s life and their sudden absence is confusing; upsetting; scary. 

Many children develop attachment disorders. They begin to favor unfamiliar people over familiar ones; are indiscriminately affectionate with strangers; push away and reject their  main caregivers. There are a myriad of ways that these attachment issues express themselves, but the underlying subconscious logic is this: ‘Mommy/Daddy/Person X’ loved me and took care of me and kept me safe. And now they’re gone. Whoever is loving me and taking care of me and keeping me safe now might leave and hurt me, too.”

Watching a young child cope with their abandonment; watching these attachment issues and symptoms begin to express themselves in some quiet and some not-so-quiet ways, and knowing the limitations of what we can do for him, is heartbreaking. Children recovering from abuse or abandonment need ONE caregiver who understands their needs and can help them to learn that the world is safe again; to learn what is “good touch” and “bad touch” and to trust that they won’t be violated or deserted again.

Though I was one of the first faces he saw when he arrived and spent the most time with him, after about a week, he began to reject hugs and attention, turn away and ignore me when I arrived. Each time, I calmly and cheerfully assured him that I was excited to play with him, when he was ready. Each time, he watched me closely from across the room for a few minute before running over for a hug. His actions say clearly- he has formed an attachment to me. The connection he feels to me is scary for him. As sad as this is, it gives me this tiny hope that I can use the connection between us to help him, somehow.

Casa Jackson is an incredible place for the children we serve. But we are not a home. We are not a mother, or a father, or a family. Our volunteers are loving and kind and affectionate, but they leave. Our nurses are diligent and dedicated, but overwhelmed. We cannot provide this child with the informed, patient caregiver he needs to begin truly recovering from the trauma he faces right now. 

In a week and a half, this little boy will be moved to an orphanage. There, he will be lacking that same consistency. In a country where foreign adoptions have been halted due to trafficking and kidnapping of babies to sell to dishonest agencies, few local families are able or willing to take these children in. There aren’t enough foster families for the “easy” kids; the cute babies; the low-needs children. There are virtually none for children who need the type of attention and support that this little boy needs.

It’s hard to maintain hope in the face of so many impossibilities. The mother of a child with special needs once explained to me, “The cruelest thing you can do to a person is to take their hope away, no matter how impossible it is. That hope might be all they have keeping them afloat. Let them have their hope. They will adjust and accept what they’re facing on their own time.”

I am usually a strict proponent of realism. Call things what they are; be honest with yourself and embrace the ugly truth in front of you, no matter how awful. 

For once, I give myself permission to hope.