Reviving Ophelia - Mary Bray Pipher [80]
Delores had a litany of complaints: Cindy didn’t do her homework or chores. She wouldn’t talk to people or make friends. She was sullen and sulky.
I asked Cindy what she thought, and she agreed that her mom was right.
Her slow movements and apathy clearly indicated depression. I thought of those monkeys isolated from their mothers in a famous psychology experiment. I remembered their haunting pictures in textbooks : small, sad monkeys embracing their towel mothers. Cindy’s posture and eyes reminded me of those monkeys.
I wanted to run from this seemingly hopeless situation, but Cindy’s eyes kept me from saying no. I wanted to hug her, to take her out for a hot fudge sundae and to see if I could make her laugh.
I saw Cindy alone and gradually we got acquainted. Rarely had I known anyone with a more emotionally impoverished life. She woke up after her parents left for the truck stop, dressed, rode the bus to school and sat quietly through her school day. Some days she spoke only to her teacher and then rode the school bus home. When Cindy arrived home she fed the dog, fixed herself a frozen TV dinner or potpie and watched television till bedtime. She liked the Disney and shopping channels.
Once she was so lonely that she called the shopping channel and pretended to buy a garnet ring, but she got in trouble for that and never tried again. Usually her mom called home about eight to check on her. Then Delores and Joe hit the bars. Usually they came in long after Cindy was in bed.
At school she was in the worst category a girl could be in: She was a slow learner, shy and dressed in K Mart clothes. She had no older siblings to look out for her, no parent advocate or best friend to protect her. She was largely ignored by the other kids.
Cindy told me all this slowly over the course of several sessions. We talked about her beloved dog, Laddie. I asked about her school papers, her teacher and her time with her parents. When, during our fourth session, she left her “huggable” blue car coat in the waiting room, I took that as a sign of progress.
At my suggestion Cindy wrote down three things she was proud of each day and brought those in to share. She read me the lists: “I made my bed, did my dishes, took Laddie for a walk, remembered to turn off the lights when I went to bed, turned in my math paper.” I congratulated her on every victory.
I invited the parents in for a session. Joe, a big man who smelled of gasoline and tobacco, told me that Cindy was fine just as she was. He didn’t see the point of getting “her head worked on.” He said, “No offense, but I personally don’t believe in this shit.”
Delores was only slightly more promising. She was willing to discuss Cindy, but grew uneasy when the topic was her or Joe. She didn’t want to discuss her drinking or long hours away from home. But when I asked about Cindy’s birth and health history, Delores’ voice grew husky with emotion. She said, “I drank when I was carrying her. That was before we knew about fetal alcohol syndrome. I’m to blame for her being retarded.”
I handed her some Kleenex and watched as she wiped her red eyes. I said, “What’s important is the future. Will you help Cindy now?”
Delores looked at Joe, who shrugged his shoulders. She said, “I’ll come once a month if you think it will help.”
I wasn’t sure it would help, but I wanted to try. Cindy was in desperate need of emotional nourishment. This seemed a case where a little attention might go a long way.
Cindy loved our sessions. She brought me her school papers and pictures of Laddie. Soon she was chatting happily to me. I read her children’s books, gave her small gifts, told her jokes and listened to stories about her week. I helped her set small goals for herself and cheered her on whenever she met them.
I asked the counselor to take Cindy out to lunch once a month. I encouraged Cindy’s teacher to get involved. She encouraged