I know I’m not supposed to prefer any one client over another, but in a profession where people are referred to as “cases,” I think favorites should be allowed.

There’s this one kid, Jay, whom I just love to death. He’s eleven years old, smart and funny and mischievous as hell, and I’d hang out with him all day long if I could. He spends most of his group sessions designing and constructing elaborate props for our scenes, using folding chairs, hot glue guns, music stands, tables, and enough duct tape to clog the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. He’ll climb on any available surface so that he’s higher than everyone else in the group, and if there’s no surface available, he’ll build one.

From what I can tell, the main reason that Jay is in therapy is that he doesn’t talk.

Oh, he can talk, and sometimes does, if prodded, but only in a whisper, and usually with reluctance.

Jay isn’t autistic or non-communicative. He hasn’t suffered any traumas, and is observant of his environment. He is well-liked by the other kids in the group, and is friendly and responsive, in his own way. Jay likes to play the drums, and will sometimes jam with some of the other kids who pick up on his percussive beats. He plays piano, too, but unlike the occasional ditties improvised by the other kids, Jay’s songs never correspond with the action in the room. He doesn’t provide soundtrack. He just likes to do his own thing, and I respect the hell out of that.

Jay and I get along very well, and he’ll often share with me when he discovers something cool. He was one of the first clients to call me by name, (for a long while I was just regarded as another big person who cleaned up and made sure no one got hurt,) and it was because he wanted to show me how he could melt holes through Styrofoam using the tip of the glue gun. Then he showed me how to lodge Christmas lights through the holes, to add sparkles to the interior of his Styrofoam jet.

A week ago, he nudged my arm and gave me a look that clearly said, “Yo, check this,” and then jabbed a plastic sword into the guts of the piano to show me an unconventional way to make chords.

Jay is fully aware of why he’s in therapy. We’ll often assign him small speaking roles, simple cue lines like “Ready, set, go,” just to get him involved and, yes, make him speak. He’ll whisper it at the appropriate time, but it’s just to shut us up. Sometimes, without breaking eye contact, he whispers, “You’re just trying to get me to talk.”

Well, yeah. But, why?

Jay’s not gonna talk until he fucking feels like it. This is an obstacle both academically and socially, and that concerns me. It’s not healthy to close yourself off, and could be very detrimental to his development. All that.

It could be that I just don’t know enough to make a decent assessment. Honestly, though, I don’t see too much of a problem with him not wanting to speak.

Another thing: I don’t understand why he was placed in this particular group. Unless he can come up with a cool machine to go along with the action, he’s not that responsive to Drama Therapy. It’s just not the way his whimsy works. Mostly, he seems to think that flying around like bats and casting magic spells and playing Jedi is all really lame.

Like I said, I’d love to hang out with Jay all the time. But I can’t. In fact, this Saturday will be my last day at my internship, so I won’t even be around to see how he “improves” or whatever. Jay will be okay, though. He’s not a therapy lifer, lucky for him. He’s just a smart, stubborn little bastard.

A while ago, I rode the bus with a young woman and her autistic toddler. He was in his stroller, drifting in and out of sleep, entirely indifferent to anything but his mysterious perspective and his mother’s frequent caresses. He looked so peaceful and impenetrable.

I know this might be a hairy assumption, seeing how I’m not privy to the frustration that must result when you feel unable to communicate with or understand much of the outside world, but it occurred to me that to exist in your own private universe, which you could make as big or small as you pleased, might not be such a bad way to live.

Sometimes I think I’m ironically too much of a squishy humanist to be any good as a therapist. Guess we’ll find out.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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